The Smoky Corridor

27

“As you have 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.…”

“Orphans?” said Azalea.

“Oh, yes. The Donnellys had no family. No father, no mother. They came here from a place called Saint Cecelia’s House for Wayward Children over in Brixton. In fact, according to young Seth’s diary, he considered their math teacher, Mr. Cooper, to be as close a thing to family as he and Joe had ever had.”

“So how’d they die? Was it gruesome?”

Man. Azalea sure had a one-track mind.

“Well, Azalea,” said Ms. DuBois, “the teacher and the two boys were trapped in that narrow, smoke-filled corridor with no exit. In mere minutes, they succumbed to what we would now call carbon monoxide poisoning. Mr. Cooper’s body was found slumped in front of that doorway, the key to this classroom in his hand. All three were dead long before the fire turned that cramped corridor into a broiling hot oven that cremated their bodies. The rest, as they say, is history.”

“That Mr. Cooper was a very brave man!” said a guy in the middle of the classroom.

“That he was. Which is why I am proud to say he is a distant relative of mine.”

“What? Really? Wow!” The whole classroom bubbled over with excitement.

“That’s awesome, Ms. DuBois,” said Malik.

“Yes. It is. I am quite proud of my great-great-great-great-uncle Patrick J. Cooper.”

She pointed toward a framed portrait sitting on her desk—a sepia-tone print of a man with a high forehead, beady eyes, and a bushy goatee. He looked kind of angry and, in Zack’s humble opinion, not extremely heroic.

“I am even prouder to be teaching here in the same classroom where he once taught. Now then, who here besides Azalea, whose father is bravely serving overseas, has a hero hiding in the branches of their family tree?”

Most of the kids shrugged. They had no idea.

Zack figured his grandpa Jim, who had been the sheriff in North Chester years earlier, was probably pretty heroic. But he didn’t want to show off.

“Well,” said Ms. DuBois, “I have a feeling some of you, perhaps all of you, have incredible ancestors. That is why, this month, you will each construct your very own family trees.”

“Cool. Awesome.”

All of a sudden, every kid in the class loved history.

“All right, everybody, let’s open our textbooks to chapter one.…”

Zack flipped his book open.

But he didn’t read what was written on the page.

He had that feeling again.

Somebody was watching him.

He slowly raised his eyes.

That picture of Horace P. Pettimore hanging over the blackboard?

It was staring at him.

It was also smiling.