Kenya Jayne Washington shivered and stamped the snow off her boots. She was standing in the dark basement of the Pattersons’ flower shop.
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“We could have a musical program with a lot of Christmas songs. I could even play ‘Silent Night’ on my recorder. I know it already, because I’ve been practicing it.” “That’s a good idea,” Kenya agreed. “People like to hear us sing. We like to sing too!”
Solomon Nassim El-Charif wasn’t listening to the sermon. He usually liked Pastor Lewis’s sermons, but today Solly was thinking about the Sabbath School lesson. For some reason, the story felt very real to him.
Susannah May Farmer pulled out a poster and stretched on tiptoes to hold it against the telephone pole on the corner. Solly reached up and hammered a nail to hold the poster in place.
Michael Arthur Patterson rubbed his hands over the tombstone. It was rough and cold under his fingers, and he shivered a little.
Kenya Jayne Washington bent over and put her hands on the ground. Then she put the top of her head on the ground in between them. Ever so carefully, concentrating so hard she almost bit her tongue, she pushed her wobbly legs up into the air. There! She was standing on her head.
MacKenzie Isabelle Evans stood in the middle of the lawn. She put two fingers into her mouth and whistled a long, piercing whistle.
Solomon Nassim El-charif had to sit on his suitcase to close it. When he finally got the lock shut, he stood and went to his bedroom window to see if Dad was home yet. He couldn’t wait until they left for Washington, D. C.
Michael Arthur Patterson carefully wrapped silver tissue paper around the 12 red roses in the long white box. He couldn’t see the red or the silver or the white, but he could smell the roses, feel the crinkly texture of the paper, and feel the weight of the box as he carefully handed it to the customer.
