The Year of Billy Miller (15 page)

“Is everyone ready?” asked Papa. He’d filled a backpack with plastic containers of his homemade cookies for the party after the show. He slung the backpack over his shoulder. “Onward,” he said.

Sal was holding Raindrop by her tail. Now she usually took just one Drop Sister with her when she was away from home.

Billy’s family met Ned’s family at the corner and they walked together.

Billy knew how important the show was because they were having it after dinner on a school night. It felt strange and exciting to be going to school at this time of day.

“Only six more days of school,” Ned said gleefully.

“Six more days,” said Billy.

“Six more days,” Papa echoed, shaking his head. “Where did the year go?”

Billy and Ned swung their arms dramatically, lifted their knees high, and jutted their chins. They marched and chanted through the still, heavy air. “Six more days! Six more days!”

The air in the auditorium was heavy, but it was not still—it was electric. At least, that’s the way it felt to Billy. Parents, brothers, sisters, grandparents, aunts, uncles, neighbors, and friends were filling up the room. People were talking and fanning themselves. Little kids were chasing up and down the aisles and climbing on the seats. Eruptions of laughter came and went in waves.

Ms. Silver had saved seats in the front rows for the Room 2 poets and their special guests. Each reserved seat had a student’s or a guest’s name taped to it. The students and guests would be sitting in the order in which they would appear on stage.

To signal the start of the show, Ms. Silver sounded her gong. Everyone found their places. Billy sat between Mama and Emma’s grandmother. Silence descended upon the auditorium like a spell. When the curtain opened, revealing the backdrop, Ms. Silver swept her arm out toward it, and the audience applauded.

“Room Two presents
We Are Family
—” said Ms. Silver, “our celebration of poetry and those we love.”

Ms. Silver stood at the corner of the stage. A small microphone was clipped to her dress. The big microphone was at the center of the stage—gleaming and waiting.

“Our first poet will be Grace Cotter,” Ms. Silver announced. “Her special guest is her uncle Zack. Next up will be Jamaica Taylor.”

Grace and her uncle mounted the three stairs to the stage. As Grace passed in front of her, Ms. Silver handed Grace a copy of her poem. Grace and her uncle walked slowly to the microphone.

Jamaica and her father waited against the wall, at the bottom of the stairs, ready to go.

At first, Grace was too far away from the microphone, but her uncle nudged her closer. Then, she ended up sideways, facing him rather than the audience, as she read her poem. When she finished she was to exit backstage, go through a hallway, and return to her seat. She ran off the stage while the audience clapped.

And so it went. Ms. Silver would announce each poet, state who was up next, and hand a copy of the poem to the poet on the way to the microphone.

Billy had a hard time paying attention to what was happening on the stage. He kept saying the words to his poem in his head. He knew his poem so well he figured he would still be able to say it by heart when he was ninety.

From time to time, Mama looked at Billy and smiled.

Before long, Ms. Silver said, “Our next poet is Emma Sparks. Her grandmother, Judy, is her special guest. Following Emma will be Billy Miller.”

Billy and Mama rose and walked along the wall to the corner of the stage. Billy had left his copy of his poem on his seat. He’d folded and unfolded it so many times, it was falling apart. He’d get a new copy from Ms. Silver. Just in case.

Billy watched Emma. She walked up the stairs with such confidence. She lifted her head and turned it away from Ms. Silver when she glided past her on the stage. She didn’t take a copy of her poem. And when she recited her poem—slowly, loudly, and with expression—she flapped her hands about like birds as if to say: Look at me. Of course, I memorized my poem. And I don’t need to have a copy of it in case I forget the words, because forgetting the words would be impossible for me. When she finished, she grinned a know-it-all grin and took a deep bow.

After a few long moments of applause, Billy heard Ms. Silver say his name. It was his turn. If Emma can do it, I can do it, he thought as he ascended the stairs to the stage. Ms. Silver smiled at Billy and offered him a copy of his poem, but he smiled back at her, shook his head, and whispered, “I don’t need it.” He rubbed Sal’s pearl in his pocket one last time as he made his way to the middle of the stage. He could sense Mama right behind him.

Billy inched up to the microphone. He looked out at the audience. When he’d practiced with the microphone, only Room 2 kids were watching. Now, there seemed to be an ocean of people watching, stretching from wall to wall and fanning back toward the doors.

A shivery feeling shot through him. It was a good feeling at first. He tried to locate Papa and Sal among the sea of heads, but he couldn’t. And then the good feeling turned bad—he had an odd sensation that the world around him was moving in all directions.

His mouth was dry.

His heart was pounding.

Once again, he forgot every word of his poem, including the title—but this time he didn’t have a copy of it to read from.

He saw Ms. Silver in the fringes of his vision. She was smiling and nodding, urging him on with her wide eyes.

Should he walk over to her to get a copy of his poem? She seemed about a mile away. And he didn’t think he could make his legs move.

What should he do?

The air felt weird all of a sudden. As if it had sprouted wings and was brushing against him. The air was fluttering against his arm.

How could that be?

He turned around and Mama was there with a copy of his poem, tapping it lightly against his elbow. “Here,” she whispered. “You can do it.”

And he could.

And he did.

He read his poem into the microphone from beginning to end in a voice that was made so big and loud and wide it seemed to bounce beyond the walls of school, reaching to the world outside, to the moon.

Everyone clapped. He heard Papa whistle, although he still couldn’t spot him.

The next thing he knew he was in the hallway behind the stage, enveloped in Mama’s arms. On the stage, it was as if he’d been separated from his body, and now he’d caught up with himself. Everything was back to normal.

“You did it!” said Mama. “You did it beautifully.”

“But I didn’t do it by heart,” said Billy.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“How did you have a copy of my poem?” asked Billy.

“I took it from Ms. Silver when I followed you onto the stage,” replied Mama.

A moment passed and then Billy asked, “Did you think that I couldn’t do it?”

Without missing a beat, Mama said, “I just wanted a souvenir from this wonderful night.”

Whatever the reason, Billy was grateful that Mama had done what she’d done. They went back to their seats to watch the rest of the show.

After the show, refreshments were served on long tables in the back of the auditorium. Billy had four of Papa’s cookies. Ned tried to eat one of each different food item. Everyone was talking about the experience of being on stage.

“Did you hear that incredible screechy sound when I was up there?” asked Ned. “My dad says it’s called feedback. I had major feedback,” he bragged.

“When I was up there,” said Billy, “there were so many people, I couldn’t even see my dad.”

“All I know,” said Emma, “is that I ended up being the only memorizer.”

Emma’s comment nagged at Billy. He’d already recited his poem from memory in his head two times since the show had ended. He tried to convince himself that it didn’t matter. And he told himself that he could recite it for Mama at home.

People were milling about—eating, laughing, chatting—when Ms. Silver’s gong sounded. A hush came over the room. Ms. Silver was at the center of the stage, by the microphone.

“Thank you, everyone,” said Ms. Silver. “We accomplished a lot this year—not just putting on this marvelous show.”

A few people clapped. Mama touched Billy’s shoulder. Papa winked at him. Sal made Raindrop dance.

“We studied and learned so much,” Ms. Silver continued. “We worked hard.” She smiled and raised one hand up near her heart. “Our school year overlapped with the Chinese Year of the Rabbit
and
the Year of the Dragon. But I like to think of this as the Year of Room Two.”

Everyone clapped and cheered for a long time. Ms. Silver stepped away from the microphone and waved enthusiastically as she walked to the corner of the stage and down the stairs.

It looked to Billy as if Ms. Silver might cry. Some of the parents rushed to Ms. Silver to hug her. She slowly made her way to the back of the room by the food. People began eating and laughing and chatting again.

No one seemed to notice as Billy moved quietly toward the stage, weaving through clusters of people. He took the stairs lightly and stepped up to the microphone.

Billy looked out onto the auditorium. No one was staring at him. No one was paying attention. He almost felt alone.

He touched the silver netted top of the microphone and he could tell that the power was off. He swallowed. Before he could change his mind, he began to recite his poem from memory. He felt the first few words catch in his mouth and then they rolled out of him as easy as could be.

He did it quickly, but he did it. When he was finished, he could hear the rush of blood in his ears. He felt light, as if he weighed next to nothing.

He scanned the crowd for Mama, and he saw her instantly. She was right at the foot of the stage. Their eyes connected, and he knew that she’d been watching him. She’d heard him, even without the microphone on. She was smiling and nodding.

Explosions like little volcanoes were going off inside him. He felt wonderful. Maybe, he’d never felt better.

And then, because he felt so good, and because he could not stop himself, he leaned into the silent microphone and exclaimed in a voice meant just for Mama, “This is the Year of Billy Miller.”

KEVIN HENKES
is the author of
Junonia, Sun & Spoon, Bird Lake Moon
, and the Newbery Honor Book
Olive’s Ocean
. He also writes and illustrates picture books, and among his many titles are the national bestsellers
Little White Rabbit, My Garden, Old Bear, A Good Day
, and
Kitten’s First Full Moon
, for which he was awarded the Caldecott Medal. Mr. Henkes is also the creator of a series of books starring mouse characters, including the Penny books for beginning readers,
Lilly’s Purple Plastic Purse, Chrysanthemum
, and
Owen
, for which he was awarded a Caldecott Honor.

Kevin Henkes lives with his family in Madison, Wisconsin.

www.kevinhenkes.com

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Cover art © 2013 by Kevin Henkes

Hand-lettered display type by Ryan O’Rourke

Cover design by Kevin Henkes and Paul Zakris

This book is a work of fiction. References to real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity, and are used to advance the fictional narrative. All other characters, and all incidents and dialogue, are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.

T
HE YEAR OF BILLY MILLER
. Copyright © 2013 by Kevin Henkes All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.