The North Pole Challenge (Flea's Five Christmases, #1) (4 page)

             
“Mr. Strick, thank you for your multiple submissions to
The Great Build-Off
. Your work has really been quite impressive,” the host began. “I would also like to take this opportunity to congratulate you on being selected to participate on our show. We only select the best builders from across the country so you should be very proud of yourself and what you’ve built. The producers of our show will contact you shortly to provide more details. Again, congratulations and we look forward to seeing you on
The Great Build-Off
.”

             
The host waved and the screen went black.

             
“Why was he congratulating
you
for
my
work?” Flea asked. He still felt used by Mr. Strick but now it was for a different reason.

             
“What’s gotten in to you today? I’ve never seen you angry before, especially toward someone who’s trying to help you get on TV,” Mr. Strick said. “I only took credit for your work because the show has an age requirement; needless to say, I doubt they ever expected a junior high student would be skilled enough to deserve a spot on
The Great Build-Off
.”

             
“So if I’m not old enough to get on the show, what’s the point?”

             
“The
point
is that I can be a very persuasive person when I want to be,” Mr. Strick said. “I guarantee you that once I bring you to the show’s set and talk to the producers, they will let you compete. So, are you up for this? You always told me that you wanted more of a challenge.”

             
Flea had to admit that the offer sounded intriguing, though the thought of being on TV in front of millions of viewers sent a wave of wild butterflies flapping in his stomach. Flea also had a new doubt – if he’d suddenly lost his ability to throw when a group of people was watching, could the same thing happen to his ability to build?

             
“What if I freeze? What if I suddenly forget how to use a hammer when I get there?” Flea asked. Mr. Strick nodded his head in understanding.

             
“You have every reason to be nervous. But I have complete faith that you’ll not only do well, you’ll mop the floor with the competition,” Mr. Strick said. His voice did not contain an ounce of doubt. Flea felt better about himself even though he didn’t totally share his teacher’s confidence. “Besides, I’ll be right there with you the entire time in case you need help…though
that’s
never happened before.”

             
“I’m in then,” Flea said timidly.

             
“Great,” Mr. Strick said, clapping his hands together. “We’ve been scheduled for their Holiday Special episode, which is being filmed tomorrow. I know it’s a bit short notice but I have a really good feeling about you building with a Christmas theme. The show is shot during the school day so I’ll need you to have your foster mother sign a permission slip allowing you to go.”

             
Flea groaned, as the mention of a permission slip had the same effect on him as a dodgeball to the gut.
I knew this
had
to be too good to be true…
he thought.

             
“There’s no way she’ll sign that, I’m not even supposed to be in the shop room let alone some TV show on the Construction Channel,” Flea said. He felt totally deflated, which was exactly how Mr. Strick now looked. Flea’s only hope rested with something he remembered his teacher saying moments earlier. “Maybe you could try to talk to her since you can be so persuasive.”

             
“
Me
talk to
Miss Mabel
?” Mr. Strick asked, obviously horrified by the suggestion. “I’m pretty sure we
both
know how bad of an idea that would be. I’m sorry Flea, but the only way Principal Baldy will let you go is if you can convince Miss Mabel to sign this form.”

-         -         -         -         -         -         -         -         -         -         -         -         -         -       -

             
“Absolutely not!” Miss Mabel yelled.

             
Flea expected such a reaction. Still, he’d hoped his foster mother would at least listen to his argument about why he should go. But he barely had to mention Mr. Strick’s name and the idea of being on television before she launched into her usual ranting and raving. Miss Mabel seemed like she could yell at Flea for several minutes straight without stopping to take a single breath. Of course she mentioned every point she’d ever pounded into Flea’s mind – he was too fragile, construction was too dangerous, he needed to keep his head down, they needed to avoid unnecessary attention. But while Flea usually ended up nodding his head in order to stop her yelling, he was too disappointed now to accept what she had to say.

             
“This isn’t fair,” Flea shot back the moment Miss Mabel finally needed a breather. He felt himself turning red from a mixture of anger, fear and embarrassment. Miss Mabel looked surprised by his unexpected outburst. “I have a talent and I want to share it with the world. Mr. Strick said –”

             
“Mr.
Strick
isn’t your mother!” Miss Mabel yelled back.

             
“Well neither are – ” Flea started to say before stopping himself. The damage had been done however. He saw disappointment on Miss Mabel’s face that he’d never seen before. Flea felt terrible. “I’m sorry, I just
really
want to do this. Please, Miss Mabel, this is important to me.”

             
She sighed and her shoulders slumped. For several long seconds she stood there and stared at Flea, who felt so uncomfortable in the silence that he couldn’t stop from fidgeting. Finally, Miss Mabel broke the silence and waved him toward her.

             
“You aren’t going to stop until I take that form, will you?” she asked.

             
“No, I guess not,” Flea answered.

             
“Then you better give it to me.”

             
Flea smiled as he handed over the permission slip. He gave Miss Mabel a long hug but she was still so upset that she didn’t hug back.

             
“Let me get you something to write with,” Flea said once he let go of her. He headed toward his backpack but Miss Mabel stopped him.

             
“That won’t be necessary.”

             
Flea’s stomach sunk. He knew what she was going to do before he heard the first
rip
. Flea felt like a balloon that had just been pricked with a pin. Miss Mabel ripped the form into pieces and dropped them to the floor. She walked to her bedroom and muttered to herself, though Flea could hear exactly what she said.

             
“I told
Mr. Strick
it was too dangerous but he
never
listens to me.”

             
Flea hadn’t known that Miss Mabel spoke to Mr. Strick before, but now he understood why the shop teacher had been so opposed to the idea of calling her. As Flea picked up the tiny pieces of paper, he couldn’t help but feel that the best opportunity of his life had been ripped to shreds.

“Does he have his permission slip?” Principal Crawley asked.

             
As Flea approached the shop teacher and principal early the next morning, he could tell that the two had been bickering, like usual. They waited for Flea just outside the shop class but he was in no rush to deliver the bad news, especially since Crawley would undoubtedly be thrilled to thwart Mr. Strick’s field trip.

             
“How would I know if he has it? He’s just arriving now,” Strick shot back.

             
“So, Flip, do you have the form?” the principal asked.

             
Although Flea’s eyes met his teacher’s for only a split second, it was more than enough time for Mr. Strick to understand. Before Flea had the chance to say ‘no’, Strick intervened.

             
“His name is
Flea
and we have to get something from the classroom,” Mr. Strick said, throwing open the door to the shop class. A cloud of dust seemed to explode into the hallway. “Come on, Flea, we have to get ready to leave soon.”

             
“What about the form? He can’t go without – ” Crawley started before he began to cough from the dust. “What did I tell you about cleaning up that room? This is a disgrace, I can’t believe you would – ”

             
Mr. Strick closed the door before the principal finished his complaint.

             
“We don’t have much time before he comes in here,” Mr. Strick said. “You couldn’t convince Miss Mabel to let you go?”

             
“I tried, believe me I did. But once she decides something, there’s no changing her mind,” Flea said. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the dozens of tiny scraps that had once been the permission slip. A sympathetic smile crept across Mr. Strick’s face. He had obviously learned a lot about Miss Mabel from the conversation he had with her months earlier.

             
“Do you still want to go?” Strick asked.

             
“But what about the permission slip?” Flea asked. “And if Miss Mabel ever found out, she would probably disown me.”

             
“I’m sure she’d get over it,” Mr. Strick said. “You need to make this decision based on what
you
want to do. Sometimes
you
need to decide what’s best instead of listening to everyone else.”

             
Flea nodded. The decision was an easy one for him when he considered his teacher’s advice.

             
“Then yes, of course I want to go. But that still doesn’t explain how we’ll get past Crawley with my form all torn up.”

             
Mr. Strick carefully took all the pieces from Flea and walked toward his desk. Outside the classroom, Principal Crawley knocked on the door and called out that he was going back to his office if they didn’t come out soon.             

             
“I don’t think tape is going to fix that,” Flea said.             

             
But Mr. Strick proved that Flea wasn’t the only one capable of making magic happen in this room. He remained by his desk for only a few seconds before turning back to Flea and handing him an intact form. As if that wasn’t impressive enough, the signature at the bottom was even more amazing
:
Miss Mabe
l
.

             
“How did you – ”

             
Mr. Strick winked and led him back to the hallway, where Principal Crawley was fuming. Flea nervously handed the forged slip over, worried that the principal would see through their ruse or call Miss Mabel to verify. Crawley looked over the form very closely and slowly shook his head. Flea glanced at Strick to see that the shop teacher looked just as nervous as he felt.

             
“Flip, could you excuse us?” Mr. Strick asked. He opened the door to the shop room and motioned for Crawley to enter. “Could we please speak for a moment in private, sir?”

             
Crawley was clearly suspicious of Mr. Strick’s sudden – and unusual – display of respect but he followed him into the room anyway.

             
“I don’t know what you two are trying to pull here but I wasn’t born yesterday,” Crawley said just before the door closed.

             
For several minutes, Flea paced outside the door while the other students walked through the halls. Luckily, the shop classroom was in the back corner of the school where there wasn’t much traffic so Flea didn’t have the added worry of running into Rob or Cory or the other bullies. In reality, a simple bully problem would’ve been easier to deal with than the problem he was about to have with the principal. If Miss Mabel flipped out when she discovered that Flea had lied to her about working in the shop room, he didn’t want to imagine what her reaction would be to forgery. He was just about to burst into the classroom and beg for the principal’s forgiveness when the door opened. Mr. Strick walked out with a mischievous smile. Flea wondered if there was something odd about his teacher that he’d never before noticed.

             
“We’re good to go,” Mr. Strick said.             

             
“Did you have to knock him out or tie him up?” Flea asked worriedly.

             
Mr. Strick laughed but didn’t need to answer. Principal Crawley emerged from the room but he looked like a totally different man. His face was relaxed and pale white, no longer bright red or scrunched up in anger. He also wore a big smile, which showed a mouthful of teeth that looked oddly tiny against the backdrop of his oversized face. But the most significant difference about him was the red hard-hat he wore, just like the one Strick always had on. It was covered in as much sawdust as the rest of the shop room but Crawley did not seem to mind at all.

             
“Good luck on the show today, Flea, I’ll be cheering you on,” Principal Crawley said. With the forged permission slip in hand, the stern disciplinarian walked down the hallway, whistling Christmas tunes as he went along. Flea turned to look at Mr. Strick, who instantly read the confused look on Flea’s face.

             
“There’s no time to explain,” Mr. Strick said tapping his watch. “We have to leave now if we’re going to get there on time.”

-         -         -         -         -         -         -         -         -         -         -         -         -         -       -

             
They arrived at the CTV studios nearly an hour later. The hectic pace around the set of
The Great Build-Off
was overwhelming to Flea, especially since the show’s producers were very angry that Flea was a junior high student – one who looked even younger at that. The show’s host – who had seemed so nice and friendly on the congratulatory DVD – also glared angrily in Flea’s direction.

             
“So what does this mean?” the host asked the crowd of producers. “The episode is cancelled? Because I still plan on getting paid whether I have to work or not. I’ll be in my trailer, come get me when you
geniuses
figure this all out.”

             
The host stormed off but Mr. Strick told Flea not to worry.

             
“Is it time to be persuasive again?” Flea asked him.

             
His teacher winked and told Flea to stay put. Mr. Strick went to find the producers and after a couple minutes, they all came back smiling and laughing, as if there’d never been a single issue about Flea’s age. One of the people on set led Flea and Mr. Strick to their positions in front of the camera. The host soon arrived, as well as a group of five strong, rugged-looking men who all wore similar flannel shirts. Behind them was the show’s stage, a large room with a divider down the middle. Each side had identical tools and supplies, very well stocked with anything and everything a carpenter could ever need.

             
“Okay people, let’s have a good show,” the host told them. “Try not to do anything to make yourself – or more importantly,
me
– look stupid.”

             
Flea looked out at the large studio audience and felt his insides churning like they were inside a washing machine. The thought of so many people watching him was utterly terrifying and his shoes suddenly felt like they were filled with iron. His mouth was dry and his head grew lighter with every passing second. The lights dimmed above the audience, the spotlight shined brightly on him and the others on stage and a red light began to blink repeatedly on the camera in front of them. The camera operator counted down from five before pointing to the host, who plastered a fake smile on his face. The show started but Flea barely heard a word of the host’s explanation of the rules. It wasn’t until the introduction of the show’s contestants that Flea focused on what was happening.

             
“Our first team comes to us all the way from New York City, where they’ve helped to build some of our countries tallest skyscrapers. Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome the
Nail York Five
,” the host said.

             
An applause sign blinked in front of the audience while the five-man team waved. When the clapping died down and the host turned to the other side, Flea’s head began spinning quickly again and he felt on the verge of passing out. Thankfully, Mr. Strick placed a comforting – and steadying – hand on Flea’s shoulder. This helped Flea just enough to stay conscious and standing on both feet.

             
“Our second team comes from a local junior high school. Please give a warm welcome to shop teacher Neal Strick and his student, Flea,” the host said.

             
The applause sign lit up again but the clapping was more reserved this time. Flea could see the shocked expressions in the audience. He glanced over at the
Nail York Five
and saw confusion on a few of their faces, anger on the others. Flea wouldn’t have blamed the five men if they thought some sort of practical joke was being played at their expense. As if the other team and the people in the audience didn’t have enough reason to wonder what was going on, Mr. Strick’s next move only added to their confusion. When the light clapping died down, he approached the host and borrowed the man’s microphone.

             
“Actually, I’m only here because Flea needed a ride,” Mr. Strick said. “He will be working by himself today.”

             
The unexpected breach in the show’s standard format momentarily threw off the host and he could do nothing but smile blankly into the camera. Flea looked over to the group of construction workers. Flea could hear the one angry man whispering to the others that they should leave, that this was a joke. His teammates calmed him down by saying that they would at least have the easiest win in the history of the show. The men had every reason to be overly confident but that only served to motivate Flea. After all, the main reason he’d come on this show was to prove to everyone – including himself – that he wasn’t as weak and worthless as he might appear.

             
“Shouldn’t we get ready to…” Mr. Strick whispered to the host.

             
“That’s right,” the host said, recovering from his stumble. “Ladies and gentleman,
let’s get ready to build off…
”

             
The
Nail York Five
took their side of the stage and Mr. Strick led Flea to their section. Once they were in place, Flea could no longer see his opponents on the other side of the wall. With a wealth of supplies at his disposal, Flea only had to wait for one more piece of information before he could start.

             
“But before we begin, I must unveil this week’s secret theme,” the host said as he gestured to a large sign draped with a cover.  “Since this is the holiday season and Christmas is only a few days away, we at
The Great Build-Off
thought this would be very appropriate. Today’s theme is…” The host whipped off the cover and when the crowd saw the sign they erupted in cheers. For several long, anxious seconds, Flea wondered what it said until the host turned the sign around. “…the North Pole.”

             
A loud horn blared, signaling the start of the competition. Flea looked up at the huge clock at the top of the stage and saw that it had started counting backward from the sixty-minute mark. For a moment, his mind went totally blank. He had no idea what to do and could already hear the sound of nails hammering into wood on the other side of the divider. But when Flea looked toward Mr. Strick, his teacher gave him a simple nod of the head. Something seemed to click in Flea’s mind. He immediately walked over to the stack of wood and got to work.

             
“It looks like Flea has finally gotten an idea, let’s hope those few minutes of wasted time don’t come back to haunt him in the end,” the host said.