Burning Questions of Bingo Brown Read online

  Insults and Burning Questions

  BINGO SPENT THE MORNING inspecting the girls he was in love with. This was because he hoped to discover something he had previously overlooked—a wart, a mustache, a loose tooth, anything that would turn him off. If he could fall out of love with just one of them, that would be a major breakthrough.

  Would it be conspicuous, he wondered, if he brought his dad’s binoculars? If he could look at them through the zoom lens, wouldn’t he be sure to—

  “Bingo!”

  “Oh, sorry, Mr. Mark. Did you want something?”

  “Class, from now on, assume that if I call your name, I want something. Like, I just called Bingo’s name—what does that mean? All together!”

  “You want something!”

  “What do you want?” Bingo asked.

  “I want you to pass out the notebooks.”

  “I’d be glad to.” With the confidence of a newly moussed person, he got up, accepted the notebooks, and made his way down the rows.

  Mr. Markham said, “Gang, these are going to be your journals. They are your property. They will stay in your desks. Part of every day will be spent writing in your journals.”

  After he had given out the notebooks, Bingo sat down quickly and opened his journal. He felt he should be the first one to start writing. After all, he had announced the day before that he was the top science-fiction writer in the world.

  He looked up. Others had beat him to it. Mamie Lou … even Billy Wentworth. What did they have to be writing about?

  Bingo decided to check this out. Weeks before, he had worked out his route to the pencil sharpener.

  As he passed Billy’s desk, he glanced down.

  Billy Wentworth was not writing after all. He was drawing a picture of himself in combat gear and labeling the various weapons—flamethrower, radio-control missile, noxious-gas grenades, etc.

  Bingo kept walking. He wanted to see what his three loves were writing in their journals. Hopefully it would be something to weaken his love.

  The first one he came to was Mamie Lou. She was not writing at the moment, but she had written two words previously. Now she was lost in thought. Bingo glanced down. He read the two words.

  Dear Dairy,

  Bingo blinked his eyes twice, three times. Was Mamie Lou, the President of the United States, writing to a bunch of cows? He reread the words.

  Dear Dairy,

  “Excuse me for interrupting, but I think you’ve made a mistake.” Bingo said this in the respectful way he would have corrected any President of the United States. “You’ve written Dear Dairy, and you probably meant to write Dear Diary. See, the i goes where the a is, and the a—”

  Mamie Lou looked up at him and Bingo trailed off.

  This was not a look of gratitude. This was a look of pure, ice-cold hatred. It was the look that would probably be effective, years from now, against Russian diplomats, but to look at him that way, he who was going to fill in for her at Easter-egg rolls …

  Billy Wentworth exploded into laughter. “Dear Dairy,” he said, “Mooooooooooooooo.” More Wentworth laughter. Billy’s laughs were distinctive Har, har, har’s.

  Mr. Markham closed his eyes as if in pain. He had told them last week that when he closed his eyes in this manner, he did not want to hear one single sound.

  “This is important, gang, so let’s practice,” he had said. “Make as much noise as you want to.”

  The class had made a moderate amount of noise.

  “Is that the best you can do? You disappoint me.”

  They had made a lot of noise with whistles and catcalls. Mr. Markham had closed his eyes. There was silence.

  “One more time.”

  More noise. Eyes closed. Silence.

  “I think you’ve got it. I hope so.”

  Bingo waited, frozen in place, until Mr. Markham opened his eyes. When Mr. Markham’s newly opened eyes looked right at Bingo, Bingo decided to go back to his seat without sharpening his pencil or checking any more journals.

  Bingo was disappointed. All he had learned was that the President of the United States did not take criticism well and that he would have to use a lot of tact to help her through her presidency.

  Bingo raised his hand. “You’re not going to read these, right?”

  “No one is worried about me reading them, Bingo. Who are you worried about, class? Who will be going to the pencil sharpener again and again and reading over your shoulders? Who? All together now—but not too loud.”

  “Bingo.”

  The hushed sound of his name broke Bingo’s writer’s block. He knew now what he would write. This journal was going to be one of the most important books of the century. It was going to be a book of questions, burning questions …

  He folded his book open and wrote on the title page:

  BURNING QUESTIONS

  by

  Bingo Brown

  On the next page, he began to write questions, starting with a couple that had been worrying him a lot.

  Has there ever been a successful writer named Bingo?

  Has there ever been a successful writer with freckles?

  Has there ever been a successful person with freckles?

  Why did no one notice my mousse?

  Does mousse wear off?

  Should I bring a bottle of mousse in my lunch box instead of a thermos?

  What does Mr. Markham think about when he closes his eyes?

  When the bell for recess rang, Bingo did not hurry out with the rest of the class. He still had questions to put in his journal and, also, he did not have the strength—because of the burdens of love—to go out to recess.

  “Mr. Mark, is it all right if I stay in?”

  “No.”

  “I’ll keep my head on my desk.”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I want to put my head on my desk, and I know I’ll keep lifting my head to make sure your head is on your desk and that way my head will never be on my desk. Does that make any sense to you, Bingo?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Thank you and good-bye.”

  When Bingo got to the playground, he saw that Billy Wentworth had pulled out a book of insults and was reading things like, “Helen McTeer is so ugly she isn’t listed in Who’s Who, she’s listed in What’s That.” Billy Wentworth was going around the playground, finding an insult for every single person there.

  Mamie Lou’s insult was, “Mamie Lou, you are a perfect 10. Your face is a two, your body is a two, your legs are a two—” Mamie Lou didn’t wait around to hear what her other two’s were.

  Tom Knott’s was, “Tom, your nose is so big that it has its own zip code.”

  Melissa’s was, “Melissa, you have the face of a saint—a Saint Bernard.”

  The Orchestra Conductor’s was, “Harriet, you may not have invented ugliness, but you sure are the local distributor.”

  Miss Fanucci, the music teacher, chose that moment to come out onto the playground to round up some chorus members, and Billy found an insult for her.

  Hers was, “Miss Fanucci is so ugly that when she goes to the zoo she has to buy two tickets—one to get in and one to get out.”

  Miss Fanucci passed the group at the exact moment Billy delivered the line. She stopped. She put out her hand for the book. She was not smiling.

  Billy whipped the book behind his back. The faint remnants of the Magic Marker python writhed on his bare arm.

  Miss Fanucci kept holding out her hand.

  Billy Wentworth shook his head regretfully.

  Miss Fanucci said, “Billy.”

  Billy said, “The book isn’t mine, Miss Fanucci, it belongs to my dad. He’s got to have it.”

  Miss Fanucci’s hand was still extended. The class pulled back like old-time Westerners sensing a shoot-out. For the first time in the school year they were absolutely quiet.

  “Miss Fanucci,” Billy said, “I might as well level with you. My dad’
s going to a roast for one of his bowling buddies on Friday night, and he’s got to have this book. If he doesn’t, he won’t have any insults. You wouldn’t want my dad to go to a roast without any insults, would you? He would be disgraced.”

  Miss Fanucci hesitated.

  “Do you want my dad to never bowl again, Miss Fanucci? Because if my dad got disgraced in front of his buddies, then that’s what would happen. I know the man, Miss Fanucci. I’ve been living with him for thirteen years.”

  Miss Fanucci then did what anybody in their right mind would have done. She lowered her hand. “I don’t want to see that book again, Billy.”

  Billy dropped it down the neck of his Rambo t-shirt and patted it. “You won’t” he said.

  Before he went back inside, Billy managed to remember the insult he had picked out for Bingo.

  “Bingo is so freckled that flies never land on him. They can’t find the right spot. Har, har, har.”

  The End of an Imperfect Day

  BINGO WAS QUIET AT supper that night. It had been a long, tiring day, but his brain was still actively turning out questions for his journal.

  Like: Did the look Mamie Lou gave me mean that she does not want me to be First Gentleman? Do I really want to be First Gentleman if she’s going to look at me like that?

  And: What did Harriet and Melissa write in their journals? How can I find out, now that Mr. Mark has alerted the class to the reason for my trips to the pencil sharpener?

  And: Is there more wrong with Mr. Markham than mousse can fix?

  Bingo was so occupied that he barely heard the excited chatter of his parents. He kept sitting there, sifting through the questions, discarding some, keeping others, and at the same time he was making shish kebab on his fork—one lima bean, one piece of macaroni, one square of ham. Bingo liked to mix his flavors.

  His mother was saying, “I’ve hated living next door to an empty house. It gives me the creeps to see dark windows. I will just be so, soooo glad to have neighbors again, won’t you?”

  His father said, “Yes.”

  She turned to Bingo. “And more good news. The people who have bought the house have a son your age. They moved to town last summer but had to sell their house back in Beauford before they could buy.”

  Bingo speared another piece of macaroni, completing the shish kebab.

  “In fact, he’s in your room at school.”

  Bingo put the food in his mouth.

  “Their name is Wentworth.”

  As soon as the name Wentworth was spoken, the two lima beans, two pieces of macaroni, two squares of ham all went directly into Bingo’s windpipe.

  The next few minutes were spent with both his parents competing to give him the Heimlich maneuver.

  “Let me!”

  “No, me!”

  His mom won. The lima beans and the macaroni and one ham square popped out.

  “Are you all right?” his dad asked.

  He couldn’t answer, just kept shaking his head. Tears rolled down his cheeks.

  “Of course he’s not all right,” his mom said. “Look at him.”

  She gave him one more sharp jab under the ribs, and the ham popped out. Satisfied at last, she said, “If you’d take time to chew your food, Bingo, things like this wouldn’t happen.”

  They sat back down. Finally Bingo managed to choke out the words, “Did you say Wentworth?”

  “Yes, he’s with National Cash Register and she’s a nurse. There’s a boy—I believe his name is Billy—and a girl two years older.”

  The pieces of food felt like they had fossilized in his windpipe, permanent memories of the worst moment of his life.

  “Can I be excused?”

  “Bingo, you haven’t eaten a thing.”

  “I can’t … my throat.”

  “Well, drink your milk.”

  He took four swallows. “Is that enough?”

  “Yes, I guess so, but after this, Bingo, only put into your mouth what you can chew and swallow. Don’t cram your mouth with food. You overdo everything.”

  “I know.”

  As he left the room, his mom went back to her happy recital of the new neighbors. Bingo staggered to his room and fell across the bed.

  Now he knew the true meaning of burning questions, because his brain was being seared with them.

  Does Billy Wentworth know I live in this house?

  How long can I keep him from finding out?

  What then?

  “Bingo, what are you doing? It’s almost one o’clock in the morning.”

  Bingo was in the bathroom, going through the medicine cabinet. “Mom, we’re out of junior aspirin!”

  “Go back to bed, Bingo.”

  “And mousse!”

  “I hope you’re not putting mousse on your head at one o’clock in the morning.”

  “No, I was looking for an aspirin because I can’t sleep and when I picked up the mousse can to look behind it, I noticed how light the can was. Mom, it’s empty!”

  His mom got out of bed and came down the hall. “Don’t wake up your dad, Bingo, he has a trip tomorrow.”

  “Look, Mom, it’s empty.”

  “You must have used it all up.”

  “I used three measly dinosaur eggs of mousse, one before school, one before supper, one before bedtime. I needed three eggs of mousse. Don’t you remember how my hair used to look?”

  “Your hair looked fine.”

  “You told the barber one time that my hair was ‘riddled with cowlicks.’ I had to ask what the word riddled meant.”

  “I said no such thing. Anyway, you’re only supposed to use mousse after you shampoo.”

  “Who says?”

  “The label.”

  “Where?”

  “Right there.”

  “Anyway, I did shampoo.”

  “When? Last week? Last month?”

  They would probably have continued the argument because Bingo’s mom was a good arguer, and she had passed on this trait to Bingo, but Bingo’s dad called out, “Will you two shut up? I’ll buy more mousse. I’ll buy a truckload of mousse. I’ll buy a warehouse of the stuff if you’ll just shut up.”

  “Good night, Bingo,” his mother said.

  “Good night, Mom.”

  To Ray from Worm Brain

  IT WAS ENGLISH AGAIN, and Bingo sat staring at his sheet of paper. This was one of the assignments he had been looking forward to. This was the day they were writing to their favorite authors.

  Bingo had already decided he would write to Ray Bradbury and reveal to him that he had three science-fiction novels underway. Even though he still had only one paragraph done on each one, he figured Ray Bradbury did not get many letters from twelve-year-olds who have started three novels.

  However, the fact that Billy Wentworth was going to move next door to him occupied his whole mind. So far, Billy didn’t know. Bingo could tell that from the way he said, “Hello, Worm Brain,” in his usual way, but when Billy Wentworth did find out, he was not going to like it.

  The class had now been working on their letters for fifteen minutes. All Bingo had on his paper were two words.

  Dear Ray,

  Bingo sighed. He decided to do what he usually did in blank moments—sharpen his pencil and check out the other letters. He’d be very surprised if he saw any other Dear Ray’s.

  He got up. He knew he would have to walk very briskly so it wouldn’t look suspicious. He passed one Lloyd Alexander, one Jean Fritz and one Dr. Seuss. This took him to the desk of the President of the United States.

  He glanced down. He was so astonished by her letter that all thoughts of Billy Wentworth went out of his mind.

  The President of the United States was writing to Laura Ingalls Wilder. And not only that, she had written this unbelievable sentence:

  Dear Laura Ingalls Wilder,

  I know that you are dead, but please write if you can and let me know where you get your ideas.

  And this was the woman that he thou
ght he loved! This was the woman he was going to sit beside at conferences and fill in for at Easter-egg rolls!

  She looked up at him then, giving him the same icy-cold look she had given him the day before. “What are you looking at?” she asked.

  “Nothing.”

  “Then bug off.”

  Bingo continued on his way to the pencil sharpener. He felt a deep sense of relief. Now he definitely only loved two girls, and perhaps if he saw who they were writing to, he wouldn’t love them either.

  Dr. Jekyll and Ms. Hyde saw him coming, unfortunately, and turned her paper over so Bingo couldn’t see it.

  Bingo stood there stabbing himself on the leg with his pencil.

  Why do people care if I see their papers? Do they think my eyes will ruin the words? Why can’t they let me look? Why? Why? Why?

  Mr. Markham stopped Bingo’s questions with one of his own. “What are you doing, Bingo?”

  “Nothing. Going to the pencil sharpener.”

  “Have you finished your letter?”

  “Not quite.”

  “Anyway, Bingo, I do not want the letters written in pencil. Intelligent beings do not write letters in pencil. They write in pen. This is because they are secure enough not to need to erase.”

  “I’m doing my first draft in pencil.”

  Bingo sharpened his pencil and spun around so fast he caught Dr. Jekyll and Ms. Hyde off-guard. She was writing to Isaac Asimov!

  This moved Bingo so much that he couldn’t step away from her desk. He could not move. He just stood there, staring down at her hair which was so beautiful she didn’t even need mousse. He was glued in place, rooted to the spot. He would never ever leave her desk. He would spend the rest of his life here like a pilgrim, a worshipper at a shrine, a—

  “Bingo, either go directly to your desk or the principal’s office.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Bingo found that these harsh words from Mr. Markham broke the spell, releasing him, and he was now capable of returning to his desk.

  Bingo was the only person at the supper table who was depressed. His parents were extremely happy. They were acting like children and Bingo was acting like an elderly person.