Free Ms. Bixby's Last Day by John David Anderson

detail. On the other side is another row of shops, punctuated by half a dozen restaurants. One of them is a McDonald’s, but we aren’t ready for thatyet. We are going to the bakery three shops down, the first red circle on the map. That’s where we will find the first item on our list.
    This is all part of the plan. The plan that we cooked up on the playground and then had to change when we found out Ms. Bixby was going to Boston. The plan that had us meeting up outside the school and calling in sick. The plan that calls for us making our first stop here to purchase item number one and then boarding bus number 37 downtown. There we will pick up item number two, though I’m still not sure how we are supposed to pull that off. It’s illegal, for one. And probably expensive. Topher says he has an idea, but he won’t tell me what it is, which means it’s an especially bad one. Item number three on the list will be obtained last, because otherwise it will get soggy, which is why we don’t need the McDonald’s yet. After item three, we will walk the six remaining blocks to the hospital. Just like the three kings in the Christmas carol, Topher says. We break Ms. Bixby out of the hospital, take her to the park circled on the map—the one I looked up last night along with the bus schedule—and then . . .
    I’m really not sure what happens then. I just know I wasn’t about to let Topher go without me.
    â€œThere’s Michelle’s,” Brand says, pointing. I remember what he said last Monday under the monkey bars as we penned noteson his arm. Michelle’s is a must have; there can be no substitutes. Topher told him he sounded like a commercial, but he was right. Ms. Bixby mentioned Michelle’s by name.
    â€œCome on.” Topher gives me a tug and we run across the street, dodging potholes and cars. Brand leads the way, me in back, as the bus rumbles off, letting off one last odiferous cloud of exhaust.
    Michelle’s Bakery is a medium-sized stone building with tall glass windows filled with cakes. Most of them are probably plastic—either that, or cardboard pieces pasted together with thick, crusty icing, hard as limestone. My father told me once that all vanilla ice cream in photographs is actually mashed potatoes, because mashed potatoes don’t melt. One reason why the real thing is never as pretty as the picture.
    The sign for Michelle’s is also white with rolling green letters, all pressed close together. The blinking blue light says Catering Available . Another sign advertises Open Till 8 on Weekends . There is a poster for a missing cat named Princess Paw Paw. I’m not fond of cats. My family doesn’t own any pets, which is only odd because my sister is planning to become a veterinarian. I suspect she just wants to become a doctor but doesn’t want patients that can argue with her. We walk in and a bell on the door jangles.
    â€œHello. Welcome to Michelle’s,” says a man with an accentthat catches me off guard. I look around and spy him standing behind a counter, the only other person in the bakery besides us. The man is large—not overweight like Mr. Mackelroy, but large like a wrestler, thick muscled and bulky. He has dark, bronze skin and black hair. In keeping with my expectations, he at least has a mustache.
    â€œAre you Michelle?” I ask. I’m not trying to be rude. I’m just curious. He doesn’t look like a Michelle. Topher says that sometimes I say things that can easily come off the wrong way. I’m wondering if this is one of those times. Beside me Brand is already shaking his head.
    â€œNot Michelle,” the man says. “I’m Eduardo.”
    â€œEduardo,” I repeat. It’s another habit of mine, echoing people. I just want to make sure I heard right. He looks like an Eduardo.
    â€œMichelle’s just the name on the sign. I’m the guy who bakes the