DISCLAIMER: I OWN NOTHING!
A/N: Howdy, folks! Since it's almost Thanksgiving, I decided to get into the holiday spirit by writing a short little ficlet. It probably won't be more than four or five chapters, but any and all feedback is still appreciated.
It was a pretty typical day at Ocean Shores Elementary. Conroy Blanc sat supervising his fifth-grade students, who were filling in maps of the United States and memorizing state capitals. He looked up from the homework he was grading when he heard someone knock on the door. Vice Principal Healy beckoned Conroy into the hallway, where he whispered a few words into his ear, then left with a smirk on his face.
It seemed that there had been an outbreak of chickenpox among the nusery school and kindergarten students, so Conroy's class had been conscripted to put on the annual Thanksgiving play. Since Conroy was a first-year teacher, he automatically assumed he'd been singled out for the play as some sort of competency inspection.
He felt positively green as he re-entered his classroom. He sat down on the floor, burying his face in his hands.
Sam Dullard, a stocky boy who wore thick glasses, walked over to comfort his teacher. "What's wrong?" he asked.
"We're putting on the Thanksgiving pageant next Tuesday morning!" Conroy shouted. "We don't have time to prepare! The usual costumes for the play are too small for anyone but Otto! We have no props!" he continued, his Rastafarian accent becoming more pronounced, as it usually did when he was under stress. "I'm ruined!" (Now he was pulling his hair). "My teaching career is over!"
By now, all the students had put down their pencils to watch what was going on.
"I want my mama!" Conroy howled, putting his thumb into his mouth and sucking it.
Most of the class was failing miserably at concealing their snickering. They couldn't help themselves. It wasn't every day your teacher had a nervous breakdown on the classroom floor.
"Don't worry, Conroy," said Sam kindly. "We'll help you. Won't we, Otto?"
Otto Rocket, a short ten-year-old with thick red dreadlocks and teal-tinted sunglasses perched on his nose, replied, "Sure we will."
"You're our bud," added Roderick Vandenack, a very petite brown-haired boy who was wearing a Dodgers baseball cap.
"Yeah, what he said," said Twister Rodriguez, a freckle-faced redhead wearing a backwards striped baseball cap and hightop sneakers.
Conroy took a deep breath to compose himself. One way or another, he had to start assigning duties. "Half of this class will play the Pilgrims and the other half will play their Native-American hosts."
"I call Indian chief!" said Otto, not bothering to raise his hands.
"I'll lead the Pilgrims," Sam volunteered.
"Since you will obviously need some help in writing the play, I'm going to call our class mentors." said Conroy, picking up the phone. "The two leaders of the tribes will need to assist with the writing and the rest of you can paint scenery and make props."
Conroy picked up his telephone and placed a call to Mr. Kiltie, the eighth-grade teacher, and requested that the fifth-grade class mentors report to Mr. Blanc's classroom.
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Five minutes later, there was a knock on the door. Twister gulped and slid down in his seat, realizing that one of the class mentors was none other than his older brother, Lars. Lars was often cruel to his little brother, his little brother's friends, and younger kids in general. All in all, not the best choice for a mentor.
He was accompanied by a short girl with caramel blond hair and cat-shaped eyes, who wore a thin gold chain with a dragon charm attached to it around her neck. This was Riley Perez, a local treasure hunter and direct descendent of the first mate to the vicious pirate Lorenzo. She and Lars had become friendly following a treasure hunt several months ago, during which Otto and his friends had nearly been killed.
Sam got out a stack of paper, pushed his desk against Otto's, and added two empty desks for Lars and Riley. Lars sat down, propping his legs on top of the desk. During the time Otto and Sam jotted down ideas, Lars didn't say a word. Clearly, he had no interest in the progress of the play; he'd just wanted to get out of class.
"The script needs to have four scenes," Conroy directed. "In scene 1, the Pilgrims arrive on Plymouth Rock. In scene 2, the Pilgrims are nearly frozen and starving to death. In scene 3, they meet the Native Americans and ask to share in their harvest feasting. And in the final scene, they all celebrate the first Thanksgiving."
"What part are you playing?" Riley asked.
"I am going to be the turkey," Conroy announced.
He went to the supply closet, collected a large paper sack, paint, feathers, glue, and construction paper. He sat at his desk to begin fashioning his turkey suit.