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

says.
    â€œSo you know how we can get it?” Topher nudges.
    â€œThat depends,” Eduardo says. “Do you want it whole or by the slice?”
    Topher looks to me. Probably he senses a story problem coming on, and I’m the math genius among us. “How much?” I ask, thinking of the original plan, which was to get a whole cake and split it among the four of us, but then thinking about how much money we have between us.
    Without even batting a lash, the man behind the counter says, “Seven ninety-nine for the slice. Fifty-four ninety for the whole enchilada.” The word enchilada strikes me as funny for some reason and I almost laugh, but Topher is not at all amused. You can tell by the way his eyebrows jump into his bangs.
    â€œFifty-five dollars ?”
    The baker with the curly mustache shrugs. “At Eduardo’s you could probably get it for forty. But this is Michelle’s, so it’s fifty-five.” He gives us a wry smile, and I count two silver teeth. Topher looks physically pained.
    â€œI thought you said it would be three bucks,” he whispers at me.
    â€œI said it had three dollar signs in the review online. That means it’s expensive,” I explain. Behind us, Brand is still standing at the freezer, staring at his reflection in the frosted glass. Topher throws his hands up.
    â€œForget it,” he says. “No way. No cake is worth fifty bucks.”
    I nod in agreement. It does seem like a lot for creamy cheese and sugar. Eduardo leans over the counter and clears his throat. His cheeks are pocked. I can see now that his mostly coal-colored hair is shifting to gray by his ears. He beckons us closer with one finger and Topher and I lean in.
    â€œExcuse me, mijo , but have you ever tried Michelle’s white-chocolate raspberry supreme cheesecake?” He’s speaking to both of us, but it seems as if he’s looking right at me. His eyes are spooky. They are brown, but so dark that it looks like he just has two giant pupils. I shake my head.
    â€œ ¿Crees en Dios? ” Eduardo asks.
    â€œI don’t speak Spanish,” Topher says.
    â€œI can only count to twenty,” I say, though I’m pretty fluentin Japanese and I know a few Russian curses that Topher and I learned off the Internet. But I’m guessing Eduardo is not going to call me a glupo mudak .
    â€œAre you a religious person?” Eduardo translates.
    I’m not sure what that has to do with anything, but Topher is looking at me like I’m supposed to answer. His parents are atheists. I take communion, at least, so I nod.
    â€œAnd have you ever been to heaven?”
    Obviously another trick question, but I don’t have a trick answer, so I don’t even bother. Eduardo points his finger at us in triumph. “That’s because you’ve never tried my white-chocolate raspberry supreme cheesecake.” Then he slaps his hands on the counter with a tremendous thump, and my knees knock instinctively. “Trust me, amigos, eight dollars a slice is a bargain. Heaven should be so cheap.”
    â€œFine,” Topher groans. “We’ll take two slices.” I’m not sure what kind of math he’s doing. I’m guessing he thinks we will split each of them in half, though if it comes to sharing with Brand or even Ms. Bixby, I will probably pass. I’m not comfortable sharing my food with just anyone. Topher asks me for money, and I fish for the ten that I brought. He digs in the front pocket of his backpack and pulls out a paper clip holding a ten and two fives. He adds the fives to mine and slaps the cash on the counter. He keeps the other ten in reserve. “Two slices,” he repeats.
    Eduardo is about to take the money when Brand’s voice stops him.
    â€œWe’re getting the whole cake.”
    I turn to see him standing right behind us. He has his wallet out. I didn’t know he owned a wallet. I don’t own a