Ms. Bixby's Last Day

by John David Anderson

  “Stay out of the way of what?” I ask. But Brand says don’t worry. He has a plan.

  The day Brand sat down next to us, there were six other empty seats. I know because I counted them. Of course, of the seven total empty seats, three were at all-girls tables, so I understand why he might have avoided them, but there was still only a 25 percent chance that he would sit next to us.

  One in four is better than one in seven billion, but it’s still against the odds.

  When he sat down at lunch with us that first day, I remember looking over at Topher. It was a look that said, Tell him to go away. I couldn’t tell him because I’m a firm believer in not saying anything that will get me either beat up or into trouble. But Topher didn’t say, Go away. He said, “Sure. Have a seat.” So Brand sat down with us and I counted the empty chairs.

  That first week I tried everything I could think of to convince him that he didn’t belong with us. I tried pretending he didn’t exist. I forgot to invite him over to my house after school whenever I invited Topher. I sent him a note from Mindy Winkler asking if he would sit by her at lunch instead, but that backfired when Mindy had to get her braces tightened the next day and didn’t even bother to come to school, making Brand wonder who the note was from. I said I didn’t know.

  It wasn’t that I didn’t like Brand. He had never shot any spit wads into my hair. He never tried to push me down the stairs or burped in my face. All he did was sit down at our table at lunch. But at the time, I hated him, just for sitting down, because I wasn’t sure what it meant. Because it had always just been Topher and me. To make matters worse, he seemed nice and he had seen all the right movies and knew lots of good jokes, and Topher obviously thought he was cool, which meant there was a chance—a good chance—that over time, Topher might choose him over me.

  And that simply couldn’t happen.

  We are ninjas. That’s what Topher says as we get off the bus. Stealth and subterfuge. Actually he says subtlety, but I think he means subterfuge. Though I suppose a ninja could be subtle too. Until they cut your head off with a katana.

  We don’t have katanas. I have a Carhartt multipurpose tool that has a knife blade on it sharp enough to cut mud. We didn’t even think to bring forks for the cheesecake. Topher says it doesn’t matter. We just need to walk like ninjas. We aren’t beheading anyone.

  I don’t know how ninjas walk, but I assume it is on their tiptoes, so I walk on my tiptoes, though after a while that hurts and I just walk regular but slow, keeping against the brick walls of the buildings we pass. I am with Topher, who walks like a ninja with his toes chopped off, limping and stumbling and reaching out occasionally to put a hand on my shoulder. I am keeping an eye on Brand, who is on the other side of the street. He’s the one trailing George Nelson, staying a good twenty yards away, waiting for “just the right moment.” I’m not sure what the right moment is. All I know is that he will give me the signal.

  I suddenly feel the urge to pee—I didn’t go at the bookstore when I had the chance—and I whisper that to Topher, who tells me ninjas don’t pee. I tell him that is biologically impossible and historically inaccurate. He asks me if I’ve ever seen a ninja pee in a movie. I tell him I’ve never seen anyone pee in a movie. He says ninjas don’t talk about peeing either and that we should maintain mission silence from here on out, so I just follow the sidewalk, keeping one eye on our target and the other on Brand, waiting for just the right moment.

  George Nelson still has his earbuds in and seems completely unaware of our presence no matter how we walk. Only once does he look in our direction, and I freeze, Topher nearly crashing into me. The man doesn’t register us, though. He is just checking for cars before crossing—easier to do when you’re not being chased. He crosses the intersection, then turns down a small alleyway behind a corner drugstore.

  This, apparently, is the moment. Brand gives the signal, wildly slapping the top of his head with both hands, more surprised baboon than stealthy ninja, but unmistakable at least. Topher motions for me to go. “I’ll be right behind you,” he whispers. Brand points to the alley’s entrance and then makes some other motion with his hand, something about a tornado or a spinning ballerina, and then he sprints around the front of the Walgreens. Topher calls out behind me. “Go. Cut him off.”

  I run a little faster, thinking about the lumpy cheesecake still jouncing around in my backpack, getting lumpier, and what a terrible idea this is, running to confront a grown man—a criminal named after a cop killer, no less—in a deserted alleyway in the middle of downtown. I say a quick prayer as I come to the alley entrance, pressing my back firmly against the wall, leaning to take a look.

  George Nelson is there. He’s stopped about twenty feet away and is looking at a poster pasted to a door. I look for Brand. Brand is the one who is going to confront him. I’m just supposed to make sure he doesn’t get away. Of course if he tries to get away, I don’t know how I will stop him. My parents enrolled me in tae kwon do one summer but let me quit when the school year started back up. Straight As are more important than learning to defend yourself. In three months of classes I learned four words in Korean and how to tie my belt. If George Nelson wants to get past me, he will.

  I don’t see Brand. I look to make sure Topher is limping up behind me—he is still a block away. I turn back around.

  George Nelson is staring at me.

  He looks confused for a moment. He cocks his head sideways. Then I see his eyes flash, the moment when he realizes who I am: that annoying little Chinese kid he adopted outside a liquor store.

  Fifteen thousand people are murdered in cold blood each year. I don’t know why I know this. Now I wish I didn’t.

  George Nelson holds the brown paper bag against his chest with one hand, then reaches down to the pocket of his jeans with another, and for a split second, I think, This is it. He’s got a gun and he’s going to shoot me and I am going to die, right here, in this alley, without having even graduated from elementary school, and it’s strange, but my very first thought is who will come to my funeral, and will my sister even bother to wear black, and what will my father say about me. Probably something about not being able to realize my potential.

  I don’t have time to imagine the rest of the eulogy, because at that moment, George Nelson turns and bolts toward the other end of the alleyway. He’s actually running away. From me.

  Except I’m supposed to keep him from getting away—that’s my role in the plan—so I yell, “Stop!”

  He hesitates, for only a second. Then something drops out of the sky right in front of him. Maybe it’s spending so much time with Topher, but my first thought is Batman, except this something has a dorky-looking cartoon tiger on his chest. Then I realize it’s only Brand, who has jumped off the roof of the drugstore, landing first on a Dumpster and then hitting the pavement, blocking George Nelson’s way, trapping him between us. I can’t help it. I’m impressed.

  George Nelson looks back and forth from me to Brand, still clutching his brown paper bag and whatever is inside it. I take a quick glance behind me for Topher, but now there’s no sign of him. He was just there a second ago, I swear, but all I can see is another set of Dumpsters and an empty cardboard box. I want to go look for him, but I can’t leave Brand alone in the alley with this man.

  “Where’s our money, George?”

  My head whips back at the sound of Brand’s voice, though it doesn’t sound quite like him. I think he’s making his voice deeper, huskier on purpose.

  “This is a joke, right?” George says. He’s not laughing or even smiling, though.

  “Twenty-five bucks. Where is it?” Brand insists.

  “I don’t have your money.”

  “We had an agreement,” Brand says.

  George tightens his grip on his bag, takes three steps backward so he’s about halfway between Brand and me. He looks unsteady, off balance, but his eyes are slits, darting back and forth. “C’mon, kid. Really? What did you think was going to happen?
You’re too young to be drinking anyways.”

  “But not too young for you to steal our money.” Brand takes two steps toward George Nelson. I’m not exactly sure what the plan is from here. Brand didn’t say. Cut him off. Don’t let him escape. That was it. I take another look for Topher, but I still don’t see him. With a sneer, George Nelson closes the remaining distance between him and Brand.

  “Outa the way, kid.”

  “Give us our money back,” Brand says, much cooler than I ever could. He refuses to move. I would have moved.

  “I’m not going to ask you again.” George Nelson spits on the pavement between Brand’s feet. It’s a standoff. I count in my head—one second, two, three—then the man gives Brand a shove, hands to chest.

  Brand stumbles backward but quickly recovers and shoves right back. Hard. Harder than I could have anticipated. Harder than George Nelson probably expected. Hard enough that the man staggers backward, spinning toward me, only a few feet away. Before I know it, Brand is right on top of him, pushing him into me, and the three of us are tangled together. I try to yell for Topher, his name sticking in my throat. The man stumbles, takes a step back, and I see his fist, not the one holding the bag but the other one, the one that leads to the dragon, swing out. Brand ducks at the last moment and George Nelson’s left hook misses him completely.

  I’m standing right next to Brand, but I don’t think to duck. Three months of tae kwon do, but they never covered ducking.

  The pain is instant, explosive, as George’s punch lands square on my jaw—tooth loosening and intense. The brick walls spin, quickly replaced by the pavement underneath me as I bang my head. From my new spot on the ground I get a darkened glimpse of Brand swinging his backpack around, catching George Nelson across the face, distracting him long enough for Brand to tackle him at the knees, driving him backward, catching him off balance, slamming them both into the side of the building. I decide it’s best to just stay on the ground.

  The two of them topple over and wrestle for a moment, limbs flailing, hands in faces, though Brand actually seems to have the advantage as George fights one-handed, the other one still holding his bag out of reach, protecting it like it’s the Holy Grail. George grunts, pushing Brand off him, and then the two of them wobble back to their feet. George Nelson looks like he’s about to take another swing at Brand, but then he stops, staring down the alleyway, past me at something by the Dumpster.

  Topher. Finally. He pops up out of nowhere, holding my phone.

  “Did you get it?” Brand calls out, taking a step backward, keeping his eyes on George Nelson.

  “I got it,” Topher says.

  “What? What did you get? What’s he doing?” George Nelson huffs.

  “Well, about three seconds ago, I was getting some awesome up-close video of you punching my friend. Except it’s not called punching, not when you’re doing it to a twelve-year-old kid unprovoked. What’s that called again?” Topher asks.

  “Assault and battery,” Brand says, stepping over to help me up. I claw my way up his shirt and onto my feet. My teeth feel loose in their sockets. I can taste blood in my mouth. For some reason it hurts just to blink.

  “Right. Video of you assaulting and battering my friend. And now I am calling the police,” Topher says smugly.

  It takes a second. Then suddenly George Nelson is stammering.

  “Wait! Hold on, now. Just put that phone away. Everybody calm down, all right? You guys came and surrounded me. You assaulted me.”

  “Yeah, that’s not what the camera shows,” Topher says, tilting my phone and wincing at what he sees there. “Ouch. Ooh. Yeah. I’m pretty sure I know what the cops will think of this. Especially that part.” He makes a move like he is going to dial again. I lean against Brand, slowly working my jaw back and forth. I’m pretty sure the blood is coming from my lip. I’m afraid to touch it. George Nelson throws his hands up.

  “Wait! Hang on, all right? I get it. You win, all right? Just put the phone down!”

  Topher looks at Brand, who nods.

  “Whatever,” George says, backing up, running his free hand through his hair. “I’m not going to jail, understand? That’s not going to happen.”

  “In that case, we want our twenty-five bucks back, flopsucker,” Brand says.

  “What did you just call me?” George hisses, then catches a subtle movement from Topher, bringing my phone closer. “Right. Okay. Sure. Your money. I would. I really would, all right? But I don’t have it anymore.” George holds out the paper bag that he’s been coddling. “I spent it, see?” He pulls a bottle out of the bag and shows us.

  Jack Daniel’s Tennessee Whiskey, it says. Old number seven. It looks like something from another century. Like medicine from the Great Depression.

  “That’s not wine,” Topher points out.

  “Trust me,” George says, waving the bottle in front of us. “This stuff is so much better than wine. You just take it, all right? Take it and delete that little video and we can all forget that this whole thing ever happened.” He puts the bottle back in the brown paper sack and sets it on the ground between us.

  “How much was it?” Brand asks.

  “I don’t know. Twenty and change. Can you please just put the phone away?”

  “Show me your wallet,” Brand insists. Topher holds my phone out like it’s a loaded pistol. I’m still working my jaw like a cow chews. I’ve been picked on and pushed around a lot, but I’ve never been punched in the face before. I find the courage to reach up and touch two fingers to my lip. It’s bigger than I remembered. And wet. I don’t want to look.

  George Nelson sighs and then reluctantly digs into the back pocket of his jeans, pulling out a black leather wallet. “There’s maybe two bucks left,” he protests. He opens it up to show us. “See. That’s it. The credit cards are all maxed out.”

  “Hand it over.”

  “I just showed you. There’s nothing in there.”

  Brand looks over at Topher and nods. “Let’s see here,” Topher says. “Nine. One . . .”

  George curses, but he throws over the wallet. Brand removes the driver’s license and looks it over. “Hazel?” he says. “Your real name is Hazel?”

  “It was my great-grandfather’s name.”

  Brand hands me Hazel’s driver’s license. “File this for the future, will you?”

  I take the license and scan it, committing it all to memory. The photo is terrible. Even in his license he looks like a criminal, much more like a George Nelson than a Hazel Meriwether Morgan. I get it all, reciting it to myself. Height. Weight. Eye color. Hair color. Date of birth—he’s actually twenty-eight years old, though he looks older. Maybe it’s the tattoo. Address. License number. Not an organ donor. I repeat it all three times to myself in my head, just to be sure, then hand it back to Brand, who stuffs it back in the wallet. He removes the two dollar bills before tossing the wallet back.

  “All right, Hazel, here’s what we are going to do. We are going to take this”—he bends down and grabs the bag with the bottle of Jack Daniel’s—“and this”—he holds up the two dollars—“and we are going to walk away and forget that any of this ever happened, just like you asked us to.” He points to Topher and the phone. “But we still have the video. And we have your name and address. And the police are just a click away. I’m sure they would be very interested in hearing about a twenty-eight-year-old man who goes around stealing from kids and then beating them up.”

  Hazel Morgan wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Oh, kid, I so promise you. Someday, when you’re older, and you’ve forgotten all about this, we’re going to run into each other again, and I am going to beat the living piss out of you.”

  “I don’t think I’m ever going to forget this,” Brand says. “And besides, that sounded like a threat. Did that sound like a threat to you?” he asks me. I nod. “We should get that on camera. Would you mind saying that again?”

  Hazel Morgan stares at us. “You kids are psycho,” he
concludes. “You know what? Enjoy the Jack. Just don’t ever come near me again, got it? None of you. Especially you.” He points at Brand as he starts to walk backward, muttering under his breath. “Stupid, punk, psycho kids.”

  After four or five steps, he turns around and walks down to the other end of the alley with his head down, not even giving us a backward glance.

  “Flopsucker?” Topher asks, coming to stand beside us.

  “I just came up with it,” Brand says, grinning. “It’s even worse than a flipwad. Like the king of flipwads.”

  “I like it,” Topher says. Then he turns and inspects my face. “Wow. That’s just . . . Ouch.”

  I reach up and touch my lip again and look this time. It’s definitely blood. I get dizzy and nearly find myself back on the ground again, except Topher catches me and holds me up this time.

  We find a stretch of grass surrounding one of the precious few trees left in downtown—they are considered landmarks now—and sit around it, legs sticking out like tire spokes. Topher digs in his backpack for a napkin and tells me to hold it against my lip. “And the award for best actor in a nonscripted fight scene goes to . . . Steven Sakata,” he says. He is fond of giving out imaginary awards. Most of them go to me, I assume because I’m a Sakata kid and he knows we collect them to make our parents happy.

  “Yeah. You did a really nice job taking that punch,” Brand says.

  “Thanks,” I mumble. I fish in my mouth with one finger, counting. I correctly count twenty-six teeth. I’m still waiting on a couple of molars. “You knew he was going to punch me,” I say, looking at Brand.

  “I figured I could get him to swing at somebody,” Brand says. “I was ready to take it, but at the last second I guess my not-getting-punched-in-the-face instinct kicked in. Sorry yours didn’t.”

  I make a note not to stand beside Brand anymore. Especially not in the middle of a fistfight, though hopefully they will not become a regular occurrence.