The Year of Billy Miller (6 page)

Sal’s diorama looked great, too. Her ocean was messy—patches and globs of blue, green, and silver glitter—but Papa had made a big, beautiful replica of Raindrop out of yellow construction paper. It filled most of the shoe box.

In comparison, Billy felt that his project looked like it was made by a two-year-old.

Sal watched Billy scrutinize his diorama. “Mine’s better,” she said. “Ned’s, too.”

“Mine’s dumb,” Billy mumbled.

“No, it’s not,” said Papa.

“Mine’s pretty,” said Sal. She was radiant. She hugged her diorama, swaying. “Papa, can we make a dirama for all the Drop Sisters?”

“Di-
o
-rama!” said Billy.

“Not today,” said Papa.

Ned giggled. “Hey, Billy, your big bat looks like a pair of flying underwear. Black,
dirty
underwear.” He giggled again.

“Well,” said Billy, “yours only looks good because you have store-bought sharks.” Any positive feeling had been drained away. Billy turned toward Sal. “And yours only looks good because Papa did it. If he hadn’t helped you, it would look like garbage.”

“Hey!” said Papa sternly. “Enough.” He brought his hand down hard onto the table.

Smack. Then silence.

Papa rarely raised his voice, so when he did, it felt as if something in the universe had shifted.

Sal broke the silence. “Papa, your beard is sparkly,” she said.

“Glitter,” said Ned.

“That’s the least of my problems,” said Papa.

“I’m never having a beard when I grow up,” Billy said under his breath. He was mad at Papa. Billy blamed him for the way he felt.

Mama entered the kitchen. “What’s going on in here?” she asked. She tucked her red marking pencil behind her ear, which made Billy think of Ms. Silver’s chopsticks.

Papa whisked past Mama, tapping her on the shoulder. “Tag team,” he said. “Your turn.” He disappeared out the back door.

Mama scanned the room. The tabletop and floor were strewn with scraps and wads of construction paper and tissue paper. There was a dusting of glitter everywhere. “I can tell you’ve been working hard,” she said.

“Are you going to make a dirama, too?” asked Sal.

Mama sighed. “No, honey,” she said. “I’m going to help you all clean up.”

3

Before he climbed into bed, Billy put his diorama on his desk. He tapped the diorama and watched his bat jiggle. As the day had worn on, Billy had grown more fond of his project. The illusion that his bat was hovering in midair was what gave him a small thrill and a little shot of pride. When Billy stared at his trembling bat, all the imperfections disappeared.

Mama usually said good night to Billy first, while Papa tucked in Sal. Then Mama and Papa switched places, and Papa came to Billy’s room.

Billy and Papa had the same exchange every night.

Papa: Good night, Billy.

Billy: Good night, Papa.

Papa: You’re a good boy.

Billy: Thank you, Papa, yes I am.

Papa: I love you.

Billy: Love you, too.

Papa: Love you more.

Billy: Tie.

Papa: Tie.

But this night, after their routine, and after Papa had turned off the light and was closing the door, Billy said, “Papa?”

“Yes?”

“I was thinking about your breakthrough,” said Billy.

Papa left the light off, but returned to Billy’s bed and sat on the edge of it. Billy could feel Papa’s weight drag down the corner of the mattress. The bed groaned.

“What were you thinking?” asked Papa.

“I was thinking that you’re so good at dioramas, that you should make dioramas for your artwork.”

There wasn’t much light, most of which came from the hallway behind Papa, but Billy could tell that Papa was stroking his mustache, then twiddling with his beard.

Papa breathed audibly. “Hmm.”

“You have all those wooden cigar boxes,” said Billy. “They would be good for dioramas.”

Quiet. So quiet. Billy tugged on his covers, trying to readjust them, but they were anchored by Papa, unmovable.

“Interesting idea,” said Papa. He breathed audibly again. “Hmm, hmm, hmm.”

Billy imagined Papa smiling.

Papa leaned toward Billy and pecked the top of his head. He rose from the bed. As he walked away, his big adult frame darkened the doorway. And then he was gone. But Billy could hear him humming. The sound was low and rumbly. Simple and tuneful. Not quite happy. But definitely not crabby.

“Fairies were here!” cried Sal when Billy came down to breakfast the next morning. “Look!” She moved her head from side to side and up and down. She was squinting, her eyes like small black seeds.

Billy moved his head in a similar fashion, trying to see what Sal was so excited about. When he held his head in certain positions, he noticed tiny pricks of light on the floor and on the table where the sun was shining. “It’s just glitter,” said Billy. “From yesterday.”

“Fairies,” said Sal.

“Glitter,” said Billy.

They both looked to Papa for confirmation.

“Well,” said Papa, with a sly smile, “it’s all in the eye of the beholder. What’s glitter to one person could be fairies to another.” He winked at Billy.

“Papa,”
said Billy. But he didn’t press him, because Papa seemed to be in such a good mood.

“I love glitter,” said Sal. She twirled with joy, spinning out of the kitchen. “My dirama has glitter,” she called. “I’ll go get it.”

Billy settled into his usual place at the table and began eating breakfast: a banana and a toaster waffle in a puddle of syrup. “Where’s Mama?” he asked between mouthfuls.

“She went to school early,” said Papa.

“Why?”

“To help a student.”

Billy wondered if that student wasn’t smart enough for Mama’s class. He ate quickly. He couldn’t wait to see what Ms. Silver thought of his flying bat. “I love syrup,” he said, as if thinking aloud, echoing Sal’s statement about glitter.

“I can tell,” said Papa.

Billy wanted a spoon so he could get every drop of syrup. As he crossed the kitchen to the silverware drawer, he glanced out the doorway into the dining room. Sal was kneeling on a chair at the dining room table. She was holding her diorama over Billy’s, shaking the loose glitter from hers into his.

“Stop!” yelled Billy. “What are you doing?” He rushed to Sal and snatched his diorama off the table. “You are so dumb! You dope!”

In a flash, Papa was beside them. “What’s up?” asked Papa calmly.

“She ruined my diorama. There’s glitter everywhere. It’s sticking to my bats and it’s all over my cave. It looks like a girl made it.”

“I was just giving you fairies,” said Sal.

The urge to hit or pinch Sal was overwhelming. With laser eyes, Billy stared right through his sister. Underneath Sal’s dense, dark curls clipped with a panda barrette and her lacy pastel nightgown, Billy saw the enemy. Why couldn’t he have had a brother instead?

“Here,” said Papa. “Let me see it.” He took the diorama from Billy.

Billy searched Papa’s face. He wanted an indication that everything would be okay.

“Now you have fairies in your cave,” said Sal. She ducked her head, but her voice was bright.

“Why don’t we—” said Papa, but before he could say more, the doorbell rang.

“Ned’s here,” said Sal.

“Oh no,” said Billy. “What am I going to do? I’ll be late for school.”

Still holding Billy’s diorama, Papa flipped the latch on the front door with his elbow and shouldered open the door. He told Ned to go to school without Billy. “He’ll be there soon,” said Papa. The door snapped shut, then Papa smiled reassuringly down at Billy. “Let’s go to the kitchen,” he said.

Papa positioned Billy’s diorama over the garbage bin and gently tapped it. He inspected it and tapped again. Then he gave it a good hard slap.

“It’s still
full
of glitter,” said Billy, his voice desperate.

“Wait here,” said Papa. “I have an idea.”

After a minute or so, Papa reappeared in the kitchen with Mama’s hair dryer. “Maybe this will do the trick.”

Papa had Billy hold the diorama. Papa steadied the big flying bat with one hand and carefully aimed the hair dryer with the other. The hair dryer roared. One wing of the bat jittered wildly.

Billy watched Papa’s every move intensely. “Don’t hurt my bat,” he said loudly, over the noise of the hair dryer.

“Don’t worry,” said Papa. He used the hair dryer a bit longer. Then he brushed aside a few flecks of glitter from the big bat with his finger. “There,” he said. “That’s better. At least your bat is glitter free.”

“But you didn’t get it all,” said Billy. “There’s still glitter all over my cave.”

Papa turned his head and glanced upward. His eyes narrowed as if he were trying to read tiny instructions on the ceiling. Then his eyes widened. “For a great reason,” said Papa.

“What?” said Billy, confused.

“Listen,” said Papa. “Rocks are made up of minerals, and certain minerals make rocks sparkle. Some caves have calcite crystals or mica in them. They can make a cave look like it’s decorated with jewels.”

Billy crinkled his eyebrows together. “Really?” he said.

“Really,” said Papa. “This actually makes it better, more authentic.”

“How do you know so much?” asked Billy.

“I don’t know as much as you think I do,” said Papa.

That was hard for Billy to believe.
“Mica?”
he said.

“Mica,” said Papa.

“You’re so smart, you could be a teacher like Mama,” observed Billy.

Papa laughed. “Thank you,” he said. “Now, if we hurry, you won’t be late. I’ll drive you.”

They worked in unison like one big machine. Papa scooped up Sal, secured her in her car seat, put the diorama in the front seat next to him, waited for Billy to get in the back next to Sal and buckle his seat belt, and started off to school.

The bell was ringing as they approached the playground. “We made it,” said Papa. Within seconds, Billy was out of the car, cradling his diorama, pointed toward the river of students flowing into the building.

“And they lived happily ever after,” said Papa through the open window, loud enough for Billy to hear.

Billy took a few quick steps and stopped. He had forgotten something. He turned around. Papa was waving good-bye, starting to pull away. “Thank you, Papa!” yelled Billy.