The Year of Billy Miller (7 page)

When he turned back to run into school, Emma was right there, like a shadow.
“Papa?”
she said.

Billy blushed.

“Papa?” she repeated. She rolled her eyes dramatically. “That is so babyish, I can hardly believe it.”

Abruptly, she spun on her heel and marched ahead, carrying her diorama as if it were a gift for the president.

Billy shifted his weight from one leg to the other for a long moment before moving forward.

So much for happily ever after.

4

One by one the students in Room 2 stood beside Ms. Silver’s empty desk and presented their dioramas to the class.

When it was his turn, Billy shook his diorama to demonstrate how his bat could fly, and he described his habitat, explaining how he’d used glitter to look like mica. He didn’t mention Sal or fairies. He tried to remember Papa’s words. He said, “Mica sparkles like jewels. It is a mineral in caves. It’s like glitter.”

Billy had been looking down as he spoke, but when he had nothing else to say, he raised his eyes, connecting with Ms. Silver’s. She was in the far corner of the room sitting casually on the window ledge, holding a clipboard.

Ms. Silver nodded approval, and Billy felt proud. He also felt a surge of relief when he was done. Back with his tablemates, he sank into his chair, loose and slack as a rag doll.

“The glitter was a nice touch, Billy,” Ms. Silver said before she called Ned to take his turn.

Billy glowed.

“Was the big bat the
Papa
bat?” Emma whispered.

Billy pretended not to hear her. He wanted to
be
a bat. First, he’d bite Emma. Poison her. Possibly causing death. And then he’d fly away—tracing widening circles in the sky—to a place where there were no girls.

“How’d it go?” asked Papa.

“Good,” said Billy.

“Just good?”

“Great,” said Billy.

“Tell me everything,” said Papa.

“Ms. Silver liked my diorama,” said Billy.

“And?” Papa waited for more information.

Billy shrugged.

“What did she say?” asked Papa.

Billy shrugged again. He hiked his shoulders high and held them there for a long time before dropping them. He was thinking about something else. He was thinking that he’d like to ask Papa if he minded if he called him Dad from now on. “She liked the glitter,” he finally said.

“That doesn’t surprise me,” Papa replied. He raised an eyebrow playfully. “Mica,” he said.

“Mica,” Billy repeated.

They were standing in the weedy grass halfway between the house and the garage. Billy had gone straight from school to the backyard without checking for Papa in the house because he’d heard music coming from the direction of the garage. Country music. That usually meant that Papa was working and that his work was going well.

Papa’s shirt was rumpled and dirty and buttoned wrong. Sawdust flecked his beard like cookie crumbs. All good signs concerning Papa and his work.

Billy glanced around the yard. “Where’s Sal?” he asked. He didn’t see his sister anywhere. If he knew he had some time alone with Papa, he’d tell him that he wanted to call him Dad.

“She’s sleeping,” said Papa. “Look.” He motioned for Billy to follow him. Papa walked to the garage and stopped at the open door. He pointed to the worn velvet armchair in the corner. Sal was curled up in it like a cat, with her arms and hands pulled underneath her. Her head was resting on her lumpy pillowcase stuffed with the Drop Sisters.

“Isn’t she cute?” whispered Papa. “Just looking at her shreds my heart.”

Papa often said that things shredded his heart. Billy didn’t quite understand what this meant, but Papa used the phrase when he talked about things Billy thought were sappy.

Billy edged silently away from the garage. He didn’t want to wake Sal, although the country music coming from Papa’s old paint-splattered radio seemed loud enough to mask any noise Billy might make.

“Do you want a snack?” asked Papa. “I baked cookies earlier.”

Billy nodded.

They crossed the yard to the back door, and Billy tried to keep up with Papa, matching him stride for stride, stretching his legs with all his might.

At the kitchen table, with a plate of Papa’s oatmeal raisin cookies between them, and one cookie already in his belly, Billy asked his question. “Papa,” he said, “can I call you Dad?”

Papa studied Billy for a moment. “No more Papa?”

Billy didn’t know what to say. He didn’t want to hurt Papa’s feelings. “Well—” he began. “I’m in second grade now. Nobody says
Papa
.” His voice clouded. “It’s babyish.”

Papa reached for his beard, tugged on it. “No more Papa.” He made a sad face—a long, droopy, clown face—but Billy knew he was joking.

“Is it okay?” asked Billy.

“Of course,” said Papa, smiling. He arched his eyebrows. “Maybe one day
you’ll
want to be called something else.”

Billy tilted his head. “Huh?”

“Maybe one day you’ll want us to call you Bill. Or William.”

“
No
,” said Billy. “I’m Billy. Promise to always call me Billy.”

Papa tugged on his beard again. “I promise to always call you what you want to be called.”

“Billy,” said Billy.

“Billy,” Papa repeated. Then after a few seconds he said, “Hey, what about Ned? Will he still call me Papa?”

Billy hadn’t thought about that. “I guess.” He paused. “And Sal’s little. She can still call you Papa.”

“What about Mama? Will you call her Mom?”

Billy nodded slowly. “We can tell her together when she comes home from school.”

They fell silent. Billy chose another cookie and bit into it. He looked at Papa, taking him in. It was strange—Billy wanted to call him Dad, but he still thought of him as Papa.

Papa broke the silence. “Let’s practice,” he said. “Hi, Billy.”

Billy hesitated. “Hi—Dad.” His voice was just a thread of itself. Saying the word
Dad
felt odd.

“Again,” said Papa. “Hi, Billy.”

“Hi, Dad.”

They did it again and again and again, louder and faster, their voices overlapping, getting silly, until they were laughing. Then Papa said, “You’re shredding my heart.” But Billy was still laughing—and he didn’t know how to respond anyway—and so he took a deep breath and just kept laughing.

5

There. He’d done it. With Papa’s help. And it was no big deal.

When Mama had come home from work, Billy and Papa had told her that Billy wanted to call her Mom from now on.

“Really?” she’d said, a trace of sadness in her voice. “Really, truly?”

Billy and Papa nodded at the same time.

“I’m Dad,” said Papa.

Mama put her bag of school things on the floor, sat on a kitchen chair, and pulled Billy to her. She hugged him, and in the most natural way, said, “I guess you’re growing up.”

“Yup,” he said, squirming away from the hug.

Done.

Sal, who was not yet fully emerged from her nap, had shuffled into the kitchen during the middle of the conversation, her eyes still sleepy. She seemed oblivious to what was really happening. She pointed to everybody, one by one. “You’re Billy. You’re Papa. You’re Mama. I’m me.” As if under a spell, Sal grabbed a cookie and climbed onto Mama’s lap, melting into her. Sal’s eyelids fluttered, fighting to stay open. Her grip on the cookie loosened.

“Come with me,” Papa said quietly to Billy. “I want to show you something.” He rescued Sal’s cookie before it dropped to the floor. He snapped it in two and pressed one half in Billy’s hand. “For the road,” he said.