“You’re lucky, Spencer. I wish I had a baby brother.” Ten-year-old Spencer Coleman smiled pridefully at his best friend, José Perez, and then down at his month-and-a-half-old brother, Johnny. “I’m glad that he’s a boy,”Spencer whispered. They had to be quiet, or else they’d wake the baby “Now he can’t turn out like Libby.” Liberty, Spencer’s sister, was nearly thirteen years old and as bossy as a mama hen. José grinned. “Two Libertys in your family would be a disaster.” He leaned closer to look at the sleeping baby. “Did you name him after the president?” Spencer nodded. “His real name’s John Kennedy Coleman,”he said. “But we call him Johnny for now.” “Neat.” José put his knee up on the crib ledge and reached in toward the baby. “José!” Spencer hissed. “Don’t touch him, you’ll . . .” Too late. Jose’s retreating hand brushed against Johnny’s forehead, and his eyes blinked open. Spencer grimaced. “He wasn’t supposed to wake up until 4:30.” Johnny’s face scrunched up, and he let out a loud yell. “Let’s get out of here.” The two boys dashed out of the room and down the back staircase, nearly falling over each other in their haste to get outside. “Spencer? José? What are you doing?” Mrs. Coleman was calling. “Um, we’re going to the park, Mom, we’ll be back soon!” Spencer shouted with his hand on the doorknob. He shoved the door open, and he and José tumbled out. The air smelled familial, like it always did just before winter arrived It was a cool, crisp afternoon in late November. Rotten pumpkins left over from Halloween were still out on everyone’s doorsteps, but the usual Thanksgiving decorations were starting to appear in windows, too. Spencer grabbed two baseball gloves from his garage and tossed one, along with a ball, to José. “Spencer, where are we going?” “To the park,” Spencer replied shortly. “Like I told Mom.” They turned out of the driveway and fell into silent step. The air smelled familiar, like it always did just before winter arrived. Spencer assumed it had something to do with decaying pumpkin. “Is anyone coming to your house for Thanksgiving this year?” he asked his friend. José laughed. “No way. Our apartment’s barely big enough to hold us. We’re going down to Abuelo’s house in Florida.” He smiled. “I bet it’s nice and warm there.” “Lucky you.” Spencer was staying in New York for Thanksgiving. He just hoped it didn’t snow. * * * Spencer put his head down on his desk. Paper-bag turkeys were stupid. They had made those things in kindergarten. Fifth-graders were ten and eleven years old, much too old, in Spencer’s opinion, to be pasting googly eyes on a brown bag. He wondered if José’s fourth-grade class was being put through the same torture. Mrs. Latham, their teacher, was going around the room praising the children’s pasting jobs. The setting reminded Spencer very much of Beverly Cleary’s Ramona book. Every time he looked down, those stupid wiggle-eyes stared back at him. He flicked the turkey to the far end of his desk with his index finger. Suddenly, the PA system turned on. Spencer sat up in his chair. Messages from the principal were always interesting. Sometimes they even meant getting out of school. There was the time last winter that the pipes froze. Then last month, the fire alarm went off, and there was actually a kitchen fire. “May I please request your attention. Could each teacher please turn the class radios to 1130 WNEW. Thank you.” There was a little radio sitting on the teacher’s desk. In the younger classrooms, the music stations often got turned on when the kids were working on a project. Sometimes, only on very special occasions, the principal would request that classes turn on their radios to a certain station. They had done that when Spencer was in third grade, at Kennedy’s inauguration. Spencer couldn’t remember if they had done it since. Mrs. Latham stopped praising Becky Halter’s fine googly-eye pasting job and stood up straight. “Whaddaya say, kids, should we turn on the radio?” Eager to get away from turkeys, the class nodded in unison. “Whaddaya say, kids, should we turn on the radio?” The teacher turned the knob so that the arrow pointed to 1130. Spencer pressed forward in his seat. Surprises were fun. “It looks like the shots were fired from the fifth- or sixth-floor window . . .” The first words alerted Spencer that something was very wrong. The usually calm and smooth voice of the newscaster was panicked and shocked. “. . . three shots, at the presidential car . . . Kennedy got hit, and maybe Governor Connelly, too . . .” Spencer heard the screams of police sirens and a buzz of human voices as he tried to piece together what he had heard. He slumped backwards in his seat when it hit him. Johnny isn’t named after anyone anymore. The words formed numbly in Spencer’s mind. He should have known, as soon as the newscaster shouted, “Three shots, at the presidential car.” He should have known. “Kennedy got hit.” Their President was dying. He had been shot, while riding in his car through the streets of Texas. Mrs. Latham slammed her hand on the knob and the radio turned off in a burst of static. Her face was pallid, and she could barely get out a whisper. “Class dismissed.” * * * “Mom! Mom!” Spencer yelled, bursting into the room. “Mom, are you here, Mom?” Johnny was crying. Mom came up the den stairs as fast as she could, with the baby cradled in her arms. “Your teacher called and told me you’d be home early.” Her face was almost as white as Mrs. Latham’s. “Liberty’s in the den.” Spencer was shaking as he followed Mom. This was scary. This was scarier than last year’s Cuban missile problem. At least the Soviets and Cubans were the enemies. An American, from Texas,
Historical
A Second Beginning
It was a dark, cloudy evening when Father told us the news. Our family was gathered around the worn dinner table in the small kitchen of our farmhouse. My father was sitting in his usual seat at the head of the table, his callused hands clasped together and his elbows resting on the faded tablecloth. He looked from me to my eleven-year-old brother, James, and finally to my mother. Her eyes looked sad as she met his nervous gaze. They had been strangely quiet all through dinner. As eleven- and thirteen-year-old children, my brother and I rarely spoke at the table unless we were spoken to. Mother took a deep breath. “Jack,” she said quietly. “What’s done is done. We must tell the children.” She sighed and brushed a strand of blond hair out of her brown eyes. Father nodded. His face was lined with sorrow, which startled me. He was a strong man. Everything about him seemed sturdy. He stood six feet tall, broad-shouldered and muscular, with sunburned skin from years of working in the cornfields of our farm in upstate New York. It was usually hard to tell his inner emotions because he never let them show. “Times are tough all over,” Father said slowly and reluctantly. “These past few years have been hard on all the farmers around here.” I knew this was true. Although my parents didn’t talk to my brother and me about it, we had overheard our parents talking. Our crops had been doing badly for the past two years, and we had been able to sell very little of our harvest. I knew my father had had to borrow money from the bank in town just to keep the farm going. He was a proud man and hated to do it, but he had had no choice. “Times are tough all oven” Father said slowly and reluctantly “We’ve lost the farm,” he finally said. He looked down and shook his head. James froze with shock. I was thunderstruck, clutching the edge of the old wooden table to keep from falling out of my chair. James and I were both born in the little farmhouse. It was all we had ever known. There was a long silence. We all expected Father to continue, but he seemed unable to. My mother, sensing this, said softly, “We owed the bank more money than we could repay. We held on as long as we could.” She paused. “The bank is taking the farm.” “Where will we go?” James asked fearfully, his voice shaking. I looked at Father, wondering what would become of us. “West Virginia,” Father replied quietly. “We’re going to West Virginia. There was a man in town last week from a coal mine down there. He says they have jobs, and the coal company will pay for our train tickets and give us a house when we get there. Your mother and I have discussed it, and we think it’s best. There’s always a job open there, and if I do good work, I’ll be well paid.” He paused and looked at each of us. “We leave on a train next Wednesday.” No one said anything for a long time. I turned and looked at James. His dark green eyes were full of a sadness deeper even than mine, and he looked as though he might cry I restrained myself from reaching out to grab his hand, though I wanted to badly. But I knew that he didn’t like me touching him, now that he was eleven and “growing up” as he put it. Mother cleared her throat. “It’s getting late,” she said briskly. “James, Anna, you should be in bed.” James and I silently got up from the table and cleared and washed the dishes, as we did every night. Then we went upstairs. We stood at the top of the stairs, not knowing what to say. James whispered, “Anna, I don’t want to move.” I replied, “Neither do I. But there’s nothing we can do about it. At least we’ll all be together.” Later, as I pulled my thin blanket tight around me, I tried to imagine what West Virginia would be like. It was my last thought as I drifted off to sleep. * * * The days until we left passed quickly. Everything was a blur. A man from the bank came, and there was an auction to sell off the farm equipment and what little furniture we had. Father stood outside, stony-faced, watching as things were carted away. James, Mother, and I remained inside, unable to watch. We busied ourselves, packing the few things we would be taking with us into trunks. Sadly, we bid our few neighbors farewell. It seemed that only a few minutes had passed from the moment of Father’s announcement that we were moving to the time that we were boarding a crowded train to West Virginia. I had never been on a train before, and for the first time in days I was looking forward to something. The journey was to last five days, Father told us, for the train would make frequent stops along the way to pick up passengers. My excitement soon wore off, for the train was stiflingly hot and crowded, and it moved sluggishly. I tried to begin a conversation with James not five minutes from the start of the journey, but it was difficult to hear each other or concentrate on what we were saying. There was so much noise, and so many people who couldn’t seem to keep from treading on my feet. As we neared New York City, James and I stared in awe through the grimy window at the bustling city We had never seen such big buildings before, or so many people. As we disembarked from the train to get some air and something to eat, Mother seemed nervous and cautioned us to stay close. We bought some sandwiches from a street cart and sat
Pompeii’s Last Day
Sylvia wiped her sweaty brow with the back of her hand. She dipped her fingertips into the marble fountain and relieved her discomfort by plunging both feet into the refreshing water. How she longed to be able to swim on this hot day. It wasn’t fair that her four brothers got all the fun. “Sylvia! Oh Sylvia!” came a loud voice. “Help me with the babies! Do you not want some lunch?” A middle-aged frowning woman strode out, juggling two small children whose angry voices raged like the thunderstorms that often poured out their rage on the city of Pompeii. It was August of 79 AD and a miserable time to be alive. The heat was unbearable, at least to the young girls, who were not old enough to frequent the public baths alone. As she shouldered Lucius and Marcella, her young brother and niece, Sylvia thought of how nice a bath would be just now. She tried to banish the thoughts of cool water and a quiet atmosphere as the two babies began howling again. “Hello, Sylvia!” Sylvia spun round. “Flavia!” she exclaimed. “Where have you been?” Flavia relieved her friend of Marcella and answered laughingly, “Visiting my uncle. He has received an import of fine silks and would like your opinion!” Sylvia flashed a brilliant smile. “All right,” she said happily. “When shall I come over?” “Right now, of course!” “But what will I do with the. . .” “Babies? Oh, bring the babies! Old Helen will be sure to have something for them!” Sylvia hurried after her friend, panting as Lucius seemed to become heavier and heavier. Through crowded streets the two girls and their charges jogged. They passed the busy marketplace where a fruit vendor tossed them some grapes. They rounded the corner and came upon the public baths. Sylvia looked hopefully at her friend, but Flavia shook her head. “No stops!” she said sternly, reading her companion’s mind. At last, the girls arrived at the house of Marcus Flavius Primus, Flavia’s only uncle. Old Helen, his faithful servant, came out to greet them and bore off the now-smiling babies to play in the garden. Sylvia and Flavia hugged Flavia’s Uncle Marcus and followed him into a dimly lit shop. “I have just received some fine silks from Persia!” he said. “They ought to bring a good price. What do you girls think of them?” Sylvia blushed and said happily, “I think they are the most lovely in all Pompeii!” Suddenly, she stumbled backwards against the rolls of cloth, upsetting one. Flavia and her uncle laughed. “Sylvia, you silly thing! The finest silks in Pompeii will be ruined at that rate!” But they were not laughing long. Flavia lurched suddenly and fell to the ground. Then her uncle was thrown from his feet. “Not another earthquake!” said Marcus. Sylvia heard the babies crying. Her first thought was of them. She got to her feet with difficulty and staggered out of the room. Clutching furniture and walls, Sylvia managed to make it to the kitchen where old Helen was curled up in the corner with Marcella and Lucius. “Helen!” she whispered, fearfully. “What’s happening?” Helen shook her head. “We’ll be all right. It will soon stop.” Marcella whimpered quietly. Flavia came crawling into the room, her rosy complexion hidden by a rag which she held to her face. “Sylvia! Helen!” she coughed, grabbing Lucius. “Mount Vesuvius! Hurry! Come see! Hurry! We must get away!” With another fit of coughing, Flavia stumbled out of the room. Helen’s lip began to tremble and her face to drain color. “Come on!” shouted Sylvia. “No time to waste!” She led the trembling old nurse outside along with the howling babies. But neither Sylvia nor the nurse was prepared for what they saw next. A violent tremor shook the ground, and Sylvia lost her breath as she hit the hard ground. Stinging pains were pounding her back and legs and the smell of smoke nearly choked her. Her brown curls were filled with what seemed to be little round stones. Then she looked up. Mount Vesuvius was spewing ash and pumice all over the place Sylvia stifled a gasp. Men, women, children were running, some without clothes, some dripping wet, others covered with ash and soot. The fruit vendor from early that morning was racing past her. Two soldiers, eyes wide in fear, fled down the street. Her own mother and aunt were rushing past now, turning every now and then to look back. Her father, Uncle Marcus, and a priest from the temple were fleeing with all their might. They didn’t even notice her lying on the side of the road. The family chickens were winging their way through all the commotion. Everyone was running, running towards the harbor. She noticed that the sky was dark and full of smoke that seemed to be rolling ever closer. But when she lowered her eyes, the worst sight of all met her eyes. Mount Vesuvius, the huge mountain beneath which the town was nestled, was spewing ash and pumice all over the place, and it showed no signs of ceasing. Sylvia screamed as small bits of pumice came hailing down on her from above. Where was Flavia? Where were the babies? Where was Helen? What would she do? She curled up on the corner of the street, her heart filled with terror. It will stop sometime, she reassured herself. It will stop sometime. Suddenly, a strong arm grabbed her by the shoulder and jerked her to her feet. “Come on, little girl. It isn’t safe here. You’ll be buried alive!” Sylvia shrank back in fear. The man hurried on. Sylvia, by some instinct, began to run also. Amidst the cries of horror and astonishment, Sylvia heard a dismal wail from the other side of the street. “Help! Help!” it cried. “My mother is gone!” Sylvia was touched with pity for the child. She stopped running and turned to the direction of the
