The Year of Billy Miller (14 page)

Mama squeezed his shoulders. “Of all the things I like, quiet might be my favorite.”

A light moved slowly across the sky, far, far away. A lot of what Mama had said sounded like a poem. Billy hoped he could remember enough of it to write something down. The world ticked and hummed and rushed around them. And they stood together a bit longer in the darkness.

This is the poem Billy wrote:

Quiet Mom

by Billy Miller

My mom likes a lot

She likes quiet best

Quiet can be loud if you lisen

It sounds like this

cars

sprinkelers

bugs

wind

dogs

Quiet is a dead bird

The next day Ms. Silver gave Billy’s poem a smiley face.

4

Billy was supposed to practice reading his poem aloud at home, but he didn’t like practicing in front of Mama, Papa, or Sal. Mama thought he should practice in front of
someone
, so Papa pulled out his cello with the mannequin arms from his studio and moved it to Billy’s room. “You can practice in front of this,” said Papa. “I knew it would come in handy someday.”

“It’s better than nothing,” said Mama, laughing. “I think it’s helpful to have an audience of some sort.”

Billy took his baseball cap from their road trip the previous summer and put it on top of the cello. Papa made a sign that said
I LOVE POETRY!
and stuck it in one of the mannequin hands. Mama named the cello Poetry Man—and that’s what everyone called it. Reading to Poetry Man was easier than reading to a real person. Billy practiced every day.

Billy practiced every day at school, too. The second graders took turns reading their poems at the front of the room. There were three comments Ms. Silver repeated: “Read slowly. Read loudly. Read with expression.”

The students didn’t have to memorize their poems, but they could if they wanted to. So far, just a few had chosen to do so. Emma was one of them. Billy was not.

“I have extra copies of each of your poems,” said Ms. Silver. “I’ll have a nice, new copy for you the night of the show, so don’t worry if you leave your copy at home.” She thought for a moment. “Oh, and even if you memorize your poem, I’d like you to take a copy with you up to the stage. That way, if you forget your words, you’ll have them with you. This is a no-worries show.”

Emma raised her hand. When she was called on, she said, “I’ve memorized my poem so well I won’t need a copy. I’m not boasting,” she added. “It’s just the truth.”

“I’d like everyone to have a copy,” said Ms. Silver evenly. “Just in case.”

“When do we get to use the microphone?” asked Ned.

“Everyone will have a chance to try the microphone,” said Ms. Silver. “We’ll have at least one rehearsal with it before the day of the show.”

Billy couldn’t wait to try the microphone. When teachers used the microphone for announcements during lunch period, their voices were so big and booming they filled the cafeteria. Billy had never used a microphone. He wondered what it would feel like to have a voice that big.

Room 2 was working hard on the show in other ways. The students painted a backdrop for the stage on large pieces of cardboard. They wrote the words
WE ARE FAMILY
—because that was the name of the show—in huge block letters, and patterned the background with squiggles, dots, and stars in all different colors.

Ms. Silver had to use her gong more than usual. “I think you’ve all got summeritis,” she said.

“We’ve got showitis,” Ned yelled.

Then Ms. Silver said, “I think Room Two has turned into a lively, noisy beehive.”

After that, besides the regular Room 2 noises, there were a lot of buzzing sounds, too.

The backdrop looked messy to Billy, like a wall of graffiti from an abandoned building, or something Sal would have done if she’d been let loose with paints and a brush. But Ms. Silver had a different opinion. When the backdrop was finished, she stood with her hands on her hips and studied it. She smiled and nodded. “It’s beautiful,” she said. Her smile was so wide there were big dents in her cheeks.

Ms. Silver had invitations printed for the big night. She left space on the fronts of the invitations so that the students could decorate them. “Make them personal,” she said. “Make them your own.”

Billy drew a picture of Poetry Man on his invitation, complete with four arms and his hat. He thought Mama and Papa would like it.

Emma leaned toward Billy and stared intently at his drawing. She made a sour face and said, “Why did you draw an instrument? For your information, we’re not having a musical concert.”

Billy moved his drawing closer to his chest and tightened his grip on his marker. After months of sitting by her, Billy had learned that the best way to deal with Emma was to ignore her. But in his private thoughts, he said, “For
your
information, mind your own business.”

“I’m drawing my grandma on my invitation,” said Emma. “She’s coming all the way from Minneapolis for the show. I memorized my poem because it makes it more special if you memorize.”

Billy gripped his marker even tighter. He wondered if Emma was right. He wondered if memorizing your poem
did
make it more special. He hadn’t seriously considered memorizing his poem until now. If he could do it, Mama might be especially happy. And proud. If he could do it, it would be a way to prove how smart he was.

Billy memorized his poem. He didn’t tell anyone. It was a secret between him and Poetry Man. It would be a surprise for Mama.

At the final rehearsal for the show, on the stage, with the microphone, Billy thought he should give it a try—he’d recite his poem from memory. But he was so startled and mesmerized by what the microphone did to the sound of his voice when he said the title of his poem that he forgot every word of it. Luckily, he had a copy of it in his hand. After taking a deep breath, he read from his paper in a voice that seemed big enough to fill every inch of the school.

He thought: At least this wasn’t the show.

He thought: I still have my chance to do it for real.

He thought: Now that I know what it’s like to use a microphone, I can do it perfectly for Mama.

5

Before they left for the show, Billy sneaked to Sal’s room to look for the pearl he’d given her months earlier. He knew she kept a shoe box of her favorite things under her bed. He figured that that would be a good place to check first.

He found it. The pearl was there, in the shoe box, among seashells, pebbles, and Sal’s new favorite thing—her collection of little erasers in the shapes of animals. He rubbed the pearl against his shirt and slipped it into his front pants pocket. He needed all the luck he could get. He’d return it after the show.

“Do you have your poem?” Mama asked before they left the house.

Billy held up his copy of the poem. He’d folded it into quarters.

“I hope you know how much I love it,” she said. “It’s a great poem.”

“Thanks,” said Billy.

“Papa helped
me
write a poem,” said Sal. “Listen—

Roses are red,

Violets are blue,

Billy’s a poet,

And I am, too.”

“Sweet,” said Mama.

“Aren’t we original?” said Papa.

“Ms. Silver wouldn’t allow any ‘Roses are red’ poems,” said Billy. “They’re too easy,” he added with authority.