Ms. Bixby's Last Day Read Online Free PDF Page B

both of our houses tons of times in the past year (mostly mine—we aren’t allowed to run on Steve’s carpet because we might mess up the vacuum lines, so we don’t go there much, and my parents are usually too busy to care what we’re up to). Brand says he can’t invite us over because his father doesn’t like guests. It seems like every group of friends has one kid whose house you never go to. Plus I’ve heard a few things about Mr. Walker. I know about the accident and everything. I guess I’m not in any hurry to get an invite.
    â€œIf he’s not here in the next five minutes, we should give up,” Steve says, looking at me nervously.
    â€œWhat, you mean abort the mission and go to school ?”
    Agent Sakata shrugs.
    I peer out from the hedge, spreading the branches carefully—it wouldn’t pay to get stuck by a thorn and bleed out here on the school lawn before this operation even got underway. It’sbusiness as usual out on the Ridge. The convoy is dropping off load after load: platoons of half-dead zombies marching in line, filing through the blue double doors in a shuffle step. I see lots of faces I recognize, but not the one I’m looking for. Special Agent Walker is MIA.
    â€œI told you this wasn’t a good idea,” Steve says.
    I give him a dirty look, but he’s probably right. This mission is already fritzled. That’s a Brand word, but we all use it. It’s one of the words we use so we don’t get in trouble for using other words. If something is really fritzled we say it’s gefragt , which Steve says is just the German word for “asked,” but it certainly sounds like something that is screwed up beyond repair. We aren’t all the way to gefragt yet, but if Brand doesn’t show up soon, we will be.
    It wasn’t supposed to go down like this. We had a plan. The plan was for Saturday. The plan was to lie to our parents and say we were all meeting each other at the park to play Frisbee. The plan was not to skip school. Of course, that was before we intercepted a key bit of intel between two high-ranking officials. Intel that called for a revised plan.
    â€œI think I might vomit,” Steve says, holding his stomach, though I know it’s just for dramatic effect. I’ve only seen him blow chunks once, and that was coming off the Whiparound at the state fair.
    â€œPull it together, Agent.” I slap him on the back and use my tough-guy voice, even though I feel the same. Neither of us has ever skipped before. It’s against regulations. We could be court-martialed. Thrown in the brig. Taken before the principal. If found guilty, we might even be executed. At least, Steve might. His parents are pretty strict. Like marine-drill-seargeant-meets-Catholic-nun strict. I don’t want to think about what would happen if they catch him skipping school.
    â€œThere’s still time,” he says shakily. “The buses are still unloading. We can make it before the tardy bell and just forget the whole thing.”
    I grimace and shove my last handful of raisins in my mouth, chewing them determinedly and thinking I probably should have rationed them, just in case we get stranded deep in enemy territory or something.
    â€œBesides, we can’t go without Brand. He’s bringing the blanket,” Steve adds.
    It’s true: Agent Walker has the blanket. Our load-outs were issued the night before. Brand was in charge of the blanket. I would bring the map, the directions, and the paper plates. Agent Sakata had the music. We would all contribute the funds necessary to complete the rest of the mission, which explains the big bag of change weighing down my backpack. Most of the stuffwe really needed, we still had to acquire on the way. That was the plan.
    â€œWe can do without the blanket,” I say. The blanket wasn’t a necessity. We could sit on the grass if we needed to.
    Agent Walker was the