The Year of Billy Miller (12 page)

The month of May had been so hot and dry, Billy wondered if the whole town would shrivel up. The blistering day he came home from school with his problem, Sal was sitting in the shade on the front porch holding a bag of frozen blueberries against her skin to keep cool. Billy could tell that she’d also been eating the blueberries because her fingers and face were stained purple.

“Papa’s inside,” said Sal. “By the conditioning.”

“
Air
-conditioning,” Billy corrected.

There was no air-conditioning at school, and being in Room 2 was like spending time in an oven. Billy’s clothes had been sticking to his chair all afternoon, making it hard to concentrate on anything but his own discomfort. Ms. Silver kept the windows and door open and she had a big fan running continuously, but it didn’t help much.

“The Drop Sisters are inside, too,” said Sal. She pressed the sweaty bag to her cheek and then her leg. “Papa put the girls away until I’m done with the blueberries. So I don’t get them dirty.”

Billy stepped past Sal and opened the front door. The cool air was a great relief. “Hi, Dad,” he called as he dropped onto the couch and lay down. “Ahh,” he murmured. He felt so comfortable he forgot about his problem until Papa entered the room and asked, “How was your day?”

Billy sat up. “I have a little problem.”

“I’m glad it’s little,” said Papa. “What is it?”

Billy didn’t know where to start. He realized that often the beginning of a problem goes back, and back further, to something that doesn’t seem like a problem at all. He could feel Papa watching him, waiting.

“Well?” said Papa.

“Well, this year Ms. Silver wants to do a show for the end of the year. But not a play like
The Three Billy Goats Gruff
or
The Emperor’s New Clothes
, because she’s done that before.”

Papa nodded.

“She wants to do something original. With poetry.” Billy didn’t particularly like poetry, except funny poetry, but that wasn’t the problem. “Everyone has to write a poem about someone in their family. Ms. Silver said the show would be called
Family
or
Room 2 Families
or something like that.”

“Sounds nice.”

“The poem can be about a parent or a brother or a sister or a grandma or an uncle or someone who helps your family like a good friend, because all families are different.” Billy took a breath. “Then when we have the show, we have to say our poem on the stage with a microphone and you can memorize it if you want to.”

“Is that the problem?” asked Papa. “Memorizing?”

“No,” said Billy. “The problem is that we’re supposed to write about
one
person, and that
one
person can be with us on the stage. But only one. So I have to choose. . . .”

“Ah,” said Papa. “I get it.”

“I have to pick you or Mom or Sal.”

Papa pursed his lips. He glanced out the window at Sal, then he turned his head back toward Billy. “I don’t think having Sal up on a stage with a microphone would be a good idea,” said Papa. “She might do something—unexpected.” Papa blinked. “I think you should limit your choice to Mama or me.”

“Is that okay?” asked Billy. It seemed that excluding Sal was like lying somehow. And it felt strange to have Papa suggest it.

“Yes,” said Papa. “I think it’s okay.”

Billy’s problem was smaller now, but he still had a problem. He still had to choose between Mama and Papa. He didn’t want either one to feel bad.

Papa seemed to have a window into Billy’s thoughts. “If you pick Mama, that’s fine with me. And if you pick me, it will be fine with Mama. Remember that.”

“Member what?” asked Sal, who’d just popped up behind Papa like a Whac-A-Mole at the county fair.

Papa turned. “Remember not to touch anything until you wash your blueberry hands. And don’t you dare kiss me with those blueberry lips.” He snatched up Sal and hauled her off to the kitchen, her giggles trailing behind them.

Billy sat alone, considering the choice he had to make. He sucked the web of skin between his thumb and pointer finger, his hand falling across his chin like a beard.

Mama was so hot when she came home from work that all she wanted to do was take a cool shower. Then she made lemonade with Sal. By the time Mama called him for dinner, Billy hadn’t found the right moment to tell her much about the show, except that there was going to be one.

But, he had made his decision. He’d decided that he would choose her. Mama. She would be the one he would write a poem about. She would be the one he would share the stage with.

It would be easier to write a poem about a boy (Papa), but Billy thought the whole thing would make Mama happier. She even taught poetry. Also, Papa volunteered at Billy’s school sometimes and went on field trips, and Mama never could because she was teaching. This would be a way to make up for that.

Billy still felt uncomfortable about choosing one over the other, so he’d come up with a plan so that Papa wouldn’t know he’d made a deliberate choice. His plan was to have Mama and Papa each pick a number from one to ten. Instead of having a particular number in mind and writing it down, he’d wait for Mama and Papa to say their numbers, and then, no matter what number Mama chose, he would declare it the winner.

It wouldn’t be fair, but that way Papa wouldn’t have his feelings hurt. It was sort of the same thing as excluding Sal from the show without her knowing it. And Papa had said that that was okay.

During dinner, Mama asked question after question about the show. Billy explained everything, including how either she or Papa would be onstage with him.

“It sounds wonderful,” Mama said. “Although I’d love a play with cute animals. You’d be adorable with whiskers, little furry ears, and a pink nose.”

Billy scrunched up his face. “No way.”

“Can I go?” asked Sal.

“Of course,” said Papa.

“There’ll be refreshments, too,” Billy told them.

Then Billy said to Mama and Papa, “Now, Mom, Dad, pick a number. From one to ten. The person who’s closest wins. I’ll write a poem about you.”

“Five,” said Mama, without hesitating.

“Six,” said Papa.

“Five was the
exact
number,” said Billy, trying to be as natural as possible, trying to convince himself that five would have been the number he would have selected. His ears were burning, and he worried that they were turning red. His cheeks, too. He formed a fish mouth and looked around the room because he couldn’t make direct eye contact with anyone.

“Hooray for me,” said Mama. She blew Billy a kiss across the table.

Papa smiled as if
he’d
won.

“Hooray for Mama!” said Sal. She threw out her arms cheerfully and accidentally knocked her plate to the floor.

Nothing broke, but applesauce, buttered noodles, and steamed carrots were everywhere. And, so, much to Billy’s relief, everyone’s attention shifted to the mess and to cleaning up.

Billy sighed. He realized that as soon as one problem is solved, something else is right there, waiting to take up your time. He’d solved the problem of who to choose. But, now, of course, he had a poem to write.

2

Because of the upcoming show, Ms. Silver was spending a lot of time on poetry. She read several poems a day—all different kinds. No matter how hot it was, she turned off the big fan when she read so that everyone could hear her.

Billy knew he liked funny poems. Poems about underwear or pranks or food fights. He discovered that he also liked poems about aliens and volcanoes. He liked some of the animal poems Ms. Silver read, especially one that was about a bat. Billy thought that a funny bat poem that included a food fight and a volcano would be the best poem ever.

Ms. Silver gave everyone in Room 2 a new notebook. “These are your poetry journals,” she told them. “We’ll use them to write our poems for our show. Then you can keep them to use over the summer. For writing or drawing or whatever you want. But, I hope you’ll continue to think about poetry even when school is done for the year.”

Writing a poem about Mama would not be easy to do. Ms. Silver said that the poems
could
be funny, but that they had to be appropriate. She said to think of the poems as a nice way to honor a special person. Billy wanted to make sure that whatever he wrote pleased Mama. But he also wanted to make sure that whatever he wrote wouldn’t embarrass him when he read it in front of a roomful of people including adults and his classmates.

Billy liked the rhythm and rhyming of limericks, but he thought it would be easier to write a haiku about Mama, or an acrostic. Or, he could write what Ms. Silver called free verse, which seemed to Billy to be ordinary writing just broken up into lines that were shorter than normal.

Billy did want to keep the poem short in case he tried to memorize it. Short was also good because that would mean fewer words he might not be able to spell.

Ms. Silver’s plan was that the students would work on their poems for a little while each day during writing time. Ms. Silver would walk around the room, checking the poems and helping with spelling. If she thought a poem was ready for the show, she’d draw a smiley face on the top corner of the page. She hoped that by the middle of the next week, everyone would have a poem all set to go.