A fourteen-year old high school freshman hardly expects to have anything unusual or disruptive occur at an ultra-conservative school such as Port1and Sr. High School in Portland, Connecticut. Each day is similar to every other day; the only thing worth noting Monday through FridflY during the school year is the 2:30 dismissal bell. But this student would have thankfully welcomed that Sameness, even dullness, had she known ahead of time what November 22 held in store. Sitting in in art cless, struggling with a project that showed zero ability, I had no idea that the industrial arts c1ass next door had just finished repaliring a dusty old radio. And I had less of an idea that the first words the boys and their teacher would hear would be the jumbled, frantic words of a newsman saying something about the President being shot.
