Beans on the Roof

“Mama!”

George ran into the kitchen. “Mama!”

“Please don’t shout, George,” Mrs. Bean said.

“I have to shout! You have to hear this! Anna is on the roof! I saw her from Frankie’s window!”

“I know Anna is on the roof,” Mrs. Bean said.

“But you told us never to play on the roof. You said we’d bother Mr. Brown’s rabbits. You said we’d run into the clotheslines and dirty the clothes.”

“Anna is not playing, George,” Mrs. Bean said. “Anna is sitting.”

“Oh.”

George stopped. Then he said quickly, “I’m going up there and sit too.”

George had wanted to play on the roof since the day they moved into the apartment.

“No, George,” Mrs. Bean said.

George put his hands on his hips.

“Why not?” he said. “That’s not fair. Anna gets to do everything. She gets to stay up late. She gets to ride the bus. Now she gets to sit on the roof. It’s not fair!”

“George, will you be quiet and listen? Anna is on the roof because it is the only place she can write her poem.”

George’s mouth fell open.

“Anna is writing a poem?”

“That’s right, George.”

“I didn’t know Anna knew how to write a poem.”

“Yes, Anna is writing a poem. If the poem is good, it will be in a book at her school.”

“A real book?”

“Yes, Anna will be the first Bean to be in a book. I want everybody to leave her alone.”

George thought fast. He said, “Can I go up on the roof if I write a poem?”

“No.”

“Why not, Mama? That’s really not fair.”

“If you want to write a poem, George, you can do it at the table.”

George groaned.

“Here is a piece of paper, George. Here is a pencil.”

George said, “Why does Anna get to write on the roof and I have to write at the table?”

“Anna’s poem is a roof poem. Yours is not.”

George sat down at the table. He thought.
He twirled his pencil. He bit it. He admired his teeth prints in the wood. He thought some more.

Finally he sighed. “I can’t write a poem at the table. I’m sorry. I just can’t. I have to be on the roof, like Anna.”

Mrs. Bean gave in.

“All right,” she said. “You may go up on the roof and write one poem. But you must not bother Anna.”

“I won’t.”

“I mean it. Anna is the first Bean to be in a book.”

“I won’t bother her,” George said.

He crossed his heart.

“And thank you very much, Mama.”

George ran out of the apartment. He ran up the steps. He pushed open the door and stepped onto the roof.

Clean clothes snapped in the wind. Pigeons
cooed in their cages. Rabbits hopped in theirs.

George took a deep breath of good roof air.

This was the place to write a poem. And George was going to write the best poem in the whole world.

George sat down.

He said softly, “Hello, Anna.”

Anna did not answer. She was looking across the rooftops. George said, “Mama said I could come up and write a poem too.”

Anna did not answer.

George said, “I can write a poem if I don’t bother you. And I won’t bother you, Anna. I promise.”

Anna closed her eyes.

“I won’t bother you, no matter what.”

George watched Anna. Then he closed his eyes too.

It worked. He finished his poem at once.

“I am going to write my poem down,” he
said. “That way I will always have it. I will never, ever forget it.”

George bent over his paper.

“You ought to write yours down too, Anna. That way you will always have it. You will never, ever forget it.”

George printed his poem on the paper. He was glad he could spell all the words. He did not have to bother Anna at all.

This was George’s poem:

Then he wrote:

   A poem by George (String) Bean.

   The kids at school called George String Bean. They called his sister Jenny Jelly Bean. They called Anna Anna.

George was very happy with his poem. He read it three times to himself.

“Want to hear my poem?” George asked.

Anna was looking across the rooftops.

“It’s not a long poem, Anna, and it’s a funny poem. It will make you laugh.”

George laughed thinking about it.

“Do you want to hear it, Anna—yes or no?”

Anna didn’t answer.

Finally George got tired of waiting. He said, “Well, here goes, ready or not.”

He held up his paper. He began to read:

“Mama,” Anna yelled, “String’s bothering me.”

Mrs, Bean stuck her head out the window. “Now, Anna,” she called, “you know I
don’t like you to call your brother String. His name is George.”

Anna said, “All right, George is bothering me, Mama.”

“That’s better.”

“I can’t write a poem with George reciting his junk.”

George jumped up.

“Mama, it is not junk! It is a poem! It rhymes.”

“It may rhyme,” Anna said, “and it may be a poem. However, it is not a poem that has to be written on the roof. You could write a poem like that anywhere.”

“I could not! I tried to write it at the table. Mama saw me. I tried and I could not write one word.”

“I will show you a roof poem,” Anna said. “This is a roof poem.”

Mrs. Bean called, “Anna, if you’re going
to say your poem, please say it real loud. I want to hear it.”

“I will, Mama.”

Anna stood up. She held her head high. She said her poem good and loud: