Free My Name Is River by Wendy Dunham

and the floor. Two seconds later the overhead speakers blare, “Maintenance to the cafeteria. Maintenance to the cafeteria.”
    Billy grins and shakes his head. “Nice try, but it takes years of practice.”
    I shrink to the size of a meatball and want to roll out the door.

    After school we hurry to Billy’s house. When we get there, it’s totally quiet and looks like no one’s home. Mrs. Whippoorwill has everything we need for making suet cakes and hummingbird nectar sitting on the kitchen table. There’s also a plate of chocolate-chip cookies.
    In all of the quietness, I hear Mrs. Whippoorwill tiptoe down the stairs. She comes around the corner looking like she’s just completed a marathon while carrying all her little Whippoorwills. “I just put the last one down for a nap,” she says. Even though she looks like she doesn’t have an ounce of energy left, she smiles at me, and her blue eyes sparkle. “It’s nice you could come over, River.” She makes me feel warm all over, as if the sun is shining only on me. She places her hand gently on my shoulder and says, “You’re always welcome here.” Then she takes a cookie from the plate and excuses herself. “Let me know if you need my help. I’ll be on the couch taking a quick nap.”
    I guess it’s just me and Billy cooking for the birds. I hope he knows what he’s doing because I sure don’t. Last year in Punxsutawney, I flunked home economics. Gram couldn’t believe it. Neither could I. Apparently Mrs. Hawk didn’t like the way my banana bread turned out (no one told me I had to peel the bananas). So what if it was like chewing an eraser. I still don’t think that was grounds for failure. But then again, there was also the sewing project I messed up when I had to make a skirt. I didn’t think it was a big deal that I sewed the wrong sides of the material together, but obviously Mrs. Hawk did. I tried explaining that I’d never wear the stupid skirt anyways, but that only got me an F.
    Billy arranges our ingredients in alphabetical order: cornmeal, flour, oatmeal, peanut butter, and suet (he’s way too enthusiastic). “Let’s make suet cakes first,” he says. “Step number one, we need tomelt the suet.” He turns the stove on and hands me a spoon. “Here, you can stir first.”
    I move the chunk of hard, white suet around in the pan. Within minutes it starts melting, transforming into a crystal clear liquid. I wonder if this is how it feels to be a scientist. Then all of a sudden, I realize I have no idea what suet is or where it comes from, but since it looks interesting, I stick my finger in for a taste test (just like Gram would do). But before my finger reaches my lips, Billy stops me. “I wouldn’t do that—it’s not going to taste good.”
    â€œOh,” I say, “right… I was just checking the temperature.” But I think Billy catches on to the fact that I have no idea what suet is.
    Then he explains so I don’t feel so dumb. “Isn’t it amazing how we can take a chunk of fat that used to surround the kidney of a cow and use it to feed birds?”
    I try staying calm and hope I don’t turn green. “It’s unbelievable,” I say (but I’m really thinking it’s the most disgusting thing I’ve ever heard). I imagine the insides of a cow and visualize huge globs of fat packed around the kidney of a cow… which I’m pretty sure has something to do with the whole process of making pee.
    Billy looks in the pan and seems satisfied. “There,” he says. “One cup of suet completely melted. Now we need one cup of crunchy peanut butter.” Billy measures it and dumps it in. “Okay,” he says, “keep stirring.” Then he adds two cups of oatmeal, two cups of cornmeal, and one cup of flour.
    After it’s mixed, Billy steadies the