I always heard rumors and gossip about a certain teacher. This year, kids said to take any teacher except Mrs. Tiraneerata, the oral project teacher. Of course in elementary school, we did not have a choice of which teacher to choose. Boy, I was shocked when I glanced at the window that had my schedule. Just by looking at that plain, white piece of paper sticking on a safety-glass window, I knew it was going to be a bad year. The old, grouchy, strict, and mean Mrs. Tiraneerata would be my teacher. No problems, all I need to do is stand in front of the class and speak memorized parts. Of course, I never was a fan to any project that included talking in front of the class. The shyness that accompanied me my whole life did not help me much either. I did orals in second and third grade; thus, it could not be that bad. Even if I do blush like a cherry and turn red like after eating Atomic Fireballs, the orals were spoken to classmates I see everyday. Nothing could go wrong. .
That's what I thought. The season changed with cool rains and blooming flowers and emerging birds. It was summer, and the school year would be over soon. This is when I finally knew why everyone hated her class. Mrs. Tiraneerata gave us the dreaded and most painful oral, The Play. It consisted of singing, dancing, acting, and prancing across the gym. Could it get any worse? This was Mrs. Tiraneerata's fourth grade class, of course it would. On a piece of paper, stuck to a wall with eight pushpins and long-lasting duck tape, it stated, "Invite your family, friends, relatives, and others to The Play." Okay, I would not tell my parents about it. However, a couple days later from the announcement, a white envelope came in the mail with a gold seal and the name Mrs. Tiraneerata pasted on the return address. Why wasn't I surprised to find out this was an invitation to The Play for my parents? There were no more excuses. I had no choice but to go forward and join the play.