Chris Grabenstein - The Smoky Corridor

Snertz reared back his fist. “Why, I oughta …”

“Boys?”

Ms. DuBois came out of her classroom.

“What’s going on out here?”

“Nothin’,” snorted Snertz.

“Good! Get to your classrooms, now! Mr. Jennings? I believe you are with me for third period.”

“Yes, Ms. DuBois,” said Zack.

“Me too,” said Malik.

“Well, hurry in, boys. The bell is about to ring!”

Ms. DuBois stepped back into her classroom as the second bell jangled loudly.

“Saved by the bell,” taunted Snertz.

“You’re right,” said Zack, still channeling his inner action heroes. “You were.”

“Come on, guys,” said Snertz. “We’ll take out this sack of trash later.”

“Yeah! Later!” the bully pack chanted.

“Hasta la vista , baby,” said Zack, because it was what Schwarzenegger would’ve said.

The bullies bounded up the hall.

“Thank you, Zack,” said Malik. “By the way, exactly how many movies have you seen?”

“Too many, I guess.”

“Or just enough,” said Malik. “Come on! We’re late!”

Malik dashed into the classroom.

Zack stood in the hallway, savoring the moment. He took in a deep breath.

The corridor outside Ms. DuBois’s classroom smelled like smoke again. A wet campfire.

“You got a match, sport?”

There were the Donnelly brothers. Seth and Joseph. They’d just stepped through the boys’ room door. Without opening it.

Joseph had a twisted grin on his face.

“All we need is one to have a ton of fun!”

Zack bolted into the classroom and hoped the Donnellys didn’t come in after him.

26

Zack satin the front row for Ms. DuBois’s history class.

There was something about this teacher he really liked. She seemed to be the kind of adult who could actually become a kid’s friend, the way Judy had.

Malik sat in the desk directly behind Zack, and the girl with the black-black hair was sitting in the middle of the first row, right in front of Ms. DuBois’s desk.

“Good morning, everybody! Welcome to sixth-grade history. My name is Daphne DuBois and this is my first year here at Pettimore Middle School.” Yep, she definitely had a Southern accent. “Is this anyone else’s first year?”

Zack raised his hand. So did the girl with the raccoon eyes. Well, she kind of flopped hers up.

Ms. DuBois smiled. “Well, come on—don’t be shy. Stand up and introduce yourselves.” She gestured at Zack, indicating that he should go first.

So he stood.

“Um, I’m Zack Jennings. I used to live in New York City but my dad’s family is originally from North Chester, so we moved back here in June.”

“How wonderful! Welcome, Zack.”

He sat down.

Ms. DuBois turned to the black-haired girl. “And you are?”

The girl didn’t stand. “Azalea Torres,” she muttered.

“Azalea. My, what an interesting name.”

The girl shrugged. “Wasn’t my idea.”

“And when did you move to North Chester?”

“We didn’t actually move here. My dad’s overseas with the army. My mom wanted to be near family. Her sister lives around here. So, you know, I came with her. I kind of had to.”

“Well, welcome, Azalea,” said Ms. DuBois sweetly. “Okay, who here thinks history means memorizing a bunch of boring dates and the names of dead kings?”

All the kids in the classroom raised their hands, except Malik, Zack, and Azalea Torres.

“And who thinks history can be fun and rewarding?”

Azalea shot up her arm first, let it dangle in the air.

“Why do you like history so much, Azalea?”

“I guess because it’s about dead people. Dead people are cool.”

“Well, Azalea, I suppose you are correct. In many ways, history is, indeed, the story of those who came before us. For instance, Captain Horace P. Pettimore. The gentleman this school is named after.” She gestured toward the copy of the Pettimore portrait hanging above the blackboard.

Zack wondered if there was a picture of Pettimore hanging in every classroom. Probably. After all, it was his school.

“Who knows Captain Pettimore’s history?”

Malik raised his hand.

“Mr. Sherman?”

“He came here on a paddle wheel steamboat called the Crescent City right after the Civil War.”

“That’s right,” said Ms. DuBois, using a pointer to tap a picture on the bulletin board. “This was his ship. An old-fashioned steamboat like Mark Twain might’ve piloted on the Mississippi River. It had a big red paddle wheel in the back, two smokestacks, three decks, and a wheelhouse up top. It docked in North Chester in 1867. On board was a crew of sixty-six men, all former soldiers, who became the construction workers who built Mr. Pettimore’s mansion, which, of course, is now the main entrance to our school and where Principal Smith and Assistant Principal Crumpler have their offices. Who knows why there are these lamps with red and green globes on either side of the steamboat?”

“Ooh, ooh!” Malik, of course, knew the answer.

“Malik?”

“The red lights were on the left side, and the green on the right—so at night you could tell if a boat was coming toward you or moving away. The same colored lights are on airplane wings today. Red is always on the left. Green goes on the right.”

Ms. DuBois’s eyes twinkled. “Is that your final answer, Mr. Sherman?”

“Yes, ma’am!”

“Well, sir, you are correct. Now then, who here has ever heard about the two Donnelly brothers?”

Everyone’s hand went up.

“They died, right?” This from Azalea Torres.

“Yes, Azalea. In fact, they passed away right outside this room.”

The whole classroom gasped. Except Zack.

Heck, he didn’t even gasp when he saw the Donnellys.

27

“As youhave undoubtedly heard, Seth and Joseph Donnelly were playing with matches in the hallway, which used to be paneled with wood. They were burning the loose-leaf pages of their notebooks, watching the hot ashes rise up and float on the swirling currents of air.”

Ms. DuBois wafted her hand through the air as if it were a drifting autumn leaf. The class was mesmerized.

“Soon, the two boys started ripping pages out of their textbooks, setting those on fire, too. It wasn’t long before the fire spread. First to an old corkboard filled with thumbtacked notices. Then to the wooden frame of that board. Then to the wood-paneled walls and the oil-stained floor. Fortunately, this all took place after school hours and no one else was in the building.”

“Except the brave teacher,” Zack mumbled.

“That’s right, Zack. Mr. Patrick J. Cooper. A young mathematics instructor. This used to be his classroom.”

Another gasp.

Ms. DuBois strolled to her desk. “He was seated right here, at his desk, working late, grading papers, when he smelled smoke.” She sniffed the air dramatically. “Fearing the worst, he boldly raced out into the smoky corridor and discovered the two Donnelly brothers trying to beat down the blaze they had just ignited.”

“Why didn’t they just run out the fire exit doors?” asked Malik.

“Well, the exit closest to the wood shop was only put in after the tragedy, and the doors at both ends of the hallway were locked. Poor Mr. Cooper didn’t have the keys.”

“Who locked them?”

“The newspapers all said the Donnelly brothers did—to prevent anyone from finding out what they were up to.”

“Well, why didn’t they just come in here and escape out the windows?” asked Zack.

“I’m afraid they couldn’t.” She tapped the classroom doorknob with her pointer. “The door accidentally locked behind Mr. Cooper when he rushed into the hall to save the two orphan boys.…”