Project Hollywood (Recreated)

Chapter One

THE IRRITATING TENDENCY OF THE HUMAN RACE
TO CREATE SUBCONSCIOUS STEREOTYPES

Is Han Solo your dad? He's Indiana Jones, right?

— Han Solo is not my dad. Neither is he Indiana Jones. I think you mean Harrison Ford.

Why do you have black eyes and brown hair? Indiana Jones doesn't have 'em.

— I don't know why I have them. I also don't know why I have to have the same features as Indiana Jones. We're from very different families - mine exists; his does not.

Do you find treasure in caves and stuff?

— I can't even find a boyfriend.

Bless six-year-olds for their curiosity and their creativity in making their questions, but that didn't work for me. They sounded like racist paparazzi.

I shouldn't have told them my name was Indiana Jones. Older kids and teens and adults would scoff or go, "Wait. Really?" but six-year-olds would jump up on their tiny toes and blast you away with confirmation questions the way typhoons blew away roofs in the slum areas of Southeast Asia.

I leaned backwards on the stool, holding the storybook to my chest. This was supposed to be a storytelling project. Apparently it was now a police interrogation.

"Okay, kids, let go of her. It's my turn," the teacher announced my release and the kids untangled their limbs from mine.

I stood up and smiled at the boy — male — teacher. Was he the teacher? He looked about sixteen. He had a picture book in one hand.

"Are you from Eastern High?" he asked, and I noticed that his haircut was sort of lopsided and that a green streak ran across his dark hair.

"Yes," I replied, tapping my school pin on my collar.

"I'm a junior in this school. I'm on child guard duty," he waved the picture book in his hand.

Juniors at Kennedy High were currently designated to child care. Some were teachers in the preschool, while others helped out in orphanages. It was all in the name of grades. Kennedy High juniors brought in Eastern High kids to help out.

Amber, my friend from over here, invited me over to teach English, Science, and Geography to preschool kids while she taught other subjects.

"Oh alright. Cool," I replied. "I gotta go, though. See you around."

I shifted my body forward, ready to exit the room, when the guy called, "Hey, what's your name?"

"You wouldn't believe it," I said.

"Indiana Jones!" a child yelled.

The guy's face lit up with both surprise and amusement. He smiled.

"This must be fate. I'm Clarke. Clarke Kent."

"No way," I wasn't alone?

"Yes way. I'm not joking. We both have creative parents."

"Right. Don't call me Indiana, please. It's Indie."

"And it's Clarke with an e."

It's been a year since that happened. I can't even remember how the guy looked like, but I remembered his lopsided haircut and green highlights. And that his name was Clarke Kent. Ha.

Amber told me that Clarke was a guy nobody really minded. He used to be popular for his name back in middle school, but in junior year, even if his circle of friends was a popular one, he rode in the backseat. And he didn't really mind. There wasn't a lot of fuss about him except from the girls who liked him.

Well, it's not like I care.

#—#—# 

A/N: AT LONG LAST, I HAVE REWRITTEN. RAISE YOUR HAND IF YOU'RE PROUD OF ME. As you can see, I've taken a very different turn to this story, but I hope the humor and story still stays :) OH AND THANKS FOR THE SUPPORT! WE REACHED 60K!!! I honestly never believed Project H could get this far. Thanks, guys!

— ChocolateSummer