Ms. Bixby's Last Day

TO ALL THE MS. BIXBYS.

And everyone else who sees

it through, no matter what.

“There is a long road yet,” said Gandalf.

“But it is the last road,” said Bilbo.

—J.R.R. Tolkien,
The Hobbit

REBECCA ROUDABUSH HAS COOTIES.

I'm not making this up. We've run tests. She came up positive on the cootometer, all red, off the charts. Steve and Brand and I are in full quarantine mode. Steve has his ski gloves on to minimize exposure even though it's seventy degrees outside; he looks like Darth Vader from the elbow down. He says this is the sixth case of cooties in room 213 already this year. I don't ever doubt him. Of course, Rebecca insists she's clean, tells us that there is no such thing as cooties.

They all say that. They stick their tongues out at us and call us morons, but we know better. Rebecca's in denial. She needs a support group. We tell her we can give her the names of several kids who have been through this already.

“You guys are so idiotic,” she says.

“We're not the ones who got saddled with a case of the coods.”

That's Brand. He likes to make up words or abbreviate them or change them somehow, mashing them together to make new ones. He made up the word
tunk
, which means to bomb a test so bad it's funny, like tanking and flunking all at once. And
flipwad
, which is what we call the older kids who give us a hard time or anyone else we don't like, which isn't a lot of people, though we do have a typed-up list.

“So I have cooties, then?”

“The numbers don't lie,” I tell her. “We ran several tests. You came up positive on all of them.”

I show her the printout. Actually, it's not a printout, it's a piece of scrap paper that we dug out of recycling and scrawled a bunch of random numbers on in red marker. But it's got her name at the top, and on the bottom in big bleeding letters it says
POSITIVE
. There's also a drawing of a dinosaur I made in the margin, but I cover that with my hand. Not because I'm embarrassed. Just because it's not relevant.

“So that stupid scrap of paper means I'm contagious?”

“Highly,” says Steve, Vader arms crossed in front of him.

“And these cooties . . . they're, what, fatal?”

Rebecca has been in school for over half her life. You would think this would be common knowledge. “Only to some,” I say.
“There are some who can carry the infection for years and never present symptoms. But awesome people are highly susceptible.”

Rebecca nods way too thoughtfully for someone with a debilitating imaginary disease. I've known her since second grade and I can tell she's planning something. She's all narrow eyes and tapping feet. My mom once said she thought Rebecca was cute. That was the last time I ever talked to my mother about girls.

“And they are transmitted how, exactly?” Rebecca asks.

“Physical contact, primarily,” Steve says, looking at his shoes, which is what he does when he's about to tell you a bunch of stuff you don't know and probably never cared to. “The cootie virus is transmitted by touch, though it's even more highly concentrated in saliva. Just one milliliter of spit from someone with the virus is enough to infect the entire population of New York City—roughly eight point four million people.”

I don't know if that's true or not, but I nod along. Steve is full of facts and figures. Sometimes I write down the things he says and Google them when I get home—things like the fact that hornets can sting multiple times because they have smooth stingers, and that the number one cause of death in Guatemala is the flu. He's never wrong about stuff like that. After so many years of best-friendship, I've pretty much learned to stop doubting him. Steve pushes his glasses up, all scholarly-scientist-like. It's not part of the act. He really has trouble keeping them in place.

Rebecca stares at each of us in turn, contemplating her next move.

“Saliva, huh?”

“Yup,” says Brand.

“Okay . . . then it would be really horrible if I did
this
.”

Rebecca Roudabush licks her hand, tongue pressed flat against her palm from wrist to fingertips. Then, before any of us can react, she rubs that same cootie-infested hand all over Steve's face.

This is exactly how epidemics start.

Steve screams, burying his face into his own oversize mitts, smearing Rebecca's infection around and making it worse. Brand tries to pull him away, but Rebecca's too quick. She reaches out and grabs Brand by the arm, pushing his sleeve back and planting a zerbert right below his elbow, just like when we have fart-sound contests before school.
Flrrrrbbbbttt.
He instantly buckles at the knees, just staring at the ring of Rebecca's wet, cootie-infested spit in horror. Steve is floundering, wiping his face with his shirt, as if that will help. As if he isn't a dead man already.

Rebecca turns to me. “You're next, Christopher,” she says, using my full name like a four-letter word. I look at Steve and Brand convulsing on the ground, faces scrunched in disgust. There's a code, I know. Unspoken rules about not leaving your comrades behind when they're paralyzed in the mulch, victims
of a biological terrorist with a wavy red ponytail. But Rebecca is malicious. Plus she has freckles, which I take as a sign that her particular cooties are somehow advanced in nature. Incurable. There is nothing I can do for my friends now.

So I run.

With Rebecca trailing, I take off across the playground, dodging in and around the swings and beneath the monkey bars, RR right on my tail, determined to tackle me, pin me to the ground, and probably cough all over my face—or something even worse. But she won't catch me. I'm Usain Bolt. I am Cheetah Boy. Faster than a lightning strike. Mulch chips burst into flames at my heels. Yet somehow, she is gaining on me. I make a full circuit of the playground and find Brand and Steve standing again, miraculously cured, or perhaps just incubating, ready to collapse to their deaths at any moment. They see me coming, trailing Rebecca behind me, and take off as well, all three of us charging blindly through the middle of a pickup kickball game. Turning a sharp corner around the redbrick facade of the school.

And running straight into Ms. Bixby.

There are six kinds of teachers in the world. I know because we classified them once during indoor recess. First you have your Zombies: those are the ones who have been doing it for a few centuries, since Roosevelt was president—the first Roosevelt,
with the broomy mustache from those museum movies. The Zombs speak in a mumbled monotone and come equipped with an armory of worksheets all designed to suck any fun out of the learning process, which doesn't take long, considering how little fun comes included at the start. They may not eat your brains, but the Zombies won't do much to nurture them either.

Then there are the Caff-Adds. Brand calls them Zuzzers. You can spot them by their jittery hands and bloodshot eyes and the insulated NPR travel mugs they carry around with them. Unlike the Zombs, the Caff-Adds are like little bouncy balls, but you can't really stand to listen to them either because they talk so fast,
zuzzuzzuzz
, like sticking your head in a beehive. Unfortunately, our Spanish teacher is one of those, so not only can't I understand her, but even if I could, I couldn't.

Then you have your Dungeon Masters. The red-pass-wielding ogres who wish paddling was still allowed in schools. The kind who insist on no talking, whether it's reading time, work time, sharing time, lunchtime, after school, before school, the weekend, whatever. You are supposed to just sit still and shut up. Mr. Mattison, the art teacher, is one of those. We draw in absolute silence during art. Graveyard quiet, which is actually fine by me, because it's the one specials class worth concentrating in, though while I'm there I mostly draw pictures of Mr. Matt carrying a club and picking the meat off the bones
of the latest student to whisper a word.

Then you've got your Spielbergs. They're not nearly as cool as Steven Spielberg. We just call them that because they show movies all the time. Some of them are Zombie Spielbergs. Mrs. Gredenza falls into this category. She once showed us a film on the life cycle of fruit flies that was pretty gross but also didn't make much sense, seeing as how she was supposed to be teaching us geometry. At least with Spielbergs you often get a chance to doodle or nap or text—that is, if one of the Dungeon Masters hasn't captured your phone yet and fed it to his goblins.

My personal favorites are the Noobs. The overachievers. Fresh picked from the teacher farm. With their bright eyes and their colorful posters recently purchased from a catalog and the way they clap like circus seals when you get the right answer. They don't stay Noobs for long. They get burned out pretty quick. A year. Maybe two. I don't think it's the students' fault, though. I blame the system.

The last kind we simply call the Good Ones. The ones who make the torture otherwise known as school somewhat bearable. You know when you have one of the Good One because you find yourself actually paying attention in class, even if it's not art class. They're the teachers you actually want to go back and say hi to the next year. The ones you don't want to disappoint.

Like Ms. B.

I remember the first time I met Ms. Bixby. It
wasn't day one of class or even Meet the Teacher Night. It was actually three years ago. At the circus.

We were in the concession area, my parents and my little sister and me, buying six-dollar snow cones and swirly suckers. My parents are firm believers in “maximizing invested family time,” meaning that on the few occasions we all go somewhere together, they bribe my sister and me with sweets so we won't whine. It usually works.

The circus was the latest monthly-mandated-whole-family-outing, and we were making the most of it, turning our tongues blue and taking in the preshow show—mostly clowns flopping around in giant red galoshes and mongo honkable schnozzes. We stopped in front of a juggler, a woman with short blond hair streaked with pink, dressed in a tuxedo, expertly weaving three bowling pins in the air. Her cheeks were blushed red, one painted lip tucked under the other in concentration. Then she saw my mother and stopped, stuck one pin under her arm. She looked familiar. “Linda?” she called.

“Maggie?” my mother squeaked. Hugs followed.

“You actually did it? You quit your job to join the circus?”

“Pays better than teaching,” said the juggler, and she and my mother laughed. The woman explained she was just an amateur,
but when the circus came in, they sometimes hired local talent to act as lobby entertainers. My father coughed and smiled politely.

“Saul, this is Maggie Bixby. She teaches at Fox Ridge,” my mother said. “Sixth grade, right?”

The teacher masquerading as a part-time circus performer nodded. “The last one before we ship them off.” She had bright-green eyes, the color of new grass.

“Sixth grade,” my father echoed. That at least explained where I had seen her before. Probably in the halls. Or making a mad dash for the parking lot when the last bell rang. She looked like a Noob, or maybe a Zuzzer with her wide eyes and cockeyed smile, though at the time we hadn't classified them yet.

“Linda is one of our best PTA members,” Maggie Bixby said, putting a hand on my mother's shoulder. “I don't know what I would do without those Friday-morning bagels.” Then she looked at me. “How are you, Christopher? You ready for the circus?”

I wasn't sure if she meant the actual circus or the next year of school, but I remember being impressed that she knew my name. It made me feel famous or something.

“It's just Topher,” I told her. “Nobody really calls me Christopher.” At least nobody I like.

“I'll remember that,” she said.

Then she put on a little show for the four of us, right there,
juggling five multicolored balls and then pulling a quarter from behind my sister's ear, which she was even allowed to keep. As we left to go see the real show, I asked her if she could teach me how to juggle.

She said to wait a couple of years.

She'd probably teach me something.

We topple into Ms. Bixby like dominoes, the three of us. We obviously startle her; she takes a step back, a hand over her heart like she's ready for the Pledge, and fixes us with a look that is disapproving, but not out-and-out angry, as if she isn't sure whether to lecture us or laugh at us.

“What are
you
doing?” With anyone else, she would have emphasized the
doing
. But with us it was always the
you
. As in, you three . . .
again?
Before I can answer, Rebecca turns the corner and runs into us, causing us to catapult forward, nearly bowling Ms. Bixby over again.

“Sorry,” Rebecca exclaims, breathless. “I was . . . we were . . .”

“Playing tag,” I say, turning and giving Rebecca an imploring look, begging her to go along. But she must still be infected: the coots have gone to her brain and made her too honest for her own good.

“You little liar!” she shouts back. “You said I was
diseased
! I was chasing you!”

“That's sort of like tag,” I mumble.

Ms. Bixby pins me with cat eyes. She has a way of asking you questions without speaking a word. I try to explain as calmly as possible.

“She tried to kiss me.”

“I absolutely did
not
!” Rebecca shouts.

“You sucked on my arm!” Brand seconds.

“I gave you a zerbert!”

“And licked my face!” Steve adds.

Now it's Ms. Bixby's turn to grimace. She looks at me for confirmation. “Technically she licked her hand and then
touched
his face, but by the transitive property of equality, it's pretty much the same thing.”

Ms. Bixby taught me the transitive property of equality this year. This is what teachers call “applied knowledge.” I secretly suspect Ms. Bixby is impressed, but she doesn't want to show it. She's good at hiding what she's really up to, I've noticed. She puts a grumpy face on instead.

“You said I had cooties!” Rebecca implores, stomping her feet.