The Smoky Corridor

26

Zack sat in 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.