Turkey Monster Thanksgiving by Anne Warren Smith

PALE. “Half the stores were closed. The others had no turkey. It’s all sold out.” He stepped out of the car and sagged against it. “What a disaster!”
    “Hello,” someone called. Mr. Flagstaff strode down the walk. He grabbed Dad’s hand and pumped it up and down. “They said the report was well organized and very detailed.” Mr. Flagstaff’s gray eyebrows arched up in happy lines.
    “Come on, Mr. Friend,” Tyler shouted from the front door. “Come and play with us.”
    Mr. Flagstaff hurried toward the porch. “Okay if I go right in?”
    “Watch out for …” I started to say, but Mr. Flagstaff had gone.
    “What out for what?” Dad asked.
    “Claire says the festoons are poison oak. Ms. Morgan touched them! She’s going to get a rash!”
    Dad strode up the steps and looked at the leaves. “This is ornamental ivy.”
    My eyes filled with tears of relief. “Are you sure?”
    “I know ornamental ivy when I see it,” Dad said. “No question about it.”
    “But Claire said—”
    He glanced across the street and looked back at me. “Your decorations are fine. They look wonderful.”
    “Just a minute,” someone called. We turned to see Claire and her dad coming out their front door. They raced across the street.
    “Have to be quick,” Mr. Plummer said, looking at his watch. “Our company is filling their plates. I imagine your turkey’s still not cooked. No way it could be.” He swallowed and looked again at his watch. “Claire thought you might bring Ms. Morgan to our house. And you’d come, too, of course. Join us for dinner. Ahem. Tyler, too.”
    Claire wrinkled her nose. “We’ll put down lots of newspapers.”
    “That’s a nice invitation,” Dad said. “But we have two guests. My employer, Mr. Flagstaff, is also here.”
    “I’m sure they’d rather be at our house,” Claire said. “Everyone really likes it.”
    “Our house is okay, too,” I said. It really was. Dad looked down at me. “Except, we don’t have a …” Then he stopped.
    “I have a great idea,” I said. I thought fast. My Cranberry Tower was a swamp. But it was delicious. My centerpiece was a truck. But it was pretty. Maybe the main thing—the turkey—could change, too. I nodded at Claire and put my hand into Dad’s. “We’ll be fine,” I said.
    Dad looked at me and a little smile grew in his eyes. He turned to Mr. Plummer. “Katie’s thought of something,” he said.
    As the Plummers went back home, Dad put his arm around me. “Honey,” he whispered, “What will we put on the big platter?”
    “Pizza,” I said. “Your famous pizza.”
    He yanked off his glasses and blinked his eyes. “I was hoping you’d say that!” He grabbed my hands and swung me up the porch steps.

Chapter 22
The Thanksgiving Platter
    I N THE LIVING ROOM , Ms. Morgan, Mr. Flagstaff, and Tyler crept across the rug, piling more books under bridges. Trucks and buses waited in line to cross over them.
    Tyler had filled his garbage truck with my appetizers. “Get your happy-tizers,” he said. Something else was in the truck, too. Shiny foil-wrapped things. Truffles! Lots of them!
    “Turkey eggs,” Tyler said. “That turkey is sure my friend.”
    I added my truffle to the pile. “That’s why nobody could find any.”
    Dad cleared his throat. “I have an announcement,” he said. “The turkey isn’t ready.”
    “We have something else to eat,” I said. “But it’s not made yet.”
    “Could I help?” Ms. Morgan asked. “It would feel just like home.”
    A few minutes later, we were all in the kitchen. Dad thawed bread dough in the microwave and took orders for pizza toppings. Soon the half-cooked turkey was out of the oven, and the pizza was in.
    “We have lots more food, too,” Dad said. “Wait till you see Katie’s Cranberry Tower.”
    “Ahem,” I said. “It’s really Cranberry Swamp.”
    “Or maybe Cranberry Lakes,” Dad said. “It didn’t gel, but it’s delicious.”
    I pulled the vegetables