Ms. Bixby's Last Day (17 page)

Brand winces at the word “school.” I look at Steve, wondering if I need to step in, but he's not backing down. He pushes his glasses up with one knuckle.

“I'm not going back to school,” he says. “Not until we're done. And you're not going to call Mom. I don't need you to tell
me what to do this time. I know what I'm doing.”

“Obviously not,” she says. “Look at you.”

She looks at him. Brand looks at him. I look at him. It's just Steve. A little dorky looking in the camo, maybe, but still Steve. My best friend for all the years that matter. Who makes sure I get an A in math. Who always lets me pick the movies we watch. Who likes to keep the hall light on when he spends the night because he's still just a little bit spooked by the dark.

Except Steve wouldn't say the kinds of things Steve is saying. Not to Christina, anyways.

“I know what I'm doing,” he insists. “And this isn't your problem.”

“It's my problem now, though, isn't it?” Christina says. “It's my job to look out for you. Mom and Dad
expect
me to look out for you.” Her voice cracks with frustration. She crosses her arms in front of her.

Steve's voice is even quieter this time. He looks up at her expectantly.

“So do it then,” he says. “Look out for me.”

Brother and sister stare across the table. I try to think of something to add, but I'm pretty sure anything I say will only make matters worse. Then suddenly Christina jumps, as if she's been struck by lightning. She looks down at her hand. Her phone has started to chirp and buzz. Brand, Steve, and I watch it like
it's a timed explosive counting down the seconds. She lets it ring four times before she answers. I look to Steve for some kind of signal that I should go with plan A and just tackle her, but he won't take his eyes off his sister. She waits way too long before she says anything.

“Hi, Mom. Yes, I called you just now. No. It's no big deal, it's just . . .”

Here it comes. Another moment for the first daughter to prove how wonderful she really is. I wait for the confession. For Steve to be outed, turned over to the authorities, all so his sister can earn another gold star for whatever chart she thinks she's filling. She looks at Steve, who stands only six feet away, and I think about all those medals and trophies in Christina's room, more than I can count. Think about all the piano recitals he's had to sit through. The applause. The perfect report cards. The constant pressure. Steve once told me he never wanted to grow up and be like her. I thought I knew exactly what he meant.

Christina keeps her eyes locked on his as she speaks.

“Yeah, I just wanted to let you know that I got downtown all right. Yes, I'll be careful. Okay. See you tonight. Bye.”

She ends the call and stuffs the phone into the back pocket of her jeans. Brand and I both take a deep breath. Crisis temporarily averted.

“Thanks,” Steve says, though you can tell it takes some
effort. It's not a word that floats freely between the two of them. Christina points a finger at him.

“Can I talk to you?” She motions to the far corner by the Redbox kiosk, away from most of the people, most notably from me and Brand.

I watch Steve follow her far enough away that we can't hear, wondering what kind of lecture he's in for this time, waiting for the tirade, the wagging finger, for Steve's head to hang, but there's none of that. The conversation takes less than a minute. The two of them whisper, and since I'm not as good at reading lips as Steve, I have no idea what they are saying, but I do see Christina bend close to inspect her brother's lip, as if spending a couple of months interning at a vet clinic suddenly makes her a medical expert. She says something else and Steve nods. Then she follows him back to our table. He takes his seat next to me again. Christina's hands settle back on her hips as she eyes each of us in turn. She still looks a little bit evil.

“All right. Here's the deal. You never saw me, got it? I was never here. We never had this conversation. When Mom and Dad find out—and you know they are going to find out somehow—I don't want you dragging me into it. Then it will be my fault for not telling, and frankly, I've got enough to worry about.”

“Yeah, your life is so hard,” I say, instantly realizing that I was right before, about making it worse. The sharp look I get
suggests I should definitely keep my mouth shut. The strange part is that the look comes from Steve, not from his sister. She just ignores me again.

“Make sure you're home by dinner,” she says to him, waving her hands around, “and that this—whatever
this
is—doesn't become, like, a regular . . . thing.”

“It won't,” Steve says. “It's one day only.”

Christina shakes her head. “So much trouble,” she murmers to herself, though plenty loud enough for us all to hear. Whether she means me or Steve or their parents I'm not sure. “I was never here,” she repeats. She starts to go but turns back around for one more parting shot. “And try not to do anything
really
stupid.”

I'm not positive, because Steve and I are next to each other, but I'm pretty sure she's looking directly at me this time. I almost tell her,
Too late
. Instead I wave, not expecting her to wave back. She doesn't.

Steve's hands shake. I expect to see a satisfied smile, but he actually looks horrified.

“That was close,” Brand says.

“Yeah,” I say, “And awesome.”

In all the years I've known him, I've never seen Steve stand up to anyone like that. Maybe there was something to that getting-hit-in-the-face stuff after all. Or maybe she just had it coming. Steve grabs his water with both hands and tips it back, draining
it in three big gulps. The chattering returns as the McCustomers forget about the outburst. The mothers go back to watching their kids on the slides. Steve watches his sister's Subaru leave the parking lot. She didn't even get whatever it was she came in here for.

She sure got something, though. Steve made sure of that.

From the counter I hear Clarisse call my name.

Our order is up.

You can't always pinpoint the moment everything changes. Most of the time it's gradual, like grass growing or fog settling or your armpits starting to smell by midafternoon. And even when it does come down to one moment, it's not always what you expect. It's not some big announcement from the heavens telling you that you are the chosen one. It's not some magnificent charge through enemy lines with the orchestra swelling behind you. Instead it's something smaller. Like standing up to your sister at the McDonalds. Or facing off against some flopsucker in an alley behind the Walgreens.

Or even catching your teacher sifting through the trash and seeing what she keeps tucked in her bottom drawer.

I caught her after school. Ms. Bixby. Going through the recycling bin. Taking stuff. My stuff.

It had been an unusually dull Thursday, with tests to see
how would we do on later tests and tests to verify how we did on earlier tests, but no omens to suggest my life was about to change. No squawking crows or black cats, no dark smoky writing across the sky. It
was
pouring rain, so I suppose that counts for something, though at the time it just meant we couldn't go out for recess.

We sat in our corner of room 213 instead, the three of us, Brand messing around on one of the class iPads and Steve getting his homework done ahead of time, knowing he'd be asked about it as soon as he got home. I did what I usually do, doodled on a piece of scrap paper I found in my desk, the back of some fractions worksheet long ago graded (I was supposed to take it home to show my parents, but I wasn't sure they'd really care about a B minus in finding common demoninators). My sketchbook was in my bag by the door and I was too lazy to get it. Besides, I had spotted a spider foolishly trying to set up shop in our same corner by the radiator and didn't want to miss the chance to capture it on paper. It would only be a matter of time before Trevor or one of the other barbarians saw it and destroyed it. So I tried to sketch it, as a tribute to its brave stupidity. I drew for the whole time, and was just about finished when Ms. Bixby told us to get ready to go to gym. I showed Brand, who said it was pretty good, which is what he always says. He's a little like my parents that way.

It
was
good. But not great. Not worth keeping, anyway. So I tossed the paper in the recycling bin and didn't think another thing of it.

I was supposed to be picked up that day by my mom, who had all but disappeared that week, working three twelve-hour shifts in a row, and who wanted to make it up to me by taking me out for ice cream, just the two of us. Except the office called down to say that she was running late, which didn't surprise me at all. I went back to 213, looking for a book to pass the time, knowing Ms. B. had plenty to choose from.

That's when I spied her.

I stood in the doorway, watching her bent over the recycling tub, hair falling down in her face, a sheet of paper in her hand. She was wearing a buttery yellow sundress that day, with a white sweater so thin it looked like it might fly off to somewhere warmer.

“Lose something?” I asked.

Ms. Bixby jumped, startled, and I saw what she was holding. Not only could I see my name and the grade, but I could see the outline of the spider seeping through from the other side. She looked at me guiltily, as if I'd just caught her changing the scores on our standardized tests.

“Oh. Hi, Topher,” she said, staring. “Wasn't your mom supposed to pick you up?”

I shrugged. “She's running late. I thought I'd see if you had something to read. What's that?” I pointed at her hand, knowing perfectly well what it was, wanting to know more why she was holding it. Maybe she was just double-checking my grade. Maybe she thought I deserved at least a B plus. Ms. Bixby looked at the drawing and smiled.

“It's a spider,” she said. “Building a web. Obviously.”

I glanced instinctively at the corner I had been sitting in only hours before. The web was still there, miraculously, but the spider was gone. I hoped it hadn't been crushed. “I guess I meant why are you holding it?”

Ms. Bixby's mouth opened and closed twice, like she was trying to figure out how to make it work. It was an awkward moment.

“I was actually going to hang on to it,” she admitted finally. “I like it.”

“Oh,” I said.

Ms. Bixby looked intently at the drawing now, tracing the pattern of the web with one finger. “I didn't think you'd mind,” she said. “I mean, you
did
throw it away.”

“No. You're right. I did,” I said. What did that mean, she
liked
it? Like she was going to put a smiley-face sticker on it? Like she was going to show it to the class? Or like she really, honestly
liked
it?

“Is there a reason you threw it away?”

“I don't know. I guess I just didn't know what else to do with it,” I said.

“You didn't think it was worth keeping,” she prodded.

I looked into the recycling bin. Stories and papers and quizzes, ripped-up cootie catchers and paper planes made out of Post-it notes, a whole week's worth of work and play. “I guess not,” I said. I thought about my fridge at home—how, when I was little, it was full of papers and drawings hanging from magnet clips. Now it was covered in take-out menus and school reminders.

Ms. Bixby smiled, the smile that makes you feel like she's about to tell you a secret. Most of the time it really meant she was just going to recite one of her quotes or tell you to behave, but in this case, the smile held even more promise. She beckoned me over to her desk and sat on the edge. “Topher Renn, what I'm about to show you stays between us, understood?”

I nodded dumbly.

“That means Steve and Brand too,” she emphasized. “I don't want to hurt anyone's feelings, so you have to promise.”

I gave it some thought. That would be tough. I told Steve practically everything. Ms. Bixby obviously knew how things were between us.

“I promise,” I said. It would probably be worth it. I felt like Lucy Pevensie lost in the wardrobe. Like Harry looking into the
Pensieve. My fingers tingled. I could keep promises if I had to, but I crossed my feet just in case. I don't think she noticed.

“Do you know Susanna Givens?” Ms. Bixby asked.

I shook my head. The name sounded slightly familiar, like something I might have heard on the radio or in a television commercial. Turns out I was way off.

“She's a former student of mine. She's in high school now. Sweet kid, very bright, but very shy. Kept to herself mostly.”

“Like Steve,” I said.

“Like a lot of kids I know,” Ms. Bixby said, one eyebrow raised. “Susanna was a writer, probably the best young writer I've ever taught.”

I nodded, feeling a little flash of jealousy. Unlike my math quizzes (which I couldn't copy off Steve on the bus like the homework), everything I wrote for Ms. Bixby's class got As. Nobody wants to hear how some complete stranger was so much better than them at something they took pride in. Then again, Ms. Bixby was still holding my spider.

“It was her poetry that got me,” Ms. Bixby continued. “It was intricate and complex and full of imagery and emotion. She would write her poems on scraps of paper, just like this.” Ms. Bixby held up the drawing. “Whenever she had free time in class, I would find her working on them. Some she kept. Some
she threw away. But she never showed anyone, not that I know of, not even the few girls in class that she got along with.

“Except one day I found one. Same place as your drawing. And I took it and wrote a note on it and put it back into her desk.”

“What did the note say?” I asked.

Ms. Bixby put a finger to her lips. “I can't tell you. That's between me and Susanna, and promises are promises. But I
can
tell you that the next day when she opened her desk, she looked at me. She didn't say anything. She
never
said anything, not directly, but later that week I found another poem, sitting on
my
desk, hidden underneath my keyboard. Then another and another. A poem a week. Sometimes two. I started keeping them in a red folder.”