Ms. Bixby's Last Day by John David Anderson Read Free Book Online

his sister’s bedroom wall. “You already missed three days this year with the flu,” I remind him.
    â€œI’m just saying. If we go through with this, we dramatically decrease our chances of growing up to be successful, educated adults.”
    I start to say something about all three of those things being overrated, especially the adults, when I feel a tap on my shoulder. I spin around, striking what I’m hoping is an intimidating,kung-fu action hero pose. I’ve never taken karate, but I’ve seen enough movies to know how my hands should go. Brand looks at me like I’m nuts.
    â€œDon’t hurt yourself,” he says. He’s wearing faded blue jeans and a T-shirt with a picture of a scarf-wearing cartoon tiger telling me how great they are. Whoever they are. He crouches down next to us so we are all hidden behind the bushes.
    â€œYou’re late,” I tell him. “And what’s with this?” I point to his outfit and then to the camouflage pants and green T-shirts that Steve and I are both wearing, looking like twins whose parents dress them alike, except Steve is Japanese and I’m white as a wedding cake. “I thought we decided on a uniform.”
    â€œI got out of the house late,” Brand says, shrugging. “And I don’t own any camo.”
    â€œLoose cannon,” Steve mutters. I can’t tell if he’s mocking me or not. Steve’s sarcasm sounds exactly like his normal voice.
    â€œWell, did you at least bring your supplies?”
    Brand sets his backpack down and opens it up, pulling out a large picnic blanket, red-checkered felt on one side and slick vinyl on the other. There is something wrapped up inside it, something small and delicate, judging by the care he takes in the unfolding. With a magician’s flourish, he pulls it free. “Check it out.”
    He holds up the long-stemmed glass, clear as a raindrop.The morning sun glints off the edge.
    â€œOooh,” I say, and Steve finishes with an “Ahhh.” Again, fifty-fifty chance he’s being sarcastic.
    â€œWe’re going to need one, right?” Brand asks.
    I nod. Obviously I hadn’t thought of everything. Brand carefully wraps the glass back up in the blanket and stuffs it in his bag. “So. We ready to make the call?”
    I take another glance over the hedge. The parking lot is starting to empty out. There’s probably still time. We could easily make it to our lockers and then to room 213 and sweet, oblivious Mrs. Brownlee before the second bell rings. I look at Steve, who shrugs, though I have a guess what he’s thinking. He’s thinking that things that look good on somebody’s marked-up arm don’t always turn out good when you put them into practice. He’s having second thoughts, or, by this point, probably thirds or fourths.
    I get it. I’m nervous too. But then I think about Ms. Bixby and her magic tricks, and her looks, and her quotes. And that day I found her rooting through the trash. The day she showed me what was in her bottom drawer and told me she’d hang on to it forever.
    â€œAll right. Let’s do this,” I say. “Communicator?”
    I snap my fingers, and Steve reluctantly reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone, handing it to Brand. Steve is theonly one of us who has a cell phone. I technically have one—it’s sitting on top of my dresser at home—except it stopped working the moment it accidentally fell in the toilet. I learned an important lesson about trying to pee and play Five Nights at Freddy’s at the same time. My parents said I could have another one as soon as I save up a hundred dollars in allowance.
    I currently have fifteen bucks, all of it sitting in the front flap of my backpack.
    Steve recites the number for the school’s front office. Brand dials and clears his throat, but then Steve reaches over and grabs the phone, ending the