Read Online Ms. Bixby's Last Day by John David Anderson - Free Book Online Page A

things. The cookies usually come four to a pack, which makes two for each of us, though Topher usually lets me have three.
    Today, though, on this strange, new bus that smells awful, Brand and Topher sit together, and I stand in the aisle for a moment, uncertain. Then the bus lurches forward and I spin on my heels, toppling into the seat in front of them, my backpack containing my portable speakers slamming against the side. The speakers are for the music—a mix that I put together especially for Ms. Bixby. The plan called exclusively for Beethoven, but I added a few extra tracks, things I think she would appreciate. I listened to them all last night. She won’t be able to hear them if the speakers get smashed, though.
    I manage to right myself and immediately get up on my knees and turn around so I’m facing them. The vinyl covering of the seat sticks to my fingers. I try not to touch it.
    â€œYou okay?” Topher asks. I must look worried.
    I nod. “According to the US Department of Transportation, bus accidents resulting in injury have gone down steadily overthe past twenty-five years. I looked it up.”
    â€œGood to know,” Topher says, then huddles over the map with Brand, the two of them tracing our route with their fingers, even though I was the one who did all the research and marked all the points along the way, from school to the mall to downtown to the hospital to the park and back again. It’s Topher’s map and Brand’s idea, but it’s my route.
    I wait a moment, then say, “It should take us twenty-three minutes to reach Woodfield Shopping Center.”
    Brand turns and says something to Topher, but I can’t quite hear it because of the rumble of the bus engine and the squawk of traffic right outside my window. Too much noise makes me fidgity. When I get anxious, I sometimes have a tendency to talk more.
    â€œThe first-ever school bus was invented in 1827. It was drawn by horses,” I say. Last night’s research might have gone a little bit off topic. Bus schedules led to accident statistics, which led to the history of mass transit. Before I knew it, an entire hour had passed.
    â€œThat’s really great,” Topher says, finally looking up at me and putting down the map. “Hey, instead of using our only working phone to memorize every page of Wikipedia, maybe you could send a text to someone in our class and see if Mrs. Brownlee has said anything about us being absent yet.”
    â€œOr if Mr. Mack ratted us out,” Brand adds.
    â€œI don’t text anyone in our class,” I tell Topher, though he already knows this. “Except you. Until you dropped your phone in the toilet.” I don’t mean it as a joke, but Brand laughs anyway. Topher gives me a dirty look.
    â€œIt was an accident,” he says.
    â€œYeah. Those toilets are death traps,” Brand remarks, then starts to snicker again. The bus stops rather abruptly, sending me rocking backward. Three people get on. Nobody gets off. I turn back around, my back pressed up against the sticky seat now, and look out the window. I hear Topher laughing at something Brand says behind me and tell myself it’s not important. I don’t need to know everything. It doesn’t matter who sits where or by whom. Topher’s my best friend, and nothing is ever going to change that.
    We met in the first grade, Topher and I. He pointed to my Lego Star Wars lunch box and asked me if I had any of the actual Lego Star Wars sets. I told him I had four, all complete, all sitting on my dresser at home, the instructions carefully packed away in case I ever needed to rebuild them, like if an earthquake happened. He said he had a few of them, too, but they weren’t put together; as soon as he built them, he tore them apart and mixed the pieces in with his other pieces. Alsohe lost Lego Boba Fett’s legs when his dog ate them. I told him that was the craziest thing