by Helen Rutter
Today my lunchtime plan is to go to the theater and actually stand on the stage. So I can feel it. I have been too nervous so far. Scared of the empty rows staring back at me silently. I get as far as the little steps leading up to the side of the stage, but each time I try to step up my heart starts thumping and my feet won’t move. Every day I go a tiny bit farther than the day before, and I have now somehow finally made it to the last step. With only one more step to go, today’s the day. I’m excited.
I’m going to tell Skyla after I’ve done it. I finish my lunch super fast and make my way out of the dining hall. William Blakemore’s standing in the corridor, leaning against the wall, like he’s been waiting for me. This is now normal; he is like my very own stalker. It’s usually after lunch, but sometimes he mixes it up, surprises me outside the library or between classes. As bullies go, he’s a pretty good one. Committed.
He grabs me by the shoulders, squeezes hard, and says in his hideous voice, “Say ‘Excuse me, Lord William.’ ”
Most of the time there’s someone to stick up for me if they see him anywhere near me, which is nice. Elsie and Yasmin always tell him to leave me alone. After the show-and-tell, they told me that they think I’m “cute,” and obviously I’ve always got Skyla. Today I look around and she’s nowhere to be seen, no one is, so I guess I have no other choice than to start speaking.
“Excuuuse m-m-m-me, L-L-L-Lord Wiiilliam.”
When I’ve finally got to the end of the humiliating sentence, I try to squeeze past him. He pretends to be laughing too much to get out of the way and slaps me on the back, hard, grabs me again, saying, “You are soooo funny. Thanks, Billy. Thanks!” He’s holding me tight on the shoulders now, his thumbs digging into my collarbone. I know that he isn’t going to let me go. “Now, wh-wh-wh-whhat do ya wanna say next, eh, B-B-B-B-B-Bill?” he sneers.
As he’s thinking about what to make me say, he takes one hand away from my shoulder to scratch his head.
This is it, my chance. Who do I want to be in this moment? The boy who stays and takes it, again? Or the boy who does something about it?
I take my moment, duck to get out of his grasp, and run. I’m not much of a runner, but William Blakemore’s terrible at running. I have seen him in PE, so I know I can get away. It doesn’t stop him from trying, though. He’s not far behind me either. As I run down the hall, heart pounding and eyes bulging, on my left I see an open door, I duck in and slam it behind me.
I close my eyes and take big deep breaths in and out. A voice says, “Billy! Well, that’s a way to make an entrance. I’m glad you’re so interested in joining us! Come in! Come in!” It’s Mr. Osho’s Music Lounge. I’d forgotten all about it! “Perfect timing,” he continues. “I’ve just finished my marking and am looking for an opponent. Do you want to play a game? We need a catch-up anyway, don’t we?”
I nod and look around the room. There’s some mellow music playing, and a few kids are sitting around on beanbags, chatting. Tall Matthew, Jiggly Josh, and Alex are there too, sitting around a low table playing a really complicated game with orcs and warlords in it. When they look up and see me they all wave. It looks so peaceful. Safe. I instantly forget all about William Blakemore.
Mr. Osho sits at a table with a big carved wooden board on it that has little stones in each section. “This is Miles Davis,” he says, gesturing to the music in the air. “You ever heard Miles Davis?”
Mr. Osho has asked to look in my notebook, but I don’t know what to write in it. I can’t exactly write: GET RID OF WILLIAM BLAKEMORE, can I? I know that if I ever tell on Blakemore, my life will get much worse. So the pages are all blank. Mr. Osho always looks a bit sad when he sees them. When he asks if I’m okay, I just nod and whisper that I’m fine. I can’t tell him that since the day of the ME ME speech I have actually been completely silent to everyone apart from Skyla. I can’t tell him that the only time that I speak in more than a whisper is when William Blakemore forces me to.
I realize, as Mr. Osho waits for me to answer with his kind, worried face that I want to talk to him, in more than a whisper. I don’t have to tell him about Blakemore, do I? I can just “chat.”
“M-m-m-my granny likes M-M-M-Miles D-D-D-D-Davis,” I reply. Hearing my voice talk about Granny Bread feels strange. I really hope that I’m not going too red. Imagining Granny Bread in her hot little crowded room, listening to Miles Davis on cassette, and imagining her now in her hospital bed makes my throat get tight.
Mr. Osho puts his hand on my shoulder and says, “Well, your granny must be very special.” Then he points to a game and says, “Do you know how to play mancala?” I’m so pleased he doesn’t ask me anything more about her. I smile and shake my head.
He got the wooden board when he was a kid, visiting his grandparents in Nigeria. He says that his granddad carved it for him. The way he strokes the smooth wood makes me think it must be very precious, and I wonder if his granddad is still alive but I don’t ask.
“The little stones are actually seed pods from a tree,” he says. “Shake it and you can hear a little seed inside.” I keep shaking it next to my ear. They feel really nice. Smooth.
He wins four times, but then I win once.
“You still into jokes, Billy?” he asks as we are collecting all the little stones up for a final round.
“Not so much,” I answer.
“Really?”
“I’m m-m-more into books at the m-m-moment,” I say, setting up the perfect joke as we start up the game.
“What are you reading?”
“I’m reading a book on antig-g-g-gravity, sir. It’s so brilliant … I can’t put it down.” Then I mime not being able to put something down because it keeps floating away. “Get it, sir? A b-b-b-book on antigravity that I l-l-literally can’t put down!”
At this he laughs so hard and hits the table with his hand. I get a bit embarrassed that everyone’s looking at us. I think Mr. Osho might be the best audience member ever, maybe even as good as Granny Bread. I’m definitely going to try out more jokes on him.
“You are destined for a life on the stage, Billy,” he says as he moves one of his stones.
“H-h-hardly, sir. You c-c-can’t get up onstage if you can’t even s-speak r-right.” I’m surprised when I say this—it feels too honest, but there’s something about Mr. Osho that makes me want to talk to him, like it’s okay to be myself.
“Why on earth not?” he says. “Anyway, you do speak ‘right,’ just a bit different. I tell you what—there’s nothing wrong with being unusual, especially as a performer. Creative people are meant to be different from the rest. Did you know Elvis had a stammer?”
“No!”
“Yes, and Ed Sheeran.”
“I n-never knew that,” I say.
“Don’t let it stop you from doing anything you want to, Billy.”
When the bell goes, I pack away and head back to homeroom. I sit in my usual spot next to Alex. I’m feeling more confident after my chat with Mr. Osho, so I decide to go for it.
“Wh-wh-wh-what were you guys playing?” I ask, trying to sound casual.
“It’s called Castle Panic,” he says. “It’s awesome.”
Then Josh says from over my shoulder, “We can teach you if you like?”
“Y-y-yeah that w-would be good,” I say. I look up and see Skyla watching me with a little smile on her face, and then just behind her Blakemore with a very different smile on his.
What party game do fish like to play?
Salmon Says.
Granny Bread moved into the Oaks this week. On Sunday, she’s “too weak” to come to us for lunch, like she normally does, so after soccer (we lose), we go to see her in her new room. It’s even hotter than her apartment. All of her things are around, but it’s much smaller than the apartment, so it’s pretty cramped.
The Oaks is a long, low redbrick building, and nearly everyone there is either in bed or in a wheelchair. There are nurses everywhere to help, which I guess is why Granny Br
ead is here. Another good thing is that I can walk there from our house on my own, so I don’t need to get a lift from Mom. After the visit, I walk home on my own so I can time it. It takes eight minutes exactly.
I’m going to go and see her and tell her a new joke every day.
I think she’s scared in the Oaks. She looks scared. She looked at me just like the man in the hospital did when he said, “Help me.” The way she looked at me made me want to run away and hide under my duvet. It’s scaring me even thinking about it now. I’d better change the subject. Like Mom says when I’m worrying, “Just think of something else. Change the channel, Bill!”
Sometimes my brain doesn’t listen when I try to change the subject, though. It just keeps flicking it back over to the worry channel. I don’t know what I’m meant to do then. Anyway, here goes, I’m changing the channel …
I had my speech appointment with Sue on Friday. After I told her all about school and my show-and-tell and then played some games with the Smoothies, she said she thought that I’m ready to tackle some “big challenges.” She wants to talk to me on the phone every Wednesday until my next appointment to start “fighting the fear.” Even as I nodded my head, I was already thinking that I might ignore her call. Phones are the worst.
As we were leaving, she gave us a documentary on DVD. She told us it’s “inspiring.” Mom, Dad, and I watch it after we see Granny Bread and after Chloe has gone to bed. It’s all about this stammer school that people go to and stay at for two weeks. They’re not allowed to talk to anyone they know the whole time. They do things with straps around their tummies and then go and meet a hundred strangers in the street and ask them questions like “Do you know the time?” and “Can you tell me where the museum is?” even though they already know the answers. It looks terrifying. No one even mentions the disgusting tea.
Everyone on the program has stammers worse than mine! I have never seen so many people all stammering at the same time. Some people have even weirder ones than me. One woman sounds like a cat crying every time she speaks. Another guy gets so stuck he looks like he’s having a fit. I feel really sorry for them and I start to like my singing stutter a little more.
At the end, they have to get on a box in a town center and shout things to people. They all do it, and they don’t get stuck much at all. The guy who looked like he was having a fit even tells a joke! He doesn’t stammer once. It’s pretty amazing. When I turn to Mom as the credits come up, she’s crying her eyes out, shaking and making little noises like a hamster. Then I look at Dad and he’s crying too!
Dad never cries. Mom always laughs at him saying that he is made of stone because he didn’t cry on their wedding day or when me and Chloe were born. He says that he was happy so why would he cry? That makes sense, if you ask me.
So I know he’s not happy at the end of the documentary … but I don’t understand why he’s so sad.
“They did really well, Dad. Why are you both crying?” I ask.
“Yes, Billy, they did really well. It’s just a bit much for your mom and me, that’s all. Sorry, son,” he answers, wiping his eyes.
Then Mom hugs me really tight for ages. “It’s just amazing watching people overcome their fears. How strong they can be. It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”
I can’t really answer, as she’s holding me so tight, but I know what she means. I know that I want to be like the people in the documentary. Not to cheat and use cardboard signs, or whisper, or tap. I want to make Mom and Dad feel like this about me.
I just nod into her armpit, and my eyes start going funny. Then she wipes her face with her sleeve and holds my face in her hands and makes my cheeks feel all squashy. “You are such an incredible boy. It’s time for bed.”
I lie awake for ages. Thinking about it. Maybe this is what I have to do next, this can be part of my plan. Number one on the list of Ways to Get Rid of My Stammer. As I write a new list that has only one thing on it, I realize that there is nothing else to write—I have tried and failed at everything else. This is it, my last chance. I look up to the sky.
“Is this the magic cure that I have been waiting for?” I ask. I get a shiver down my spine and pin up the list on to the middle of the board:
I sneak downstairs, so slowly, one step at a time. I am pretty sure I can hear my heart beating. I try not to breathe. I get my iPad out of the drawer in the hall, where Mom keeps it. When the drawer squeaks as I slide the wood back, I think Mom and Dad must have heard me. I freeze. Wait. Listen hard—nothing. Halfway up the stairs, I make a mad dash, taking them two at a time and manage to get back up to my room without them hearing. I find the stammer school website straightaway.
The next course is starting in a month! This is it. It’s actually going to happen. I will be the one standing on that box telling a joke. Just like Granny Bread wanted me to, just what I pinkie-promised her. When I start typing the email, I begin to feel a bit giddy, imagining life without my stammer.
Dear Stammer School,
My name is Billy Plimpton and I have a stammer. A really bad one. I am eleven years old. (I will be twelve in twenty-six days!) I just watched your DVD and I REALLY, REALLY want to come and do the next course.
Please send me the address and price and I’ll bring the money with me.
I can’t wait!
Yours sincerely,
Billy Plimpton
That night, I dream I’m standing onstage at school between the velvet curtains, telling jokes, and I don’t get stuck even once.
What did the drummer name his two daughters?
Anna one, Anna two.
I go to Mr. Osho’s Music Lounge every day now. I’ve got a whole new routine that has no space in it for wandering around on my own. After lunch with Skyla, I run past the theater, trying desperately to avoid the fist of Blakemore, and when it’s empty, I dash in and straight up onto the stage. The first time I walked into the middle, I wasn’t even nervous anymore; I just ran in and straight up the little stairs. I didn’t quite know what to do when I got up there, but when I turned to face the empty seats, it felt great. I took a great big breath in and whispered, “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” and imagined them all smiling back up at me. Then I continued in a slightly bigger voice, “My name is B-B-Billy Plimpton. Just with the one B.” Some imaginary laughter and then louder again. “I would tell you a j-joke about herbs, but this isn’t the thyme.”
I imagine how people would laugh. Mr. Osho slapping his hand down on his thigh, Skyla snorting, or Granny Bread with her head back and eyes closed. I would love for them to see me up here. I haven’t had the guts to tell Skyla to come yet; I keep trying every lunch, but I wimp out. I felt pretty proud of myself for even getting up on the stage, even though no one was in the audience. It’s funny how sometimes things seem so scary at first. Then they change. In a moment. Like in my bedroom in the darkness, there’s a monster, hunched up and staring. In the light it’s my bathrobe, cozy and warm. The stage is more like my bathrobe now. I can see it in a different light.
Yesterday at lunchtime, I ran in without checking first, and the stage was full of eighth graders rehearsing in ballet tutus. I flung the door open and was halfway down the aisle before I even noticed them. They all stopped what they were doing and stared at me. A thin teacher with a beaky-looking face said, “Can we help you?”
I raised my arms above my head, did my best pirouette, and ran back out again to the sounds of them all laughing and the thin, beaky teacher shushing them. I headed straight to the Music Lounge.
I’ve already learned loads of new games there and listened to Ella Fitzgerald, Louis Armstrong, and Art Blakey. Miles Davis is still my favorite. They are all jazz singers and jazz musicians. Jazz drumming is insane. It’s so fast.
When I tell Mr. Osho that I have been practicing jazz beats, he looks at the regulars and says, “Right, boys, you set up the game. Billy, you come with me, kiddo,” and gestures for me to follow him. As we walk down the hall, he says, “Every October, we se
t the Music Lounge up into a rehearsal room. I was going to wait until the drums were set up in there, but the minute you mentioned jazz drumming, that was it. I can’t see you tap-tap-tapping with those pencils anymore. It’s time to drum, Billy Plimpton.”
“Where are we going, sir?”
“The school’s music studio.”
“Am I allowed?”
“You are if you’re with me, kid. But you have to tell the scary seventh graders to get out, okay?!”
“No way!” I say, laughing. “You know that I’ve never actually p-p-played on a real kit, sir?”
“Why do you think we are doing this? That rhythm needs to come out! If it stays inside much longer, you might pop!”
“That’s what my mom says.”
“What? That you’re going to pop?!”
“That I’ve got too much going on in my b-b-brain and it looks like I might pop.”
“There’s definitely lots going on up there, kid.”
“Th-that’s why I stutter. My brain is too full up. That’s what my speech therapist s-s-says. Other people, when their b-brain gets too full, get stressed or c-can’t sleep or get tummy aches. I stutter.”
“That makes sense. Even more reason to let some of it out on the drums, then, eh?”
“What happens to you, sir, when your brain gets too full?”
“Ooh, good question. I bite my nails, and once when it got REALLY full, when I was a little bit older than you, my hair started falling out,” he says as we arrive at the top building.
“Really? Were you bald?” I ask.
“No, it was just in patches and it all grew back eventually, but not a good thing to happen in middle school, as you can imagine. I was already a bit of an outsider, so that made things worse.”
“That’s ridiculous, sir,” I say, wondering if I would rather be bald than have a stutter.