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

class?” he says. I turn and stare at him.I’ve never heard him talk back to a teacher like that before. Other kids, yes, but not Brand. He barely talks when you call on him.
    â€œ Excuse me?” Mr. Mackelroy growls.
    Steve groans. That’s it. It’s over. Mr. Mack will drag us back to school by our earlobes. We will be marked as tardy. Worse still, we will have to call our parents and explain that we were caught trying to skip school. Likely there will be detention. Two hours in the brig. No snacks. No phones. No drawing. Just torturous silence and evil teacher eyes burrowing into you.
    â€œWhat did you just say to me?” Mr. Mack points at Brand with one finger. He has yellow fingernails. Pretty gross.
    â€œIt’s okay. I get it,” Brand continues. “It must be hard to go work for Principal McNasty every day.”
    Mr. Mack’s face blooms bright red; his jaw drops like a drawbridge with a busted hinge.
    â€œThat witch really has it out for you, huh?” Brand presses.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œCan’t blame her with all that childhood brain trauma. I didn’t know she was dropped on her head as a baby. Or were you just making that part up?”
    â€œI never said—” Mr. Mack stumbles.
    â€œNo, it’s all right. I understand,” Brand continues. “She’s your boss. You’re allowed to say terrible things about her behind her back. But if she really has it out for you, you probably shouldn’tbe late again either. What will this be, the fourth time? The fifth? And it’s already what time again?”
    Brand points to Mr. Mack’s watch—he actually still wears a watch. Nobody wears watches anymore. Mr. Mackelroy glances at it.
    â€œOh crap,” he mutters, glances at it again, just to be sure, then turns and starts running in the direction of the school, briefcase flapping at his side, looking like a bird with one wing broken. He slows once, looking back at us as if trying to figure out what to do, how best to punish us. Then he gives up and keeps running, across the street, past the baseball diamond, toward the school parking lot.
    I can’t help it. I have to laugh. Part relief, part amazement, part just watching Mr. Mack trying to run. You can almost hear the echo of his wheezing in the breeze. I give Brand a high five. “Did you see the look on his face?”
    He’s smiling smugly. Steve looks less enthused. His whole body is shaking. “We are going to pay for that later,” he says.
    â€œYeah. Well. Lucky for us, Mr. Mack isn’t our teacher,” I say.
    Our teacher’s sitting in a hospital bed, probably reading twenty-plus construction-paper cards from her students, completely unaware of what three of them are up to.
    â€œAnd Big Mack’s probably opened his big mouth wide enough for one day,” Brand adds. He grabs his pack and headsoff in the direction of the bus stop again. “Aren’t you guys coming?” he asks.
    He takes the lead, but it’s all right. He earned it.
    â€œNow what?” Steve asks, still watching Mr. Mack in the distance, waddling across the empty bus lanes toward school.
    â€œWe stick to the plan,” I say.
    â€œYeah, but—”
    â€œBut what? Today isn’t about Mr. Mack. What we’re doing is more important. Plus now at least we have a new name for Principal McNair.”
    I smile at him and he returns my smile at half strength. He’s not convinced, but I know he’s not going to back out now, not to go on his own. I turn and follow Brand, and after three seconds Steve jogs to catch up. “Still wasn’t smart,” he huffs from behind.
    Yeah, but don’t you ever get tired of being smart all the time? I want to ask him, but I don’t, because I know the answer. I’ve known Steve for longer than I haven’t, and unlike Brand, almost nothing he does surprises me.

Steve
    CHANGE IS THE ONLY