The Year of Billy Miller (13 page)

“Remember that all good writers are
re
writers,” Ms. Silver said. “Fine writing takes good, hard work.”

Billy had trouble getting started. He opened his poetry journal to the first page and wrote:
My Mom
. He couldn’t think of anything else to write, so he drew a series of volcanoes in progressive stages of exploding.

There was still enough space in the margin on the left-hand side of the paper to write the word
MOM
vertically, so Billy decided that he would try an acrostic. In a burst of inspiration he wrote:

M
y

O
nly

M
other

Poetry’s not too bad, he thought. He could definitely memorize this poem. He returned to drawing volcanoes.

Suddenly, Billy felt a shadow fall upon him, as if a cloud had appeared out of nowhere blocking the sun. He looked up. It was Ms. Silver. Today her chopsticks were yellow.

“I’m done,” said Billy.

“Already?” said Ms. Silver. “You’re a fast worker.”

Billy nodded.

“Who are you writing about?”

Billy moved his hand so she could read what he’d written.

Ms. Silver smiled broadly. “Good choice.”

“Can I write about my dog?” Ned interrupted.

“Remember, no pets,” replied Ms. Silver.

“Even if it has a human name?” asked Ned. “His name’s Bob.”

Ms. Silver tightened her lips and shook her head at Ned. Then she crouched down beside Billy so that they were at the same level.

“Do I get a smiley face?” asked Billy. He could tell by her expression that he probably wouldn’t.

“Maybe you could tell me more about your mom. What does she like? What makes her special?”

“Well,” said Billy. “She
is
my only mom, so I thought
that
made her special.” He fumbled with his pencil. “Grace has
two
moms, and some moms, somewhere, must be dead, so that person wouldn’t have
any
mom.”

“That’s true,” said Ms. Silver. “Hmm.” She coiled a loose strand of hair around one of her chopsticks. “Would you try writing a haiku for me? See what you can come up with.” She moved on to help Ned.

Billy glanced at the posters on the bulletin board that showed the rules for writing different kinds of poems. He remembered that a haiku had three lines. The first and third lines each had five syllables and the middle line had seven. He turned to a new page in his notebook. He was still thinking about volcanoes, so he wrote:

Mom likes volcanos

They are hot and they explode

Please do not fall in

He was counting on his fingers, making sure he’d used the correct number of syllables, when Ms. Silver came back.

“May I take a peek?” she asked.

Billy chewed on his thumbnail while Ms. Silver read his poem.

“Does your mom like volcanoes?” asked Ms. Silver. “I know
you
like volcanoes.”

“Well . . .” said Billy. “She
might
.” He blinked rapidly.

“I have an idea,” said Ms. Silver. “I think you should take your journal home tonight. You should ask your mom what she likes. You could make a list of things. The list could be your poem. Or, maybe, there’s something you and your mom do together. You could write about that.”

“Okay,” said Billy. His eyes shifted down to his volcano drawings. He wasn’t fond of homework in general, but it seemed even worse now that it was so close to the end of the school year. His mind was already focusing on summer vacation.

“You’ve done some fine writing today,” said Ms. Silver. “We can work again tomorrow.”

It really
is
work, thought Billy sadly.

When the dismissal bell rang, Billy noticed that most of his classmates, including Ned, were taking their journals home, too. He was glad he wasn’t the only one.

3

Billy was in bed when he realized that he’d forgotten to work on his poem. His brain had been so full of other things, there hadn’t been room for poetry.

When he came home from school, he and Ned had had a water fight. Then they tried to build a volcano in the garden. That led to making mud balls the size of oranges (to let dry and harden for future use). After that, Sal let them cover nearly every inch of her with mud. By that time Mama had come home. She and Papa decided that it was too hot to cook, so once Ned left and Sal and Billy were cleaned up, they went to Ruby’s Cupboard for dinner as a very special, almost-the-end-of-the-school-year treat.

Being at Ruby’s Cupboard reminded Billy of the time he’d tried to stay up all night. So, for the rest of the evening he was preoccupied with the idea of attempting it again, with Ned, as soon as summer vacation started. Poetry had been far from his mind, as remote as some unknown distant planet.

But now he couldn’t force the thought of it away. He slipped out of bed, grabbed his poetry journal and a pencil, and went downstairs to look for Mama.

Mama was in the living room lying on the couch with her eyes shut. A paperback book, cracked open, was resting on her stomach like a little tent.

Billy didn’t have to say a word—as he approached Mama her eyelids fluttered up. She closed her book, sat tall, patted the space beside her, and said, “Sit by me.”

Billy did. “Where’s Dad?” he asked.

“He’s in the garage. He wanted to work a little longer before bed.” She tipped her head toward his. “What’s up? Trouble sleeping?”

Billy held up his poetry journal. “I was supposed to work on my poem about you.” He paused. “I forgot.”

“Do you have anything to show me?” asked Mama.

“I already wrote two poems, but Ms. Silver said to write another one.”

“Let’s see what you’ve got so far,” said Mama.

After she read Billy’s acrostic and haiku, Mama laughed softly. “I like them. You’ve got a great sense of humor, Billy Miller.”

It was funny—if a parent used a kid’s full name in movies or on TV, the parent was usually angry and the kid was in big trouble. But Mama and Papa often used his full name if they were complimenting him or being all lovey-dovey.

Billy turned to a clean page in his notebook. “Ms. Silver said I could write a list of things you like and that could be a poem. Poems don’t have to rhyme, you know.” He got his pencil ready. “Okay,” he said. “What do you like?”

“Besides volcanoes?” Mama joked.

Billy smiled self-consciously.

“Okay,” said Mama. “I like being with you. I love it, actually.”

“
Mom.”

“I know, you can’t write
that
down. Well,” she said, starting over, “I like coffee.” She paused. “I like chocolate.” She paused again. She was talking very slowly so that Billy could keep up with what she was saying. His pencil was moving fast. He could fix his spelling later. “I like rainy days.” Pause. “I like—”

All of a sudden there was a thud. Something hit the window. They both jumped at the unexpected sound.

“What was that?” asked Billy. His heart was racing.

“I don’t know,” Mama replied in an uncertain voice.

Mama hurried to the window and Billy followed. It was difficult to see anything but their own reflections with the inside lights on, so Mama crossed the room to the front door. Billy was right behind her like her shadow. Mama held out her arm, making Billy wait as she turned on the porch light, opened the door, and looked around. Then she dropped her arm and walked slowly along the porch to the window.

“It’s a bird,” said Mama. “It must have been drawn by the light.”

Billy joined her. There was a dark clump beneath the window on the porch floor. It was motionless.

“It’s a robin,” said Mama.

“Is it alive?” Billy whispered. He bit his lower lip and leaned closer.

“I don’t think so,” said Mama, crouching. “No.”

Mama got her garden gloves and a shovel from the shed by the garage. She carried the dead bird and Billy carried the shovel to the corner of the garden.

“Should we get Papa?” asked Billy.

“No,” said Mama. “We’re fine.”

It seemed to Billy that something big was happening.

Mama put the bird down. She dug a hole under a bush. Before she placed the bird in the hole, she held it at a certain angle in the light from the street lamp so that Billy could see it clearly one last time. The orange feathers seemed unreal, too beautiful to be part of something no longer alive.

The dead bird filled the hole as if it were filling a nest. Mama covered the bird with dirt and patted the dirt down. Billy found three stones and formed a triangle on top of the little mound.

They stood together. Neither talked. Billy hadn’t noticed until now how hot it still was. His pajamas were damp with sweat. Dirt was sticking to his bare feet.

Mama broke the silence. “I like quiet,” she said. “When it’s quiet you can hear so much.”

Billy looked up at her. “But then it’s not quiet,” he said.

“Listen,” said Mama softly. She held her finger to her lips.

Billy listened. He didn’t hear anything at first. Then he did. He heard insects and the sound of a sprinkler. He heard the leaves rustling overhead. He heard a car driving several streets over and a dog barking somewhere in the darkness.

It’s quiet but it’s not, thought Billy. Then he thought of the dead bird, and all the noises mixed together and grew louder in his head.