Free My Name Is River by Wendy Dunham Page B

him.
    Robert points to the bucket. “That yours?”
    Billy nods.
    Robert wanders over to it. “If you guys are getting water from the river, you’re crazier than me. I wouldn’t stand at this edge if you paid me.” Then he steps on the bucket with his black leather boot and presses down on its side. He transforms the opening to an oval.
    â€œStop it!” I shout. “What do you think you’re doing?”
    Billy touches my arm. “It’s okay, River.”
    Robert gives the bucket a kick. “If you was smart, you’d go down river where the bank ain’t so steep.”
    I want to tell Robert there’s no such word as ‘ain’t,’ but I keep my mouth shut.
    Robert spits, gets back on his bike, and rides away.
    I search Billy’s eyes for an answer.
    â€œI don’t want to talk about it,” he says. Then he steps on the inside of the bucket and pulls on the squished side, trying to fix it. “Let’s just go back to my house and see if the suet’s hard.”

    Billy opens the fridge and pokes the suet with his finger. “Yep, it’s hard just like we want.” He puts the pan on the table. I hold it still while he cuts it into six perfectly square pieces (which he says are cakes). He places one inside the feeder. “Look at that. A perfect fit.”
    â€œSnug as a bug in a rug.”
    Billy laughs. “What did you say?”
    â€œSnug as a bug in a rug… something Gram says.”
    We save the rest of the cakes in the fridge and then fill the hummingbird feeder. Billy steadies it over the sink while I pour the nectar. We make a pretty good team.
    We carry the feeders to the birding place, and this time we see even more birds. Billy whispers, “We should’ve brought my camera.”
    â€œWe’ll remember next time.”
    While we’re hanging the feeders, Mrs. Bunting comes by, carrying a cardboard box. “I was hoping you’d be here,” she says. “Here’s a patch of my Carolina phlox like I promised. And I brought you some daylilies too. Those ruby-throated hummingbirds will go crazy over them.”
    We thank Mrs. Bunting and tell her to come back soon.

    Later when I get home, I find Gram sitting on the couch with a milk jug tied to her ankle, doing leg lifts (which somehow doesn’t seem normal). And I’m pretty sure she reads my mind because she immediately starts explaining herself. “Just doing my exercises, Sugar Pie.” Then she unties the jug from her ankle and stands up. “Whoooeee! Now that’s good exercise!” As she walks to the kitchen with our milk, I notice she’s not waddling as much as she used to. Maybe her physical therapist does know what he’s doing.
    â€œGlad you’re home, Sugar Pie,” she says in a singsong way, “’cause I’ve got a pot of stew that’s brewing just for you!” Gram gets goofy like that sometimes, which never used to bother me when I was little. And it’s too bad, really, because I’ve been thinking about inviting Billy over for lunch. But on account of Gram’s peculiar ways and her physical therapist’s harebrained ideas (plus the fact that we don’t hold hands and pray before we eat), I decide I’d better not. I think I’d nearly die if I brought Billy home and Gram was galloping around the house or doing leg lifts with our milk jug. But maybe I will anyways. Billy’s so nice—he probably wouldn’t mind if she was.

14

    Hummingbird
    T uesday when school lets out, Billy runs over to me. “Hey, River, my dad cut the wood for our bluebird houses. Now all we have to do is nail the pieces together. Can you come over to work on them?”
    â€œSure. I’m not doing anything.”
    Billy’s so excited he looks like he might burst. “These are going to be the coolest bluebird birdhouses ever!”
    I figure I should tell Billy I