The Year of Billy Miller by Kevin Henkes Page A

Sal and the house. Papa was an artist. He was waiting for a breakthrough. That’s what he always said. He was currently working on big sculptures made of found objects. Pieces of old machines, tree limbs, and broken furniture filled the garage and spilled out onto the driveway. They were scattered across the yard, too. Billy loved watching Papa work. There was always something lying around that was fun to play with.
    “Gotta go,” said Mama. She kissed Papa on his bushy orange beard. She kissed Billy on his lump. “Have a fantastic day,” she said. “And kiss Sal for me when she wakes up.”
    Just like that, Mama was gone, the smell of her lemony shampoo hanging in the air for a moment.
    Papa cleared his throat and shook Ms. Silver’s letter with a flourish. Billy could tell he was trying to be funny. In a deep, rumbly voice he said, “This utterly fascinating letter concludes by stating that currently this is, in fact, according to the Chinese, the Year of the Rabbit.” Papa used his regular voice again. “That’s pretty great, don’t you think? The Year of the Rabbit.”
    Billy shrugged. Normally this would have interested him, but he was preoccupied.
    “Maybe you’ll have carrots for a snack every day,” said Papa.
    Silence.
    “Papa?” said Billy.
    “Hmm?”
    “But, Papa, will I be smart enough for second grade?”
    “Of course you will,” said Papa. He was looking right at Billy, directly into his eyes.
    Billy glanced down at what was left of his pancakes. With his thick, work-gnarled finger, Papa lifted Billy’s chin. Their eyes met and held. “Ms. Silver and the great nation of China might think that this is the Year of the Rabbit,” said Papa. “But I know—and I know everything—that this is the Year of Billy Miller.”
    Billy smiled. He couldn’t not. He repeated Papa’s words in his head. This is the Year of Billy Miller.

2
    Billy was waiting by the front door. “I’m ready,” he said.
    Papa was waiting at the bottom of the stairs. “We’re ready,” he yelled up to Sal.
    “I’m ready, too,” Sal called back from the upstairs hallway. “It’s the Drop Sisters who are slow this morning. They all have to go to the bathroom.”
    “Well, tell them to hurry up,” said Papa. “We need to leave.”
    “Coming,” said Sal. The toilet flushed.
    Then Sal descended the stairs dragging a grungy pillowcase behind her. The pillowcase was full and lumpy, and it bumped silently down each step. Inside the pillowcase were the five Drop Sisters: Raindrop, Dewdrop, Snowdrop, Gumdrop, and Lemondrop. They were nearly identical, pale yellow plush whales. Each had blue button eyes and water spouts made of glittery white yarn.

    Raindrop was the original Drop Sister and was the most worn, the most beloved. The others had been bought by Mama and Papa or given by relatives in case Raindrop was ever lost. They’d been hidden in Mama and Papa’s closet. One day Sal found them by accident and adopted them instantly.
    “I think you’re smarter after you go to the bathroom,” said Sal.
    “I didn’t know that,” said Papa. With his hand on her shoulder, he scooted Sal along. “We don’t want to be late.”
    “I wish I could go to school,” said Sal.
    “You will,” said Papa. “Soon enough.”
    “I wish I could go now,” said Sal.
    “I wish you could go for me,” said Billy.
    “Go, go, go,” said Papa. “Everybody go.”
    And they—Billy, Papa, Sal, and the Drop Sisters—were off to Georgia O’Keeffe Elementary School in Constant, Wisconsin.
    Billy’s best friend, Ned, was leaning against the stop sign at the corner. His mother, Amy, was standing beside him, fluffing his hair. She glanced at her watch.
    “We’re running a little late,” said Papa, leading the way, nearing the corner. “Sorry.”
    “Hi, Lumpy,” Ned said to Billy. He laughed. “Hi, Papa.” He ignored Sal.
    “My lump’s almost gone,” said Billy. He hoped that when the lump disappeared so, too, would his