My Name Is River (15 page)

Billy assures Miss Nightingale, “You don't need to worry about River. I'll walk with her and see that she gets home safely.”

She pats Billy on his head. “You're a real gentleman.” Then she hands us a pass to leave school and says she hopes we feel better.

As soon as we walk out the front doors, our stomachaches disappear, and we feel one hundred percent better. We race down the steps. I glance back over my shoulder, hoping we don't get snared by the falcon.

We're halfway home when I get the brainstorm about making Gram a welcome-home lunch. And I know exactly what she needs—chicken noodle soup, bologna sandwiches, and a tall glass of groundhog punch.

Billy scratches his head. “Groundhog punch?”

“You've never heard of it?” For once I get to teach Billy something. “It's a magic punch that Punxsutawney Phil drinks each year. That's why he lives a long time. So I bet if Gram drinks some, she'll live a long time too.”

Billy nods. “That's an interesting thought.”

I take a few more steps. “But there's one problem.”

“What's that?”

I hesitate to tell, since I'm not sure Billy believes in the whole magic punch theory, but I go ahead anyway. “We can't make it because the recipe is top secret.”

“Well,” Billy says, “why don't we come up with our own magical punch recipe? We could use your Gram's favorite drinks as the ingredients and then mix them together. If groundhog punch works for Punxsutawney Phil, then maybe our recipe will work for Gram.”

As I shoot Billy a smile, he takes my lead. We race down the road and around the corner to Quick-Shop to buy Gram's favorite drinks (I can't help thinking how smart we were to leave school before lunch, otherwise we wouldn't have any lunch money).

We grab a cart and race through the aisles. I toss in lemon-lime soda, a carton of cranberry juice, orange juice, and pineapple juice, and then a family-size can of chicken noodle soup. We don't buy Berry Burst Drink Mix because Gram's always stocked up on that.

After paying we have ten cents left, so I slide the dime to the cashier and grab two red-hot fireballs.

By the time we get to my house, it's ten forty, and our fireballs are the size of a pea. Billy hurries to set the table, and then I ask him to make seven bologna sandwiches (Gram will definitely have a big appetite).

I heat the soup, let it simmer, and then get ready to make our magical punch. I slide our stool to the cupboard and climb up. I reach for Gram's special glass pitcher, hoping the whole time I don't drop it because it means so much to her. She won it by mailing seven hundred Berry Burst Drink Mix labels to the company and being the one lucky person to have their name drawn (I'll bet she was the only entrant because I don't think anyone else would be crazy enough to save seven hundred Berry Burst labels). But everyone in Punxsutawney knew Gram wanted that glass pitcher, so we'd always find Berry Burst labels tucked under our door. Gram ended up saving all seven hundred labels in just two weeks. She was happier than a pig in mud when it arrived in the mail. When we packed to move, I saw her wrap eleven towels around it (so even if the movers used it to play football, there was no chance of it breaking). Gram only uses it on special occasions, but I think her coming home with a beating heart is definitely special.

I measure one cup of orange juice, cranberry juice, pineapple juice, and Gram's favorite Berry Burst drink and pour it into her pitcher. Then I add the entire can of lemon-lime soda. And finally I drop in twelve ice cubes and stir it around and around until it creates a magical whirlpool. I take a sip from the spoon and smile—the magic already makes my tongue tingle. I carry the pitcher to the table and carefully set it down, feeling happy that something this simple might actually help Gram live a whole lot longer.

As soon as Billy finishes the bologna sandwiches, we hear the sound of tires in the driveway. Two seconds later Gram and Pastor Henry walk through the door.

Me and Billy shout, “Surprise! Welcome home!”

Gram nearly jumps out of her skin, “Oh, my stars! You scared the kajeebers outta me!” She laughs a big belly laugh and then waddles over and gives us each a bear hug. “You kids saved my life, and I can't thank you enough. The doctor adjusted my heart medicine, and now my ticker's good as new. And boy, do I feel terrific!” As soon as she spots the food, she releases her hug and skips to the table with the grace of a hungry hippopotamus. She sits down with a thump.

Pastor Henry sure looks surprised… probably not so much at Gram's skipping as at seeing me and Billy standing in the middle of the kitchen. And he definitely doesn't seem happy about it.

He glares at Billy. “What in the world are you doing here?” (I'm thinking if Pastor Henry didn't ground Billy yesterday for driving Tilly, this might be a perfect opportunity). “Aren't you supposed to be in school, young man?”

Billy shrugs his shoulder. Now, since I believe friends should always rescue each other, I put my hands together like an angel and look at Pastor Henry. “You're invited too! Everyone likes chicken noodle soup and bologna sandwiches, so you're going to stay and eat, right?”

His eyes stay glued on Billy. “No,” he says, “I'm afraid not. I have responsibilities at the church.” I consider telling Pastor Henry about our magical punch, but this doesn't seem like good timing.

Pastor Henry is still glaring. “Billy,” he says, “the minute you're done eating, you're to come directly to the church. You'll spend the afternoon polishing every pew. And if you take too long getting there, you'll have the opportunity to polish them twice.”

After Pastor Henry leaves, I ask Billy what a pew is. He says they're the benches we've been sitting on (I'm relieved because with the sound of a word like “pew,” I had visions of Billy polishing every toilet in the church. Lucky for Billy they're benches).

Gram gobbles her bologna sandwiches, slurps up her soup, and
then guzzles three big glasses of our magical punch. “Whoooeeee!” she shouts. “That's the best drink I've ever had!”

I figure those three glasses of punch just added a whole lot of years to her life. Plus she'll probably drink what's left in the pitcher before she goes to bed. So, with all that punch and me praying for her every night, I think Gram will be around for a real long time.

Billy eats his bologna sandwich in fast-forward motion, says see you later, and runs out the door (I'm sure he doesn't want to polish twice).

Gram actually decides to lie down for an afternoon snooze, so I decide to make the labels for our display. Monday will be here before we know it.

19

Good Ears

S
aturday morning as I'm finishing my bowl of Frosted Wheat Flakes, I see Billy walking up our driveway (at least today he slept in later than the birds). He's carrying Pastor Henry's typewriter, which looks like it weighs as much as he does, and so I hurry and open the door for him. “Morning, Billy. Want me to grab that?”

“No, that's okay. I've got it.” He sets the typewriter on the table and sits beside me.

I hold our project labels out for Billy to see. “Look what I made yesterday while you were busy shining pews.”

“Wow, River! They look great! Thanks for doing them.” He puts a piece of paper in the typewriter. “Well, should we do our essay first?”

“I suppose… we might as well get the torture over with.”

“Oh, come on, River. Essays aren't that bad,” he says. “I'm thinking that since you've got two good hands, you should do the typing. You'll type twice as fast.”

“Fine with me,” I say, “and since you have twice the brains, you can tell me what to type.”

Billy laughs. “Fair is fair.”

I take in a deep breath. “Okay, if our essay needs to be two hundred and fifty words and I can type about five words a minute, how long is this going to take?”

Billy shifts into teacher mode. “Well, think of this as a math problem. If you type five words a minute, simply divide two hundred and fifty by five to see how many minutes it will take.” He waits a minute and then looks at me like I should know. “Well?”

“Well, what?” I say. “You're the one with twice the brains.”

“But you're the one who wants to know.”

I scribble a few numbers on scrap paper. “Fifty minutes?”

“Perfect, but that accounts only for your typing. We need to add some time for me to read our notes, think about them, and put everything together.”

“With a brain like yours, we only need to add three minutes.”

“Give me a break, River—I'm not that smart!”

Ninety minutes later I type the last word of our essay. I press the caps lock key and type
THE END
at the bottom of the page. But when Billy sees it, his eyes bug out. “I don't think you need to type that! Ms. Grackle's been a teacher for a real long time, and I'm sure she knows when an essay ends.”

“But it's like an exclamation mark shouting, ‘We're done!' Besides, it makes me feel good… like I finally accomplished something important.”

“Well, if it makes you that happy, we should keep it.”

Miss Nightingale is right. Billy is a gentleman.