Ms. Bixby's Last Day by John David Anderson

Author:John David Anderson
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2016-04-18T04:00:00+00:00

Topher

GEORGE NELSON IS GONE. AND ALL OF OUR CASH with him.

Guess I’m probably not the first person in history to say that.

We are out the door in seconds, the bottles of wine set totteringly back on their shelf. Behind me I can hear the guy from What Ales You yelling at us—words that Brand would have to make up safer ones to replace—but we don’t stick around to hear the whole thing. Something about us never stepping foot in his store again, I think. And a word about our mothers.

Outside now. Look left. Right. Scan the area. Blue shirt. Torn jeans. Black hair. There. On the corner. The thief looks back at us, then takes off down the street, moving fast.

“There he is! After him!”

I’ve always wanted to say that.

Brand is first, me right behind, Steve bringing up the rear, saying something about a backpack and bouncing and heavy, but I just yell for him to keep up. George Nelson is getting away. I catch up to Brand and huff out the play-by-play.

“Suspect is a Caucasian male. Five nine. One hundred eighty pounds. Fleeing on foot. Last seen at the intersection of whatever street we are running down and whatever street we are about to turn onto.” I wait for Brand to contribute something, ask if he’s armed and dangerous maybe, if we should proceed with caution, but instead he just adds that the suspect is a freaking jerk. He’s so angry he can’t even come up with his own word.

We tear around the corner like zombies are chasing us, though the only one behind us is Steve, who already seems on the verge of collapse. Up ahead, George Nelson runs into the street, chancing another glance behind him as he launches himself into the intersection. A car screeches to a halt, tires peeling, and George slams into it, catching the bumper with his knee. He spins once but keeps on running, causing more screeching and honking. The driver of the car that nearly flattened him rolls down his window and starts cursing as Brand and I catapult ourselves into the street. You don’t look both ways when you’re chasing the bad guy.

Brand circles around the car that nearly ran over the thief, but on an impulse I put both hands on the hood and more or less vault over the front of it. It’s not the same as jumping on the thing and leaping from the top of one car to the next, which is what I want to do, but it’s as close as I’m going to get. The guy in the car yells something about my mother, too, and lays on his horn. As we make it to the sidewalk I glance behind me to see Steve on the pavement at the edge of the intersection, leaning against a mailbox, waving us on.

“You guys . . . go on . . . without me,” he yells. Then he collapses, legs pretzled beneath him.

“Man down!” I say, but Brand doesn’t stop.

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