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

cakes.”
    I nod. Then I look around. The bakery, at least, smells much better than the bus. Everything in here is white, except for Eduardo and me. There are rows of cupcakes in the glass display in front of us, each of them curlicued with thick whips of frosting. My mouth waters looking at them. At my house, the closest we get to dessert are chewable vitamins. My parents have a lot of rules.
    â€œSo you mean you, like, run the joint?” Brand asks the man behind the counter.
    â€œI own this bakery, yes.” Eduardo offers an impatient-looking smile. I get the sense this isn’t the first time he has explained this.
    â€œSo then why not just call the place Eduardo’s?” Topher asks. Sometimes, I think, my curiousity rubs off on him.
    The large man behind the counter sighs. His mustache actually curves up at the ends. I’m tempted to reach over and tug on it to see if it’s real or if it’s like the cardboard cakes in the window, but I don’t, because people don’t like it when you pull on their facial hair. I know this from experience.
    â€œLet me ask you something,” Eduardo begins, draping both large hands over the cash register in front of him. “And be honest. Would you rather buy a big, fancy, expensive cake from a place called Eduardo’s or from a place called Michelle’s?”
    I don’t actually see where it makes any difference so long as the big fancy cake tastes good, so I just shrug. Maybe it’s a trick question. Ms. Bixby would ask trick questions sometimes just to make sure we were paying attention. My favorite was: Before Mount Everest was discovered, what was the highest mountain in the world? Everyone in class got it wrong but me. Eduardo doesn’t wait for an answer. “Would you go to a Mexican restaurant named Michelle’s?” he prods.
    â€œI don’t eat Mexican food. The beans make me f—” I start to say, but Topher elbows me in the side, so I don’t finish the sentence. It doesn’t matter. Eduardo knows.
    â€œMe too,” he says, patting his stomach. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of. It’s what beans do. What people do. The natural order of things. It’s to be expected. We are creatures of habit. Most people, they prefer to buy their cakes from a place called Michelle’s. That’s just how it is.”
    I look at the sign for Michelle’s in the window and try to imagine it saying Eduardo’s instead. Maybe he’s right. I know exactly what Ms. Bixby would say if she were here, though. She’d say when you are content to be simply yourself, everyone will respect you. It’s something she borrowed from Lao Tzu. I know because I looked it up too. Lao Tzu wasn’t so wise, though. He was also the one who said that the journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step, not bothering to mention the five million more steps you have to take after that. I’ve done the math.
    I look back at Eduardo and consider telling him about Lao Tzu and suggest maybe he change the name of his bakery, but I’m guessing he probably wouldn’t take the advice of a twelve-year-old Japanese kid named Steve.
    â€œSo what can I do for you gentlemen?” Eduardo asks. Behind us Brand has wandered off already, looking at the enclosed glass cases, heading to the refrigerators on the other side. I fill in thegap he leaves behind, shuffling closer to Topher.
    â€œWe are looking for a cake,” Topher says, raising one eyebrow and using one of his make-believe voices. He’s done this as long as I’ve known him. I guess he’s pretending we are police detectives or something. Police detectives who hunt down suspicious desserts. “White-chocolate raspberry supreme cheesecake. Maybe you’ve heard of it?”
    Eduardo who owns Michelle’s nods appreciatively, stroking his mustache, playing along. “Yes. I know this cake you speak of,” he