Ms. Bixby's Last Day by John David Anderson Page A

“Or, here.” I bend down and pick up a chunkof brick that has broken free from the wall, pushing it toward Brand. “Just smash him over the head with this. Then, while he’s unconscious, we can drag him behind those Dumpsters over there.”
    â€œOr,” Brand suggests, lowering my brick-holding hand calmly and pointing to the parking lot we just walked across, “we could just go hide behind a car.”
    I look at the brick. Then at the cars. “Right,” I say, and set the brick down as the three of us sneak behind the gray Toyota parked closest to us. We huddle just below the window as Mr. Mack emerges from behind the apartment building, walking quickly, talking loud enough for us to hear. His voice is raspy. Cold morning air and way too much smoking.
    â€œI will, all right? Listen. I’m running late yet again, and if I’m not in that room by the time the second bell rings, Principal McNasty is going to have my butt in a sling. Yeah. I swear that witch has it out for me. I don’t know. Maybe she was dropped on her head as a child. Right. Call me next week.”
    I peer over the door through the car windows, taking in briefcase, coat, and grimace. Mr. Mack clicks off his phone and takes one last long drag of his cigarette before smashing it under his loafer. He looks like a gangster, or at least a gangster’s weaselly accountant. He pockets his phone and heads toward the parking lot, making straight for the Ridge.
    Just keep walking. Don’t look this way.
    He’s passing right by us. Completely oblivious. We are in stealth mode. Under the radar. No problem at all.
    Beside me Steve sneezes, and Mr. Mack turns. I duck down as fast as I can, leaving my heart in my throat. It isn’t fast enough.
    â€œChristopher, is that you?”
    â€œStay down!” Steve hisses.
    â€œDon’t sneeze!” I snap back.
    â€œChristopher Renn?” I can hear Mr. Mackelroy’s voice growing even louder. Closer. Can hear his footsteps slapping the asphalt.
    Ten feet.
    Eight feet.
    I look down at my shoes. There’s no way I could unlace them in time. Steve is clawing frantically at my shirt, as if that’s going to help.
    Six feet.
    Five.
    We are so totally gefragt.
    Then everything gets quiet. Quiet and still. I’m afraid to breathe. I’m afraid not to. I can’t hear a thing. Beside me Steve is huddled into a ball. Brand is crouched, bouncing on his heels, ready to spring, ready to bolt. He’s faster than Steve and me. He says it’s because he walks almost everywhere he goes.
    â€œBoo!”
    All three of us jump. My backpack scrapes along the car, and Steve actually slams his head against the driver’s-side mirror and yelps like a kicked puppy. We fumble and spin and press together, merging like conjoined triplets as Mr. Mackelroy casts his ample shadow across us, one hand on his forehead like he’s just developed a headache, the other pointing his phone at us like a pistol. He hasn’t shaved in days. We all three stand, backs pressed up against the car now.
    â€œWhat are you boys doing here? Why aren’t you in class? It’s almost eight o’clock.”
    Mr. Mackelroy’s eyes are bloodshot. The corner of his mouth twitches. We need an excuse and we need one fast. I fumble for something, maybe a lie about carpooling, and my mother’s van running out of gas, and us having to walk the rest of the way. Trouble with that is that Mr. Mack would insist on walking to school with us. Then I would still have to knock him unconscious with something before we got there. On my left, Steve is muttering under his breath. A prayer, probably. Mr. Mackelroy looks like he’s trying to develop laser vision so that he can just incinerate us with his eyes, he’s staring so hard. Thinking that there is no other recourse, I’m about to just make a run for it when Brand steps forward.
    â€œWhy aren’t you in