Burning Questions of Bingo Brown Page 5

  Bingo tossed and turned. His Snoopy sheets became twisted and sweaty.

  He got up at eleven, put on the light, and went through his bureau drawers, thinking that perhaps he had a shirt he’d forgotten about. He got up again at twelve. This time he went to his mom’s room and quietly opened her t-shirt drawer.

  “What are you doing, Bingo?” she asked, lifting her head off the pillow.

  “Nothing, Mom, go back to sleep.”

  “What are you doing in my bureau drawer?”

  “Nothing, Mom, just checking out your t-shirts.”

  “At midnight?”

  “Mom, everybody is wearing these great t-shirts tomorrow and I’m stuck with Mozart Freak. I’ve got to have something better. I’ve got to!”

  “Well, you should have thought of that before midnight. Go back to bed.”

  “Mom—”

  “Go to bed, Bingo!” This was his father’s command-voice.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Bingo went to bed, but he couldn’t sleep. About one o’clock he made a decision. He would create a t-shirt. He would take a blank t-shirt, and he would write WORDS on it. That would be all, except that the O would be the not-allowed symbol: Ø.

  He got out of bed. Unfortunately, the only blank t-shirts were in his father’s underwear drawer. Silently Bingo crept into his parents’ room, silently opened the drawer, withdrew the top t-shirt, and departed.

  On the way back to his room, he slipped through the house, gathering Magic Markers from various drawers. In order to insure that the shirt was colorful, he was going to make each letter a different color. The Ø would be red.

  Bingo set to work. As soon as he started he was electrified. The shirt was going to be beautiful, beautiful, and best of all was the fact that he hadn’t put cardboard inside the shirt before he started and so now the color was going through the material.

  At last Bingo was finished. He draped his t-shirt over his dresser so that the first thing he would see in the morning was WØRDS. He stood for moment admiring the letters, the coloring, the—

  “Bingo, are you still up?”

  “No.”

  “Then why is your light on?”

  “I mean, yes, I’m up, but I’m going to bed right now.”

  Bingo turned off the light. He fell across his crumpled Snoopy sheets. At last he was ready for the most thrilling day of his life.

  The Most Thrilling Day of Bingo Brown’s Life

  “WHAT DO YOU THINK?”

  Bingo stood in the doorway to the kitchen in his WØRDS t-shirt. His parents put down their coffee cups and turned to look at him.

  “Be honest now.”

  “I thought you had decided to wear Mozart Freak,” his mom said.

  “Mom, I told you last night it wasn’t special enough. Wait, you haven’t seen the back.” he turned slowly, revealing SDRØW. “Now what do you think?”

  Many of his past creations had looked good on paper but had not worked out—like last Halloween. The disguise was perfect, but it took him a half hour to walk to the first house. This had worked out.

  There was another long pause.

  Finally his dad said, “It’s different.”

  “Really? You aren’t just saying that?”

  His mom said, “Your dad’s right. There won’t be another one like it.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Now sit down and have some breakfast.”

  “Mom, I can’t eat. I’ve got to get to school!”

  “Bingo, it won’t take five minutes to eat a bowl of cereal.”

  “Mom, I’m late already. Everybody’s going to be there early, to get a good place. If I’m late, I’ll miss it.” The thought of that brought such anguish that he turned immediately and started for the door.

  “Bingo, it’s not even seven o’clock yet, now come back here and—”

  The slamming of the front door was her answer.

  Every single person was already at school when Bingo got there. Every single person was wearing a t-shirt with something written on it. The schoolyard was ablaze with words. It was a dictionary come to life.

  HELP, I’M BEING HELD PRISONER IN THIS SHIRT!

  AVAILABLE FOR CLONING.

  I AM SURROUNDED BY IDIOTS.

  ARCHEOLOGY IS THE PITS.

  ONLY LEFT-HANDED PEOPLE ARE IN THEIR RIGHT MIND.

  Bingo had never enjoyed anything so much. His mouth hung open in admiration.

  NOTICE: THE AREA BEHIND THIS SHIRT IS PROTECTED UNDER THE ENDANGERED SPECIES ACT.

  I HAVE SOMETHING MONEY CAN’T BUY—POVERTY.

  RANIUM—THE ONLY THING MISSING IS U.

  COMPUTER CHIPS ARE SMALL BECAUSE COMPUTERS TAKE SMALL BYTES.

  CAUTION: I KNOW KARATE AND A FEW OTHER ORIENTAL WORDS.

  BE ALERT—THE WORLD NEEDS MORE LERTS.

  SPLIT WOOD—NOT ATOMS.

  STOP CONTINENTAL DRIFT.

  BEAM ME UP SCOTTY. THERE IS NO INTELLIGENT LIFE DOWN HERE.

  REALITY IS FOR THOSE WHO CAN’T FACE SCIENCE FICTION.

  π2 NO! PI ARE ROUND. CAKE ARE SQUARE.

  Bingo’s long wandering path among his classmates brought him to the steps of the school. Billy Wentworth stood there alone, head and shoulders above the crowd. His eyes looked at some distant spot on the horizon.

  He had on his newly purchased Rambo t-shirt. His combat boots and camouflage pants completed the outfit. His hands were behind his back. He was standing at what Bingo recognized from war movies as Parade Rest. He would draw an aerial view of it later in his journal.

  Below him, the students milled around the schoolyard, admiring t-shirts and shivering with excitement and the chill of the fall morning. The October air was charged with electricity.

  YOU QUACK ME UP.

  DON’T BUG ME. THIS IS MY DO-NOTHING T-SHIRT!

  I’M NOT OVERWEIGHT—I’M UNDERTALL.

  HERE I COME … THERE I GO.

  It was a measure of their excitement and dedication that not one of them had thought to bring books, homework, or lunches. These items no longer had any meaning. They were wearing the only items of lasting value.

  The time ticked slowly by … seven-thirty … seven-forty. “What time is it now?” the kids without watches kept asking. Ten minutes to eight … five minutes to eight …

  When eight o’clock came, Billy Wentworth shifted position. He stopped Parade Rest and turned sharply to face the front door.

  As if on signal, the kids closed in around him. The only sounds were the coughs of the sick kids who had come to school anyway. “Mom, I’m just going for five minutes,” they had told their moms. Some of the moms were waiting across the street in station wagons, motors idling, so they could rush the invalids back to bed.

  At eight-oh-five there was a metallic sound. The inside doors were being unlocked.

  Roosevelt Middle School had two sets of doors. There were inside doors and then there was a little room which was never used, and then the outside doors. So there was going to be a lot of door unlocking before the main event.

  The inside doors had now been opened. Bingo could see the shadow of a man in the room that was never used. The shadow moved toward the outside doors.

  Bingo’s heart moved up into his throat. He had stopped breathing a long time ago.

  Billy Wentworth was the only person in motion, and all he did was wipe his hands on the back of his camouflage pants as if he were getting ready for a fight.

  Everyone on the school ground was frozen in place. Bingo was sandwiched between Melissa in her Declaration of Independence and Harriet in her I HAVE A PORPOISE IN LIFE, but he didn’t even notice he was between his two loves, didn’t even feel the warmth of their shoulders against his.

  Now the outside doors were being unlocked. Now they were being opened.

  No one breathed. No one moved.

  A figure appeared in the doorway, a figure in a gray jumpsuit. It was the janitor! The janitor! THE JANITOR!

  Their mouths dropped open. They blinke
d their eyes to clear their vision, and it was still THE JANITOR.

  Now everybody started looking around at everybody else. The exact same burning questions were popped in every mind.

  What’s going on here?

  Where’s Boehmer?

  What’s the janitor doing opening the doors?

  How can this be the most thrilling day of our lives if Boehmer and Billy Wentworth don’t have a head-to-head confrontation?

  Bingo briefly considered leading the crowd in a chant. We want Boehmer! We want Boehmer! Maybe he had gotten his father’s cheerleading gene after all.

  Before he could put this plan into effect, however, Billy Wentworth turned around. He locked his hands over his head and gave the victory signal.

  Through the sudden tears in Bingo’s eyes, he saw Billy Wentworth disappear through the outside doors, into the little room which was never used, through the inside doors and into the school.

  Then he didn’t have to lead the crowd. They burst into a rousing cry that could be heard five miles away.

  “YYYYYYYYEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!”

  And then in a rush, they happily followed their rebel leader inside.

  Bingo’s Embrace

  BINGO HAD THOUGHT THAT his thrills were over for the day when he walked into the classroom and saw the substitute teacher.

  “My name’s Miss Brownley,” a lady with a bushel-basket of hair said, “and I’m your substitute for the day.”

  Mamie Lou put up her hand. “Miss Brownley?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where’s Mr. Boehmer?”

  “The principal? I believe he had a staff meeting this morning. He’ll be in his office later.”

  “Why wasn’t he at the door?”

  “What door?”

  “The front door! He was supposed to be at the front door! We weren’t supposed to wear shirts with writing on them and we did and he was supposed to send us home but he didn’t. Why?”

  “I have no idea,” said Miss Brownley.

  Yes, Bingo thought, the thrills were over for the day. Then at exactly ten twenty-three something happened that made the wear-in seem like child’s play. Melissa walked into his arms.

  This was the first time that Melissa and Bingo had ever made real contact so Bingo would have been pleased even if their hands had bumped or she had stepped on his tennis shoe. To have her walk into his arms was like something out of a soap opera. It left him delirious.

  The embrace came about in an unexpected way. To get the class to calm down, Miss Brownley asked them to write in their journals.

  Everyone was too excited to think of something to write. Even Bingo had no burning questions.

  “Let me make a suggestion,” Miss Brownley said. “Write about someone who has significantly changed your life—a teacher, a coach, perhaps one of your parents. It could even be someone on television …”

  While Miss Brownley droned on, Bingo wrote a page and a half about the doctor who had been responsible for his being named Bingo. He ended with a question. Who knows what kind of person I might have become had the doctor said, “Richard!” instead of “Bingo!”

  He illustrated the piece with a picture of the doctor holding up the unfortunate baby. Even with all that, he was finished before anybody else. He immediately broke his pencil.

  Bingo felt safe in doing this. Usually he didn’t break his pencil until he made it to the pencil sharpener, but Miss Brownley was new and had never seen him in action before.

  He took his time getting to the pencil sharpener and leisurely checked out the people who had significantly changed the lives of his classmates.

  No one’s lives had been changed very significantly. There was a kindergarten teacher called Miss Tiffany. A Little League coach. Mr. Rogers …

  Then Bingo got to Melissa’s desk. Melissa was bending over her paper. The long sleeves of her Declaration of Independence t-shirt blocked his view.

  Then she lifted her arm and—to Bingo’s horror—she wiped her eyes with her sleeve. Melissa was crying!

  Bingo drew in a deep breath of concern.

  Melissa started writing again, but a tear fell onto her page. She tried to write over the tear, but she bore down on her pencil and the point broke.

  Now Bingo saw the reason for the tears. Melissa was writing about her father, and Melissa’s father was unemployed.

  Bingo stood there, aching with sympathy, ready to cry himself. At that moment, blinded by her tears, Melissa jumped up to go to the pencil sharpener, and she plunged directly into Bingo’s waiting arms.

  “Excuse me,” she gasped.

  “Of course, of course.”

  She tried to go around him and he tried to get out of her way, but they both went in the same direction and embraced again.

  “I’m sorry,” she gasped.

  “Me too.” Then Bingo said manfully, “Here. Let me.” He took the pencil from her and she sank back in her seat. It seemed a grateful sink to Bingo.

  He stepped to the pencil sharpener and then proceeded to do the second most thrilling thing he had ever done in his life. He sharpened Melissa’s pencil.

  It was so rewarding that he kept sharpening and sharpening. He would have sharpened down to the eraser except that Miss Brownley said, “Bingo.”

  “What?”

  “I didn’t give you permission to go to the pencil sharpener.”

  “Oh, sorry, Miss Brownley. I didn’t know we had to have permission. Mr. Mark just lets us use our own judgment.”

  “Class, while I’m here, I’d like for you to ask permission to leave your desks.”

  “I will next time. Anyway, I’m sharpening Melissa’s pencil right now. Afterwards, I’ll be—”

  “Isn’t Melissa capable of sharpening her own pencil?”

  “Yes,” Bingo said gallantly, “but since I was already up and she was down—”

  “Bingo, I don’t want to have to send you to the principal’s office.”

  Bingo stopped being gallant. Mr. Boehmer had not been seen all morning, and so the first student his eyes would fall on would be Bingo. The first shirt his eyes would see would say WØRDS, a cruel reminder of his morning cowardice.

  “I am going to my desk at once,” Bingo said. He turned to Melissa. “Here,” he said and presented the pencil.

  “Thanks, Bingo.”

  His name! She said his name! He loved his name the way she said it!

  He then returned to his desk. Even Mr. Markham could have found no fault with the purposeful way he walked. He didn’t check out a single paper. At his desk, he turned smartly and took his seat.

  It was then that he discovered he had forgotten to sharpen his own pencil, but what was that compared with holding Melissa and the Declaration of Independence in his arms?

  Friday night’s supper was one of the best Bingo could remember. Every member of the family had something to be happy about.

  Bingo was the happiest. He had double triumphs—the wear-in and the embrace. His father was next happiest because someone named Mr. Kroll was going to Lima, Ohio. Now he could be standing on his hands with the other cheerleaders. His mom was third happiest because now she did not have to decide whether to go to homecoming without him.

  “Would you have gone without me?” Bingo’s father asked.

  “I might have, because I told them I would and they’re counting on my trumpet.”

  “Oh.”

  “But I wouldn’t have enjoyed it. You know that.”

  Bingo said, “Isn’t anyone going to ask about the wear-in?”

  “I am,” his mom said. “I’m dying to hear about the wear-in. How did it go?”

  “It was a triumph. Boehmer never showed up. He was too chicken. He pretended to be in a staff meeting.”

  “Maybe he was in a staff meeting.”

  “Mom, don’t be naive. Billy Wentworth led us into the school and Boehmer hid out in the office all day. Billy Wentworth—he’s the boy that’s moving next door—was—”

&nbs
p; “Oh, speaking of homecoming,” his mom interrupted. “Now that we’re going for sure, I better call Mom and see if she can stay with Bingo. I’ll call after supper.”

  This was more good news. Bingo loved his grandmother. She was like his mother in looks, except a little more wrinkled. She and his mom wore the same size and borrowed each other’s clothes. They both wore their hair pulled back. There was only one difference, really. Bingo’s grandmother was perfect. She did not have one fault.

  She let him have what he wanted to eat. She let him do what he wanted to do. She loved to take him to the movies. She loved to make popcorn for him. She made pancakes in the shapes of animals.

  She said, “Why, of course you do,” all the time. Like Bingo would say, “I want ice cream on my cornflakes.”

  “Why, of course you do.”

  Splat.

  Also his grandmother called him by his real name—Harrison—which was very refreshing after all the Bingos.

  “When are you going exactly?” he asked. A weekend of having every single one of his wishes—no matter how foolish—fulfilled, would do a lot for him.

  “Two weeks from today.”

  That night should have been a peaceful one for Bingo. Not only had it been a perfect day, but his mom had changed the sheets on his bed. He always slept well on his Smurf sheets.

  But as soon as he closed his eyes, a question came.

  If it had been Harriet who walked into my arms in her I HAVE A PORPOISE IN LIFE shirt, would it have been (a) as thrilling, (b) more thrilling, or (c) not thrilling at all?

  New Meaning to Life

  THE ONLY NOTEWORTHY EVENT of Monday was that Miss Brownley personally walked around the classroom, putting pink slips of paper on everyone’s desk.

  “You are to take these home, boys and girls, and have one of your parents sign them.”

  The pink slips said, Yes, my child has permission to wear printed t-shirts to Roosevelt Middle School and I will take full responsibility for any words or messages thereon. There was a blank below for the signature.

  “Miss Brownley?”