Ms. Bixby's Last Day (3 page)

YOU CAN PICK YOUR FRIENDS, AND YOU CAN
pick your nose, but you can't pick your friend's nose. That's something my dad told me. Turns out . . . not entirely true. I mean, the middle part is obviously true. But the last part isn't true at all.

Steve once had a booger, just, you know, kind of stuck there, on the rim, all crusty and stuff. It was reading time, and everybody was planted in their books, but I couldn't concentrate. I just kept staring across the table at that booger. And I whispered to him, told him about it, like,
Dude, you've got a little something, right . . . there . . . on the end
. And he brushed his finger across his nose, or gave it a little flick, but it was, like, glued there. And he didn't seem to care. He sniffed and shrugged and went back
to his book. And I went back to my book. But every other word I'd look up and see it there. Greenish gray, and rock solid, like snot lava that had erupted and then hardened over time. And I whispered and hissed and pointed, and he brushed and blew and shrugged, and it stayed. And I don't know why, but it was totally driving me crazy, like when the roof of your mouth itches and you try to scratch it with your tongue. So finally I just reached across the table and dug in with my fingernails and gave it a tug, peeling it free and flicking it onto the floor.

Apparently I must have scratched him a little, or maybe the crust of hardened snot had attached itself to one of his nose hairs that got yanked out or something, because as I pulled it off, Steve screamed and slapped my hand and his eyes welled up with those little tears you get whenever you sneeze too hard. And Ms. Bixby asked us what was going on, and I told her I was just helping Steve get a booger out, which apparently was
not
the thing to say as it caused everyone in class to groan and make faces and prompted Ms. Bixby to say that, from here on out, everyone was responsible for picking their
own
boogers, thank you,
and
disposing of them in a discreet and sanitary manner, which did not include flicking them in other people's hair, sliming them across the bottoms of desks, or rolling them into doughy balls to be played with, which caused half the room to groan again but at least provided some distraction, as everyone was looking at Ms.
Bixby and no longer looking at me. Except for Steve, who stared at me with watery eyes.

“You don't have to thank me,” I told him. He didn't.

Still, it proves my point. You
can
pick your friend's nose. But there's a difference between
can
and
should
.

It isn't the last part of my father's saying that I wonder about, though. It's the first part. About friends. Because I'm not entirely sure about them either. It's not exactly as if I
picked
Steve and Topher to be friends with. And it's not like they picked me. It's more like I just glommed onto them somehow. And got stuck there over time, like dried snot.

We don't have all that much in common. I mean, all three of us like video games, and we live in the same town, and we think ordering pizza should be an at-least-twice-a-week thing, but I have that in common with every guy in my school. In fact, I probably have more in common with just about every
other
kid in school than with those two.

For starters, Steve is a certifiable genius, boogers or no boogers. He has, like, one of those photographic memories. He can recite the Gettysburg Address, and he knows the names and stats of every Transformer ever invented. And he's really good at math. I still struggle sometimes with long division, and he's already mastered algebra. His head is full of numbers and statistics and names of books and world records and who knows what
else. I sometimes think he might be a cyborg.

Topher's a genius too. Not like Albert Einstein genius, but in that creative sort of way. He's a better writer than me, and don't even get me started on his drawing. That kid has more stories inside his head than you could check out of the school library.

I'm no genius. I can't draw. I don't know what the capital of Montana is (Butte, I think—but that can't be right, because nobody would just tack an
E
onto the end of that word and make it their capital city). I'm not really great at anything, actually. I've played soccer and baseball—and rugby once. Suffered through tennis camp. I get Bs and Cs on everything, whether I try or not. I suppose I can cook a little bit, but that's only what I've taught myself, and only because I've had to. I can make a decent omelet, though it's usually easier to just heat up a burrito in the microwave—two if Dad's hungry.

Point is, I'm not like them. We're not like peas in a pod or anything. But sometimes you just need a place to sit and eat lunch.

This was last year. I transferred over to Fox Ridge for the fifth grade because we moved into a smaller house—there was no way my dad's disability checks were going to cover the cost of our old one. Besides, it had too many steps and no shower on the first floor, so it just wasn't practical anymore. So we moved, and I changed schools, and on my first day I stood in the doorway of the cafeteria and looked around at all the full tables, a hundred
backs to me as I scanned for a place to eat. There was an empty chair at Topher and Steve's table. The two of them were huddled over a notebook, looking at one of Topher's sketches; they didn't notice me until I was standing right in front of them. I asked if there was anyone sitting in the empty seat. Topher said no, Steve said nothing, and that's how it started.

So maybe Dad was right. Maybe I did pick them. Or maybe there just wasn't anywhere else to sit.

I didn't pick Ms. Bixby, either. Just dumb luck, I guess. Or maybe she picked me, though I doubt it. I'm not sure how students are chosen for classes at the start of the year, but I'm pretty sure that the teachers don't gather around a list of names like dodgeball captains and take turns drafting whichever students they want. If they did, I would probably be one of the last ones picked. Not because I'm a troublemaker or anything—just because I don't stand out. Maybe you could say it was fate, but I don't think so. You start believing that things were
supposed
to happen a certain way, you start to ask questions that nobody has answers for.

When I found out that I would be in Ms. Bixby's class for sixth grade, I was dizzy with relief. I knew Topher and Steve were going to be in her class, and after nearly an entire year at a new school, they were still the only friends I'd made. The other sixth-grade teacher was Mr. Mackelroy: a balding,
fortysomething Dungeon Master (according to the Topher Taxonomy) who smelled like stale cigarette smoke and vanilla air freshener and scowled at everyone who walked by.
Every
soon-to-be sixth grader was hoping for Ms. Bixby. Besides, Ms. Bixby had a reputation: For streaking her hair pink, which the girls thought was cool even if they made fun of it. For letting students make videos about what they did over winter break instead of writing essays. For secretly smuggling in her candy-bowl leftovers from Halloween and dishing them out, even though she knew our backpacks were already crammed full of chocolate. And for having a python as a class pet, because, as she put it in a devious whisper, “Our class pet could eat Mr. Mackelroy's class pet for breakfast.” Which was true: Mr. Mack had a warty, bulbous brown lump named Jabba the Toad.

There were other things, too, little things. Like how she always chose
The Hobbit
as the class read-aloud and had different voices for every character. How she could be strict when she needed to be and sweet when she wanted to be and kind of a smart aleck all the times in between. But mostly there was the way she listened to you, giving you her full attention. All the other teachers, they'd keep looking around the room when you talked, but Ms. Bixby fixed you with her eyes and waited for you to finish no matter how long it took you to figure out what you wanted to say.

None of that mattered at the time, of course. At the time, all I cared about was that I would be in the same class as my friends. That was the cake. Ms. Bixby was just the icing.

There was no way of me knowing what would happen between us, after all.

There was supposed to be a party. That was the problem, really, because if there had been a party, I could have said what I needed to. If there had been a party, I wouldn't have this hole right in the center of my chest, threatening to eat away at me from the inside out. I wouldn't feel like throwing up every time I walk into room 213 and see that quote on the wall, the last one she left there, just for me. The sub tried to erase it, but I wouldn't let her. I knew what book it was from.

It was supposed to be a “sort of” farewell party. Sort of, because she insisted she'd be back. Probably not till next year, but she'd be back. It was a temporary good-bye. More of a “see you later.” The party was scheduled for Friday. Her last official day. It was to take place during lunch. She was going to order pizza for the whole class, and McKenzie's mom was bringing cupcakes. We had leftover juice boxes from our Valentine's Day celebration a few months ago. There would be a more professional gathering with coffee and pound cake in the teachers' lounge after school, a chance for Ms. Bixby to say “see you later”
to the other teachers, but this party was just for us.

Except it didn't happen.

That Monday, with only five days left until her last day, we all shuffled into the room to find someone else waiting for us beside Ms. Bixby's desk. It was Principal McNair, wearing a navy business suit, black hair corralled into a bun, purple bags under her eyes. “I'm sorry, kids,” she began. “But I'm afraid Ms. Bixby isn't coming in today. It looks like she won't be back for the rest of the year, in fact.”

Standing beside me in his stupid Gap sweatshirt, Kyle Kipperson blurted out, “Is she dead?” I turned and glared, wanting desperately to punch him square in that giant, upside-down-lighbulb nose of his. Principal McNair looked like she was about to have a heart attack.

“Oh heavens, no!” she choked. “No. Not at all. She just isn't feeling well. And we all thought it best if she started taking her leave of absence early and concentrated on taking care of herself.”

There were groans from all over. Most of them were for Ms. Bixby, though I'm sure some were just disappointed that there wouldn't be a party. Part of me just wanted to scream at them. Topher told them all to shut up, which raised the principal's eyebrow but at least stopped the groaning.

“You should know that she fought us over it, but we insisted,”
Principal McNair continued. “She wanted to be here. She even recorded a message for you.”

Principal McNair turned around and fumbled with Ms. Bixby's computer for a moment, trying to get the smartboard to work. She wiggled the mouse and the screen flashed to life, revealing Ms. Bixby, looking much the same as the Friday before, except like she'd just woken up, her eyes not as bright. She smiled that smile of hers, though: The one that lets you know that
she
knows what you're really up to. The one that I'd gotten more than once.

“Hello, class,” prerecorded Bixby said, pulling the pink strand behind her ear, her face filling the camera. “Sorry to leave you all in the lurch like this, but it turns out Principal McNair doesn't want me hanging around the school anymore. She's afraid I'm contagious.”

“Absolutely not true,” the flustered principal whispered, but we all hushed her so that we could hear the rest of Ms. Bixby's message.

“Turns out I'm going to take my time off a little earlier than expected. Relax in my hammock with a good book and some mint tea, catch up on my to-dos, and, of course, get healthy. But before I leave, I want you all to know how proud I am of you. It has been wonderful getting to know you and watching your minds evolve and expand, and I only hope that you've learned as
much from me as I've learned from you.” Video Bixby paused, looked down and then back up. “I
will
be back next year,” she said finally, “and you will all come back and visit me, I'm sure, and we will have that party we planned on. So be good for Principal McNair and the sub, and thanks for being such an awesome class. Remember me and smile, for it's better to forget than to remember me and cry. Au revoir.”

The picture froze and Principal McNair hunched back over the computer. In a blink, Ms. Bixby was gone. The room was completely silent. It was a long time before anyone made a move or a sound. Even Kyle Kipperson managed to keep his big mouth shut for once. Then finally Sarah Tolsen timidly raised her hand.

“What about
The Hobbit
?”

Principal McNair looked confused. “What about
The Hobbit
?” she asked back.

“Ms. Bixby's been reading it to us after lunch. We only have twenty pages left,” Sarah explained, pointing to the hardback copy sitting on the desk. “We were supposed to finish it this week. We have to know how it ends.”

Principal McNair smiled unconvincingly. “I'm sure the sub can finish reading the book to you.”

“But will she read it like Ms. Bixby reads it?” Carlos Menzanno asked.

“Yeah, will she do the voices?”

“And what about our field trip to the duck pond? Ms. Bixby said she'd take us on Thursday.”

“And we never got around to finishing our unit on the coral reef.”

“Is there a chance she'll be back before the year ends?”

“Can't she just come back for the party at least?”

It was a flurry of questions. Everybody was just shouting them out, nobody bothering to raise their hand. Even with the principal in the room, the class soon dissolved into a muddle, twenty uncertain voices burbling at once. I didn't raise my hand. The questions I had, I was sure Principal McNair couldn't possibly answer. Neither Topher nor Steve raised their hands either. The principal looked from one face to the next, clearly overwhelmed, reaching out to steady herself against the desk. Then I heard McKenzie ask if she should still bother to bring in cupcakes on Friday.