Bixby’s Last Day Brand YOU CAN PICK YOUR FRIENDS, AND YOU CAN pick your nose, but you can’t pick your friend’s nose. That’s something my dad told me. Turns out . . . not entirely true. I mean, the middle part is obviously true. But the last part isn’t true at all. Steve once had a booger, just, you know, kind of stuck there, on the rim, all crusty and stuff. It was reading time, and everybody was planted in their books, but I couldn’t concentrate. I just kept staring across the table at that booger. And I whispered to him, told him about it, like, Dude, you’ve got a little something, right . . . there . . . on the end. And he brushed his finger across his nose, or gave it a little flick, but it was, like, glued there. And he didn’t seem to care. He sniffed and shrugged and went back to his book. And I went back to my book. But every other word I’d look up and see it there. Greenish gray, and rock solid, like snot lava that had erupted and then hardened over time. And I whispered and hissed and pointed, and he brushed and blew and shrugged, and it stayed.
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