Ms. Bixby's Last Day

by John David Anderson

  “We are what we pretend to be, so we must be careful about what we pretend to be,” she adds.

  That was another thing about Ms. Bixby: She was always saying little quotes like that. She called them “affirmations.” They were basically sayings she had collected. A few of them were hers, but most of them were borrowed. Except she hardly ever said where she’d borrowed them from. She spoke them like they were universally true, written in the wind for everyone to hear. We called them Bixbyisms. Another Brand word.

  “Now go wash your hands and faces. Because even though I’m certain Miss Roudabush doesn’t have cooties, I can’t speak for any other germs.”

  We all wait one more second to make sure the lecture is over; then we nod in unison and I follow Steve and Brand toward the door. As I slink inside, I turn and spy on Ms. Bixby through the window. I do that sometimes, when she’s not looking.

  Ms. B. is huddled against the wall, arms wrapped around in her cable-knit sweater. Rebecca’s positive diagnosis sits crumpled in her hand. She isn’t watching the other students on the playground. She is staring out over the slides and swings to the stretch of fields and the sky beyond and the three clouds reaching out for each other with wispy fingers but not quite there yet.

  Three weeks later she gives us the news.

  Steve

  WE FOUND OUT ON A TUESDAY. I WAS WEARING a red sweater. Not bright red. More of a maroon, like the color of cherries—real cherries, not the ones you find in canned fruit that taste a little like medicine. I remember it was raining that day, spattering against the windows. I don’t like the rain because the water sloshes up and soaks the cuffs of your socks when you run through the grass, and then your ankles are red and itchy the rest of the day. Ms. Bixby and I don’t agree on this. She thinks rain is fantastic, but maybe that’s because she wears sandals all the time and doesn’t have to worry about the sock issue.

  She waited until the end of the day to deliver the news, but I could tell it was coming. She had been acting differently for a while. For instance, the week before, I was informing her about the world’s deadliest snake based on venom toxicity, and she completely zoned out and didn’t hear a word I said, as if the world’s deadliest snake didn’t matter. Normal Ms. Bixby would care about that sort of thing. She would find it interesting. She would ask me questions. But she just nodded and told me to go back to my seat. That’s when I knew something was wrong.

  That whole Tuesday was wrong, in fact. It wasn’t just that we were stuck inside because of the weather. That was also the day Tyler Fisk slipped a ketchup packet onto my chair before I sat down at lunch. It was also the same day my mother forgot to cut my sandwich diagonally, instead hacking it straight down the middle, which, as anyone can tell you, makes it harder to avoid the crust. I took four bites and left the rest.

  Then, twenty minutes before pack-up, Ms. Bixby sat us in a circle and told us about her diagnosis. I remember writing the words down in my notebook, asking her to spell them: ductal adenocarcinoma. I wanted to make certain I looked up the right thing when I got home. We all sat quietly while she explained. It’s a type of cancer that attacks the pancreas. They ran tests, she said. They took pictures. There was no question. She had a tough battle ahead of her, but she was going to “beat this thing.”

  It did mean that she wouldn’t be able to finish out the school year, however. In fact, she had already arranged for her last day—the Friday of the next week. In the meantime, they would find a sub to take over the class for the last month of school. I sat and stared out the window at the rain forming ankle-deep puddles on the sidewalk.

  I remember Grace Tanner crying and Ms. Bixby giving her a hug and telling her to be brave. I remember Topher giving me a confused look, as if he needed me to explain what a carcinoma was, and me scooting closer to him. I remember the quote she had on the board that day. “Things are never as bad as they seem.” I’m sure she put it there just to make us feel better, though Ms. Bixby was so calm that the news didn’t seem as terrible as it should. Brand sat at the very back of the room and didn’t say a word. He looked angry, but I think he looks angry a lot of the time.

  I shifted uncomfortably on the floor. My pants were still wet from where I tried to rinse the ketchup stain out. I didn’t cry, because I knew that if Ms. Bixby put her mind to it, she could “beat this thing,” just like she said. She’s one of the smartest people I ever met.

  The deadliest snake in the world is the inland taipan, by the way. A single drop of its venom is enough to kill a hundred men. And yet, in the recorded history of snakebites, this species of snake has only ever killed one person. I told that to Ms. Bixby at the end of that day, the day she broke the news. She asked me what the moral was. She’s always asking me what I think the moral is, because she knows I sometimes don’t get that part. But the moral of the inland taipan was easy:

  Just because it can doesn’t mean it will. Things are never as bad as they seem.

  She said I was brilliant and gave me a high five and I smiled. She has a way of making even minor victories seem big. Then she turned away from me and blew her nose. She’s very polite that way.

  It’s important to be recognized for one’s accomplishments. That’s what my dad says. Accomplishment and recognition are two of my parents’ favorite words.

  I won an award once for being able to name every country in the world, along with their capitals, populations, and official languages, a total of 194, though the number has changed since then. Believe it or not, they are still making new countries. I should think 194 would be plenty.

  I memorized them in alphabetical order, from Afghanistan to Zimbabwe. The capital of Zimbabwe is Harare, but if you’re like most people, you don’t care. Every two years, during the Parade of Nations at the opening ceremonies of the Olympics, I can tell you exactly who is going to come next. Hungary, Iceland, India, Indonesia, Iran, Iraq, Ireland, and so on. I could go on, but as Topher often tells me, I probably shouldn’t.

  The award was a red ribbon with gold embossed letters that said Holy Cross Christian Fellowship 13th Annual Talent Show. Honorable Mention. Honorable mention because I wasn’t one of the three most talented kids to take the stage that night, though it wasn’t actually a stage, just the pulpit decorated with tufts of white flowers. I didn’t get a ribbon in a primary color or the twenty-dollar iTunes gift card. The most talented participant was Christina Sakata, who played Beethoven to a standing ovation, curtsying in a puffy black dress that cost way more than twenty dollars. In my defense, Christina Sakata had been playing the piano since she was four, and I only started memorizing countries three weeks before the show. Also in my defense, Christina Sakata is better than me at just about everything. She is better than me at reading and roller-skating and cooking and basketball (though I haven’t met anyone who is not better than me at basketball). She has perfect skin and 20/20 vision. I think she’s convinced the entire world that she is perfect. I know she’s convinced my parents. I’m always hearing about how great she is. Talented pianist. Natural gymnast. Straight-A student. A model child.

  Very few things in life are perfect. Snowflakes are perfect. The way Lego bricks fit together is perfect. My sister is not perfect. But try as hard as I could, I couldn’t point out a single mistake in her playing that night, even though she has no problem pointing out mine. After the standing ovation, my mother turned and told me I did a nice job too.

  I still took my honorable mention ribbon to school the next day and showed it to Ms. Bixby, who let me tell the class about it and recite the countries all over again, even though I didn’t even make the top three. The only person who laughed was Trevor Cowly, who apparently found something amusing about the nation of Djibouti. “Ja-booty,” he said, and collapsed in a snorting fit. Ms. Bixby fixed him with a look and he instantly shut up. Most of the class clapped at the end. Topher let out a whistle because he’s Topher. When I finished, though, I saw Trevor turn to Brian Frey and whisper, “What a weirdo.” I couldn’t hear him
, but I’m a better-than-average lip reader. It comes from having people talk about you out of earshot all the time.

  It didn’t bother me much—being called a weirdo. I know I’m the only person in room 213 who has ever heard of Lesotho or cares that it is a country completely surrounded by another country. I know that the other kids have names for me. The nice ones call me C-3PO, or Data, which is either a Star Trek reference or a Goonies reference or both. And I know what the not-so-nice ones call me too.

  I was just going to let Trevor Cowly’s comment slide, but Ms. Bixby had heard it too. She cleared her throat to get everyone’s attention and thanked me for sharing. Then she said, “‘To be yourself in a world that is constantly trying to make you something else is the greatest accomplishment.’” And she looked right at me and smiled, and I smiled back, because I like her quotes. I have most of them memorized too.

  Then Ms. Bixby asked if she could display the ribbon on the chalkboard for the day, and I let her, because I knew when I got home I would just take it up to my room and tuck it away in my sock drawer and probably not look at it again, mostly because it was only an honorable mention, but also because it would only remind me of who actually won, and I didn’t need another reminder.

  Christina has so many trophies and ribbons that my parents had to build an additional shelving unit in her room to display them all, but for an hour at school at least, in room 213, my sister’s trophy case didn’t matter, and I would steal glances at the chalkboard and my white-and-gold ribbon hanging proudly from Ms. Bixby’s smiley-face magnet.

  It takes time to memorize every country and its capital and population. Ms. Bixby can appreciate the effort. She knows the state capitals. Of course, teachers are always making their students memorize state capitals, but most of them cheat and use an answer sheet to grade you. Ms. Bixby actually knows them. I quizzed her on it. She knows all the presidents, too, though her understanding of the planets of our solar system is less than thorough. She didn’t know, for example, that Venus is actually warmer on the surface than Mercury. When I suggested she brush up on her astronomy, she seemed offended, saying that she probably knew things that I didn’t.

  I told her that was highly unlikely.

  Then she asked me who the lead singer of Led Zeppelin was. I told her zeppelins could not be made of lead due to the obvious weight issues. She said, “Case closed.”

  Led Zeppelin is a band. I know that now. I looked it up. The lead singer was a guy named Robert Plant. Their best-selling song was about a woman who purchases a stairway to heaven so she can go shopping. It’s eight minutes long, the song, which is too long to pay attention to any one thing, even Ms. Bixby, and it doesn’t make much sense. Still, I guess she proved her point. There are probably a few things she knows more about than me.

  That same afternoon that Ms. Bixby put my ribbon on the board, Trevor Cowly missed ten minutes of recess for his “weirdo” remark. Even though the comment didn’t bother me, it wasn’t so bad to see him standing against the wall. It’s important to have your accomplishments recognized.

  The day Ms. Bixby told us she wouldn’t be able to finish out the school year, I came home and found my honorable mention ribbon right where I’d left it: tucked beneath several carefully folded pairs of socks. It had a crease across the middle, and the yarn tied to the top was frayed, but it felt smooth and slick in my hand. I could hear my sister practicing some new, complicated piece on the piano downstairs.

  I sat on my bed and stared at the ribbon in my hand. Just stared and thought about Topher and Ms. Bixby and songs and ductal adenocarcinoma and all the things I still didn’t know about, and maybe didn’t want to. And then I heard my sister growl in frustration and bang on the keys, which normally makes me smile.

  Brand

  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 dec
ent 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.