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Brandon loved riding the express elevator that zipped up all one hundred and seven floors of the North Tower without stopping. It was a kind of magic—one minute you were on the ground, and the next you were more than a thousand feet up in the sky. Brandon watched with anticipation as the red digital numbers above the door flew by—101, 102, 103, 104, 105, 106—and then ding! They were there. The 107th floor. Windows on the World.
The restaurant took up the entire floor, and diners were already scattered at different tables for breakfast. Ms. Eng, the woman who managed the seating area, greeted Brandon as he entered, but he ran straight for the windows that gave the famous restaurant its name.
The sky was still brilliant blue and cloudless, and Brandon could see far across the Hudson River, all the way into New Jersey. Huge container ships in the harbor looked like toy
boats from up here. A news helicopter flew by underneath him. Brandon’s skin tingled, and he felt dizzy as his brain struggled to reconcile standing so high up with being safe behind the glass. Every part of him seemed to be screaming, “You. Can’t. Possibly. Be. Up. This. High.” But he was, and for this brief, wonderful moment he felt like the king of the world. Or at least of New York and New Jersey.
“All right, Brandon. If you have to be here, I’m going to put you to work,” his father called. “Take a water pitcher and fill the flower vases on all the empty tables.”
Brandon rolled his eyes, but he didn’t complain.
He started with the tables on the other side of the restaurant, where he could get a peek at more amazing views. Right next door was the gargantuan World Trade Center South Tower. It was the twin of the North Tower, except that it had an observation deck at the top instead of a restaurant, and no antenna. Its windows, like the North Tower’s, were partially obscured by thin aluminum supports. Beyond the South Tower, far off in the distance, was the Statue of Liberty—from this height, just a speck on an island in New York Harbor.
Brandon finished filling the vases and headed for the eastern side of the restaurant, which offered picture- postcard views of the Brooklyn and Manhattan Bridges. Brandon had been down there less than a half an hour ago, looking up at the Twin Towers from the Q train.
I think I can see my house from here, Brandon thought.
CRASH!
The loud noise from the other side of the restaurant made Brandon flinch. An alarm went off, and someone yelled, “Help! Fire!”
Diners stood from their tables, wondering what to do. Brandon set his pitcher down, suddenly afraid. The
commotion was coming from the kitchen, where his dad was.
“I’m sure it’s nothing,” Ms. Eng told the diners. “No need to panic.”
Brandon ran to the kitchen and stopped at the door. A great towering flame burned on one of the stovetops, licking at the ceiling. Brandon could feel the heat through his clothes. The kitchen floor was littered with broken dishes and food, and cooks and servers stood back from the fire in fear.
Brandon’s dad was there, but he wasn’t hurt. He wasn’t afraid of the fire either.
“What are you all standing around for?” Brandon’s dad said. He grabbed a towel and started to beat out the flames. Brandon relaxed. He’d seen kitchen fires before. They were always spectacular, but ultimately not very dangerous. Grease would catch fire on a stove and burn hot and bright, and within half a minute someone would put it out by
throwing a pot lid on top or smothering it with a towel.
Ordinarily, Brandon would have stayed to watch. But this, he realized, was the perfect distraction for him to slip away down to the underground mall and buy the replacement Wolverine gloves for Cedric. He patted his pocket again, feeling the lump of bills and coins. Getting the mess in the kitchen cleaned up would keep his dad busy for a while, and Brandon could be down to Sam Goody and back before his dad even knew he was gone.
Brandon hurried past Ms. Eng, who was still reassuring the diners, and over to the elevators. He pressed the DOWN button and looked over his shoulder nervously, hoping his dad wouldn’t come out of the kitchen and see him.
Ding!
An elevator door opened. It wasn’t the express elevator that went straight back down to the lobby. This one only
went to the Sky Lobby on the 78th floor. From there, Brandon would have to take two more elevators to get downstairs. It wouldn’t be as fast, but Brandon didn’t want to wait around for someone to spot him.
Brandon jumped onto the elevator, just missing the closing doors.
He’d made it! Brandon leaned against the railing at the back of the elevator and smiled. He couldn’t fix punching Stuart Pendleton in the nose, but he could fix breaking Cedric’s Wolverine gloves, and that made him feel better.
The elevator slowed to a stop, and an elderly white man with silver hair got on. The elevator stopped again, and a blonde white woman in a purple pantsuit got on, followed by a big white guy in a blue blazer and red necktie.
I shouldn’t have taken the local, Brandon thought. He glanced at his LEGO watch. 8:45 a.m. He was going to have to be speedy if he didn’t want his dad to find out he was gone.
The elevator stopped again, and a man with brown skin and a graying beard wheeled a catering cart with empty dishes onto the elevator. He wore a light blue turban that matched the color of his Windows on the World uniform. Brandon froze. The man wore a name tag that said SHAVINDER. Brandon didn’t recognize him, but he worried Shavinder might have seen Brandon around the restaurant and would know he was Leo Chavez’s son. Brandon slipped farther behind the big white guy and watched the red digital numbers of the floors tick by. 94, 93, 92, 91, 90, 89, 88, 87,
86—
THOOM.
Something boomed above them, and the elevator suddenly went sideways.
Brandon grabbed on to the handrail to not fall over. Two other passengers—the blonde woman and the old man—did
fall down, but Brandon couldn’t have helped them even if he’d tried. The elevator was shuddering so wildly it felt like someone had taken him by the shoulders and was shaking the life out of him.
And then a new sensation: They were falling! No—the elevator car wasn’t falling—it was leaning. Farther and farther and farther to the side, like they were on the Tilt-a- Whirl at Coney Island. Brandon held tight on to the handrail, digging in his heels, while the other passengers slid forward until they were all pinned to the opposite wall. The serving cart toppled over, spilling dishes and water and silverware.
Brandon’s mind raced, trying to make sense of what was happening. The elevator couldn’t swing this far in the elevator shaft. Elevator shafts were just a little bigger than the elevators inside them. That meant—that meant the whole tower was leaning. All one hundred and seven floors. That wasn’t possible, was it?
The elevator stopped tilting, and Brandon held his breath. No one uttered a word. Then slowly, sickeningly, popping and complaining the whole way, the elevator began to right itself. It came up straight and Brandon caught his breath, but then the elevator swayed in the other direction. The passengers who’d been pinned to the wall scrambled to cling to the railing to stay put. Brandon closed his eyes and braced himself as silverware and broken plates came skittering across the floor toward him.
But the elevator didn’t swing so far this time. It shuddered and groaned its way back upright. The lights flickered but stayed on, and suddenly everything was quiet again.
“What the hell—?” the silver-haired man started to say. And then the elevator began to slide.
