Ms. Bixby's Last Day (21 page)

MARGARET ELEANOR BIXBY DIED IN BOSTON AT
the age of thirty-five. She never told the class her full name because she said it sounded too much like the Beatles song and she didn't want to give kids any more ammunition for bathroom stall graffiti. But she told me once, while we were waiting in line to check out.

She died of complications from surgery resulting in traumatic blood loss during an attempt to remove one of the tumors that had laid siege to her pancreas. The doctors at Massachusetts General did everything they could and she fought to the very last moment, but the odds were against her. Steve could tell me what they were if I really wanted to know, but I really don't. Her “soul made its return trip” sometime on a Friday afternoon in
the middle of June. That's what the obituary said, at least.

The day she died, Principal McNair called all the families of all her former students for the last five years, something like a hundred thirty kids, to deliver the news personally. I have no idea where I was on the list. I only know that my father answered the phone, and that instead of calling me out of my room, like he normally would, he actually stood up with his walker and came and knocked on my door. It was a scorching summer day, midnineties and humid, and Steve, Topher, and I had pledged to spend the majority of it inside, hands permanently attached to our Xbox controllers. Dad knocked softly three times and waited to whisper the news in my ear.

I turned to face the other two, but they already knew without my saying a word. They could see it. Steve closed his eyes and whispered something. Topher just looked at his shoelaces. I thought about saying something, but sometimes silence is best. Instead I just sat down at the edge of my bed and stared at the wall, at this one perfectly blank white spot, and thought about Mr. Alexander's riddle, the one that never got its answer. Then Topher bumped me with his shoulder. “Atticus Finch,” he said, and pointed to the quote on my wall, the one I'd painted above my bed the day after my dad got out of the hospital, the second time around. I nodded. This wasn't good-bye. We had already said our good-byes.

That night my dad ordered in pizza for the four of us and then agreed to our request to go out for dessert, “in honor of Ms. Bixby,” though I'm sure he thought that was a strange way to honor her. He said we could choose the place, provided he didn't have to drive too far—he still wasn't completely comfortable behind the wheel. Using his hands to accelerate and brake felt like he was piloting a spaceship, he said. “So where to?”

Topher, Steve, and I just looked at each other. I told him he should bring a little extra cash from the bread box, because the place we were going wasn't cheap, but it was totally worth it.

And afterward there was something at the bookstore down the street that I wanted him to see.

Live every day as if it were your last. That's a Bixbyism for sure, though even she would tell you that it's impossible. It's just way too much to ask most of the time. I've experienced one last day in my life, and it was enough to hold me for a while.

The truth is—the whole truth is—that it's not the last day that matters most. It's the ones in between, the ones you get the chance to look back on. They're the carnation days. They may not stand out the most at first, but they stay with you the longest.

Like the first April day you wake up to find a pile of rubber dog poop on your pillow.

Or the day you finally get permission to have your two best friends over to your house.

Or the day Mindy Winkler slips you a note in class for real this time asking if you will sit by her at lunch.

Or the day your sixth-grade teacher rescues you from the snow on your way to the grocery store.

Or the day your father knocks on your bedroom door and, for the first time in two years, asks you if you'd like to take a walk.

REBECCA ROUDABUSH HAS WRITER'S BLOCK.

You can tell because she's stuck her pencil in the corner of her mouth. She pouts when she's thinking hard, and her forehead matches the lines on the paper. It's kind of cute. I can't blame her for being stuck. Ms. Bixby hit us with a tough one this morning.

Imagine you had only one day left on the earth. What would you do with it?

Today's writing prompt is on the chalkboard. Not on the smartboard, but actually etched across the green wall behind it. Ms. Bixby likes chalk more. Not that she's antitechnology or anything; she says she just likes the powdery feel of it on her fingers. I can appreciate that. An oil pastel feels different from a
charcoal pencil when it hits the page. Sometimes it's the feel of a thing that matters.

The prompt sits just below the date, January 7, and the quote of the day. “Courage is not a man with a gun in his hand. It's knowing you're licked before you begin but you begin anyway and you see it through no matter what.”

It must be one of her favorites, because I've seen it there before. I don't memorize them all the same way Steve does, but this one at least sounds familiar. It's pretty heavy stuff for a Friday, though.

I take out my journal and open to a blank page and copy the prompt onto the top line. Beside me Steve has already got a couple of paragraphs.

“Last day on earth,” Trevor Cowly says, leaning over between Steve and me. “Does that mean the mothership finally came back for you two?”

“Shut up, butt zit,” Brand hisses from my other side. Sitting at her desk, Ms. Bixby says Brand's name, quiet but firm, and he immediately buries his face back in his journal. Outside, the snow still blankets the ground, pushed by the plows into mountains on the sides of the parking lot. During recess, I'm hoping Ms. Bixby will let us climb them. I've named the biggest one Everest.

We all write in sort-of silence for another ten minutes, “sort-of” because there's still plenty of whispering going on. I make a couple of doodles in the margins of my journal—killer robots, a crashing meteor—the prime ingredients for an apocalypse. I know the prompt said
my
last day, but I figure if you're going to go, go out with a bang. Steve glances at my notebook. “Is that the Terminator?” he asks.

“If I'm going, I'm taking the rest of you with me,” I whisper. After another minute, Ms. Bixby tells us time is up. She circles around to the front of her desk. The dress she's wearing has strange swirly figures embroidered on it. They are mesmerizing if you stare at them too long.

“All right,” she says. “Let's have a few volunteers share what they've written.”

Immediately a couple of hands go up. Melissa Trotter goes first and talks about how she would spend her last day with her family back in Hawaii, which is where they spend every summer, lucky her. Ms. Bixby listens with rapt attention, unlike the rest of us—who are completely sick of hearing how fantastic Hawaii is, especially when it's twenty degrees outside. A couple more students volunteer. Missy McKinney says she would beat the snot out of her older brother without fear of punishment from her parents. I figure Steve could appreciate that, though to be
honest, I don't think there's much chance of him beating Christina at anything. Kyle says he would just play video games all day. Sad but true.

I'm hoping Ms. B. won't call on me. I don't have much written. A few lines about going on some grand adventure with my friends. Mostly, though, my page is full of drawings. She doesn't collect our journals, so it's okay, she won't see it. She says they're mostly to inspire us.

She's about to call on somebody, you can tell, but Rebecca saves us.

“What about you, Ms. Bixby?” she asks. “What would you do?”

“With my last day? You really want to know?” Ms. Bixby asks, and I nod along with the rest of the class. If we get Ms. Bixby talking long enough, it will cut in on our math time and we won't have to take a quiz. Steve will be mad, but he'll get over it. “Okay, then. I guess my last day would have cheesecake.”

In the back of the class, somebody makes barfing sounds. Ms. Bixby silences it with a look.

“Cheesecake?” Steve says. “Why cheesecake?”

“Well,” Ms. Bixby continues, “if it were
really
my last day, I would want to appreciate all the things I've come to love about life. And honestly, one of those is cheesecake.”

“Seriously? You wouldn't, like, spend it with family or friends?” Jamie Davies asks.

“Oh, absolutely I would. Of course. But there would also be cheesecake. And not just any cheesecake: the white-chocolate raspberry supreme cheesecake from Michelle's Bakery up by the mall. Have any of you ever been there?” Only two kids raise their hands. “You should go sometime. Completely worth the trip. And I probably shouldn't say this . . . but if I'm being honest, there would be wine. Something to complement the cheesecake. Oh, and french fries.”

“French fries?” I just want to make sure I heard her right.

“
McDonald's
french fries,” she amends. “And since it is the end of the world, go ahead and make it a large. With lots of salt. And there would be music. Tchaikovsky. Or Beethoven. Something grand and sweeping and maybe just a little bit sad. Played by a full symphony orchestra, just for my family and friends and me. And we would sit on a grassy hill, surrounded by trees, stuffing our faces on cheesecake and fries. Eating and drinking and laughing. There would be so much laughing. And remembering. But
not
”—she holds up a finger—“saying good-bye.”

“Lame,” Trevor says, coughing the word into his fist.

Brand twists around and mouths something, a word I don't quite get but starts with an
F
—probably something he just made
up. I'll have to ask him about it later. One of these days Brand is just going to skip the comebacks and pop Trevor Cowly right in the nose.

“What about us, though? Would you at least say good-bye to us?” Mindy Winkler asks.

Ms. Bixby leans against her desk and smiles. “Not good-bye, but maybe au revoir.”

“Isn't that pretty much the same thing?” I'm not exactly fluent in French or anything. I'm just guessing.

“Actually, good-bye is good-bye. Au revoir is ‘till we see each other again.' But believe me, even when I'm gone, you're still going to remember me. You will all be talking about me when you are grown and have kids of your own. ‘Remember Ms. Bixby,' you'll say, ‘with the pink hair and the thing about the chalk, who was always spouting quotes at us and making us write in our journals all the time? She was the best.'”

The class groans, some kids shake their heads, but they are just giving her a hard time because they know she's probably right. No doubt I'll remember her when I grow up, though I plan to put
that
off as long as humanly possible. I figure we'll all remember her in our own way.

After all—you never forget the good ones.

I've come unplugged. There are no explosions in this novel. No fireballs. No ogres. No armies clashing in the night. This is a much quieter book than I'm used to writing. Quiet books are much harder to write than loud ones. At least for me.

In other words, I couldn't have done it alone.

Ms. Bixby
would not have happened it weren't for the combined efforts of the outstanding team at Walden Pond Press, most notably my tireless editor, Jordan Brown, who saw my embryo of a story and coached me through its many evolutions. Without him, this multifaceted novel would have been short several facets, making it infinitely less frawesome. And to his partner in crime, Debbie Kovacs: many thanks for creating a space for me at Walden where I can stretch my narrative muscles.
Your constant encouragement makes me believe I will grow up to be a writer someday (I'm putting it off as long as possible too).

Thanks to Emma Yarlett, who brilliantly captured the inquisitive, potentially troublemaking nature of my three protagonists in her cover art, and to Katie and Amy for making the rest of it look pretty, and to David and the rest of the production team for making it a real book with pages and everything. To Renée and Valerie for their razor-sharp efforts to make my stumbling prose readable. And big thanks to Danielle, Jenna, Patty, Caroline, and the rest of the marketing and promotion team at Walden Pond who have the gargantuan task of selling a novel about three kids skipping school to visit their teacher who is dying of cancer. Not exactly a beach read. Props to Viana Siniscalchi for her behind-the-scenes efforts and for having such a delicious-sounding name. And much appreciation from this humble writer to Donna Bray, Kate Jackson, and Suzanne Murphy for running the show and letting me be a part of it.

Thanks to Quinlan Lee for being the first to cry over the manuscript, letting me know I was on to something, and to Adams Literary Agency for continuing to find a home for my work, regardless of its volume.

Finally, I would like to thank the mentors in my life: My father, who taught me the value of beginning even though you think you are licked and seeing it through, no matter what. My
mother, who taught me the power of books and beauty and imagination. Nick and Isabella, who inspire me to try to inspire them. And my wife, a public school teacher of nearly fifteen years, who continues to bless me with her kindness and patience and selflessness. In the words of Topher—she's one of the Good Ones.

I am fortunate to be able to do what I do for a living. I am more fortunate to have wonderful people around me who support me in moments of doubt and confusion and hardship. To those who struggle, and to those standing behind them propping them up and cheering them on—best wishes.

JOHN DAVID ANDERSON
is the author of many books for young readers, including
Sidekicked
and
The Dungeoneers
. A dedicated
root beer connoisseur and chocolate fiend, he lives with his
wife, two kids, and perpetually whiny cat in Indianapolis, Indiana
. You can visit him online at
www.johndavidanderson.org
.

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