Burning Questions of Bingo Brown Read online

  “Yes, Mamie Lou.”

  “I thought Mr. Markham was going to be back today.”

  “I think he had planned to be back today, but there was some sort of problem.”

  “What was the problem?”

  “I couldn’t say.”

  “Does that mean that you know the problem and won’t tell us what it is? Or does it mean you don’t know the problem?”

  Miss Brownley gave her a look instead of an answer.

  “Can I ask you one more thing, Miss Brownley?”

  “You can ask.”

  “Does it have anything to do with Dawn?”

  “I couldn’t say.”

  Bingo spent most of Monday trying to put meaning back into his life. This was essential because after the thrill of the wear-in and the embrace, the rest of his life seemed unimportant.

  He sat listlessly at his desk. Even Math—which he liked—had no meaning. Instead of multiplying like the rest of the class, he found himself asking 174 whats? 2498 whats? In a desperate effort to give meaning to the numbers, he began illustrating his problems, but even that—174 oranges times 2498 apples equals 434,652 mixed fruits—didn’t seem to work.

  A second embrace from Melissa would have helped a lot, but even though he made several trips to the pencil sharpener, giving her every opportunity to jump up, she had not done so. This was especially disappointing since he had worked out a plan to go directly from Melissa’s arms to Harriet’s desk where he would yell something like, “Spider!”

  Harriet would leap up in alarm. His arms would be waiting. They would embrace and he would know the truth.

  During Math, he decided to try again. He put up his hand.

  “What now, Bingo?”

  “I seem to have broken my pencil again.”

  Miss Brownley said, “Will someone lend Bingo a pencil?”

  “My mom doesn’t like me to borrow. She—”

  “I have an extra pencil,” Mamie Lou said. “Pass that back to Bingo.”

  The pencil was not quite an inch long. It was an eraser with a point on it.

  “What if I break this pencil?”

  “You won’t.”

  “Miss Brownley—”

  “Bingo, I have been keeping a record of the number of times you have been to the pencil sharpener, and in the day and a half that I have been substituting for Mr. Markham, you have been to the pencil sharpener nine times.”

  “It can’t be that many—two or three maybe. I know I break a lot of pencils, Miss Brownley, I can’t help it. I bear down hard.”

  She held up a notepad. On the pad were nine marks. She had been keeping a record!

  “If you would like me to,” she went on, “I’ll be happy to write your mother a note, stating the problem, and requesting additional pencils.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Bingo said firmly. “I’ll make this one last.”

  “Good.”

  He did the rest of his math problems in pale, meaningless numbers, sparing the lead of his pencil. When he wrote in his journal, he wrote in pale letters only one question.

  Is my life as a happy person over?

  It was Billy Wentworth who put meaning back into Bingo’s life. He did it with one sentence.

  “I’m moving next door to you Saturday.”

  “Saturday?”

  “That’s what I said, Worm Brain. Saturday.”

  With that single statement, the enormity of the occasion washed over Bingo like a tidal wave. He would get to see what kind of furniture a hero had. He would see the refrigerator his food went in. He would see his chairs. He would see Billy Wentworth’s bed!

  “Bingo.”

  “What have I done now, Miss Brownley?” Had he gone to the pencil sharpener without knowing it—like a sleepwalker? “I honestly don’t know what I’ve done.”

  “You were staring into space.”

  “Oh.” Had she been keeping a record of his staring-into-spaces too? He would be glad to have Mr. Markham back. Even writing letters to Dawn was better than this.

  Mr. Markham came back the next day in time to collect the pink slips.

  “I forgot mine, Mr. Mark,” Bingo said. “I’ve had a lot on my mind lately.”

  “I’m glad to hear that, Bingo—that you have something on your mind.”

  Mr. Markham sounded like the old Mr. Mark, but he looked smaller, as if he was wearing his big brother’s clothes.

  “Mr. Mark?”

  “Yes, Mamie Lou.”

  “You missed the wear-in. You didn’t get to see us in our shirts.”

  “I was with you in spirit.”

  “I wanted you to see us.”

  Mr. Markham put the pink slips in his desk drawer. “Hey, that gives me an idea, gang. Let’s start off with Art. We haven’t had Art in weeks. Get out a piece of paper and draw a picture of yourself in your t-shirt. We’ll put the pictures up on the board as a reminder of your daring. Yes, Melissa?”

  “My shirt had the whole Declaration of Independence on it. I’m not sure I remember it word for word.”

  “Fake it.”

  Everyone began work at once. The pictures had been burned into their brains since Friday, and it was a relief to be able to recreate them.

  Mr. Markham stood at the window, looking out. There wasn’t much out there—the parking lot and the side of the gymnasium, but Mr. Markham kept looking until they finished the pictures. Melissa said, “Mr. Mark, we’re through with the pictures.”

  He turned around then. “Pictures? Yes, pictures. Melissa, would you take down the harvest display from the bulletin board and organize the t-shirt display?”

  “Sure.”

  Bingo was grateful to Mr. Markham for the display. He glanced sideways at it all during the week.

  The pictures were better than photographs. Harriet in I HAVE A PORPOISE IN LIFE. Billy in Rambo. Melissa in what appeared to be the complete Declaration of Independence. Barbara in the Statue of Liberty—ANY HUNDRED-YEAR-OLD LADY NEEDS A LIFT NOW AND THEN. Bingo in WØRDS.

  Being watched over by pictures of themselves at their best did something for all of them. Billy drew no weaponry. Bingo did not go to the pencil sharpener. They were so quiet that Mr. Markham only had to close his eyes once.

  When Bingo wrote in his journal on Friday, his questions reflected the peaceful nature of the week.

  Is this the way my life is going to be from now on?

  Am I at last in a period of peace?

  Is this adulthood?

  Or is this what’s known as the calm that comes before the storm?

  Will Billy Wentworth have bunk beds?

  Spying on a Superstar

  “COME AWAY FROM THE window and stop spying on the Wentworths.”

  Bingo snapped the curtains shut and spun around. “I was not spying.”

  “Bingo Brown, you’ve been spying ever since you got up.”

  “I have not. I’ve done dozens of things since I got up.”

  “You have done exactly two things. One, run to the window. Two, spy. Look at you. You aren’t even dressed. You’re still in your pajamas.”

  Bingo sighed. He could see that this was one of the times he was not going to change his mom’s mind, no matter how hard he tried. Her specialty was false accusations.

  He decided to do what his mother and the President of the United States did in similar situations—turn icy.

  He said coldly, “Would I be accused of further spying if I went to my room? After all, my room does face the Wentworths’ house. If my eyes happen to glance out my own window, would you call this spying too?”

  “Yes.”

  “Mom!”

  “You asked me.”

  “Well, I didn’t expect you to answer like that. You don’t have to hurt my feelings. You should—”

  His mom reached out and took his shoulder. She said, “Look.”

  “What? Where?”

  “They’ve got a wide-screen TV.”

  “Where? Let me see. Mom, I
want to see too.”

  They jostled for position at the window and ended up with Bingo in front and his mom peering over his head. In silence they watched the wide-screen TV being carried up the stairs. The men had to turn it sideways to get it in the front door.

  “They’re probably going to put it in the living room,” his mom said. “If they were putting it in the game room, they’d take it in through the garage, don’t you think? Can you see where they’re putting it?”

  “I could if you’d move over, Mom, and let me stand up straight.”

  “With a wide-screen TV, the father’s probably into sports.”

  “Bowling,” Bingo said.

  “How do you know it’s bowling? You don’t need a wide screen to watch bowling.”

  “Well, he went to a roast for one of his bowling buddies, I know that for a fact.”

  “Is that a Jenn-Air stove? I—” The phone rang then and Bingo’s mom said, “Get that for me, Bingo?”

  “Why should I get it? It’s never for me.”

  “Oh, all right.”

  Bingo kept watching until his mom came back. “You missed the stereo. It was—”

  “The phone,” his mother announced, “is for you.”

  “Me?”

  “It’s a girl.”

  “For me?”

  “Your name is Bingo, isn’t it?”

  Bingo went to the phone slowly. This was the first time he had ever talked to a girl on the phone, and he was not sure he was ready for a mixed-sex conversation. He took a deep breath and picked up the phone. He held it away from his head so it didn’t touch him.

  “Hello.”

  “Bingo?”

  “Yes, it’s me. Who is this?”

  “Melissa.”

  “Melissa!”

  “Yes. Hi. Bingo, can I talk to you for a minute?”

  “Sure.”

  “Because I’ve just got to talk to somebody. I can’t keep this to myself any longer.”

  “What? What is it?”

  Bingo sank down onto the chair. His heart had started to pound. This was the way mixed-sex conversations were supposed to be—intriguing, mysterious—only Bingo had never thought of himself as having one. He brought the phone closer.

  “Bingo, do you remember the other day when Mr. Mark made us write letters to Dawn?”

  This was not what Bingo was expecting, but he said quickly, “I remember that.”

  “Remember he made me get up and describe her?”

  “Yes, I remember. You did a good job too.”

  Melissa sighed.

  “What’s wrong?”

  She sighed again. Bingo got to his feet in alarm. Was it something he had said? Was it something he had not said? He would say anything she wanted him to, didn’t she know that?

  “Well, remember I said Mr. Mark went in the store and she stayed outside?”

  “Yes, yes.”

  “Remember I said I went over and said, ‘Hi’?”

  “Yes, yes.”

  “I just did it to be friendly. She said, ‘Hi,’ back to me. Then she said, ‘What’s your name?’ I said, ‘Melissa.’ She said, ‘Mine’s Dawn.’”

  There was a long pause. Bingo wondered if that was the end of the conversation. He didn’t want to say, “Well, I’m glad we had this talk,” in case there was more. On the other hand, he was glad to have had this talk. It was the best mixed-sex conversation he had ever had in his life.

  “That’s not all,” Melissa said as if she had read his mind. Bingo sank slowly back into the chair.

  “I said, ‘Are you and Mr. Mark going somewhere special? I’m in his room at school.’ I said that because I didn’t want her to think I was just being nosy.”

  “Oh.”

  “She said, ‘We’re going on a picnic.’ I said, ‘Oh, neat. I love picnics.’ She said, ‘Well, I don’t. He came by the spa where I work and offered me a ride home. At first I said no, but then he promised to take me straight home so I got on. Right away he U-turned and brought me here. I can’t go on a picnic. I told him that but he won’t listen. Now he’s gone in the store to get hotdogs.’”

  Bingo had never realized before what a good conversationalist Melissa was. He had known she was beautiful and intelligent and sensitive, but she was so good at imitating people that he knew exactly how Dawn sounded.

  “So I said, ‘Are you his girlfriend?’ She was so nice I felt like I could ask her anything. And she said, ‘No, I could never be his girlfriend because he’s too erratic, like this picnic that I don’t want to go on. I’ve got a date tonight and he probably won’t take me home in time to get ready.’ Then she looked around and said, ‘I wish I could see somebody I knew,’ and then she looked at me and said, ‘Oh, could I get a ride home with you? Where’s your car—quick?’ Before I could answer, Mr. Mark came out of the store. She said, ‘Oh, there he is. I could just cry.’”

  There was a long pause, and then Melissa said, “That’s all.”

  “Oh?”

  “That was all the conversation. They got on the bike and drove off.”

  “Oh.” Bingo was trying to put a lot of variety in his Oh’s, making each one different.

  “I wanted to tell somebody about it because it made me feel terrible the other day when he said she was his girlfriend. She’s not his girlfriend. I don’t even think she likes him.”

  “Oh.”

  “I wish I had her last name so I could call her up.”

  “Me too.”

  “Anyway, you know something?”

  “What?”

  “Just telling you about it has made me feel better.”

  “Oh.”

  “Thanks for listening.”

  “I was glad to.”

  “Bye.”

  He went slowly back to the window. “You missed the bunk beds, two La-Z-Boy recliners and a beanbag chair,” his mom said.

  “Oh.”

  “Here they come! The Wentworths and the kids.”

  Bingo watched as the car drove up and stopped in front of the house. Billy got out of the car, then his sister—they were having an argument. The sister was saying, “I got the big bedroom because I take care of things. You are a slob.” There was a bumper sticker on the car that said I’D RATHER BE BOWLING.

  Also, Bingo had sort of lost interest. A good mixed-sex conversation made bunk beds and beanbag chairs unimportant. Plus he had gotten a mental picture of how he might look to Billy Wentworth.

  And then Bingo stepped up to the window. He gasped with surprise. He threw open the curtain.

  For at that moment, getting out of the car along with the family, was the most unbelievable sight Bingo had ever seen, something he had not dreamed could be true, something he would remember for the rest of his life.

  Billy Wentworth had a poodle.

  The Worst News of Bingo’s Life

  BINGO WAS WALKING HOME slowly. This was because he had just had another mixed-sex conversation.

  Melissa had said, “Can I speak to you after school?”

  “Sure, sure.”

  “It’s about what I told you on the phone.”

  “All right.”

  The second mixed-sex conversation was held on the school steps. Melissa said, “After I talked to you, I started thinking.”

  “Yes, yes.”

  “Maybe Dawn wasn’t Mr. Markham’s girlfriend when I talked to her, but maybe she got to be his girlfriend after that. See what I mean?”

  “I think so.”

  “After I thought about that, I wanted to call you back because I was afraid I had made you worry about Mr. Mark like İ was worrying about Mr. Mark, but I was afraid to call you back because I was afraid your mom would answer and she would think I was calling you too much.”

  “You can call me anytime you want to.”

  “Really? You mean that?”

  “Yes.”

  Bingo was replaying the conversation in his mind when he rounded the corner, so he did not immediately recognize the awful s
ound that filled the street. Then he recognized it and broke into a run.

  “Mom!” He threw open the living room door. “Stop! Don’t!” he cried.

  “Don’t what?”

  “Play the trumpet.”

  “Why?”

  “They’ll hear you.”

  “Who?”

  “The Wentworths.”

  “The Wentworths have heard trumpet-playing before. Anyway, this is when people are supposed to practice—in the middle of the afternoon when nobody’s trying to sleep.”

  “Couldn’t you at least play it quietly? Aren’t there mutes or something you can stick in trumpets to make them quiet?”

  “Fight songs are not minuets, Bingo. You’re supposed to give them all you’ve got. Now let go of my arm.”

  “Can I at least close the window?”

  “I want to get used to playing outside—oh, all right, close the window and I’ll go out in the yard.”

  “No! Not the yard! The window’s fine.”

  “Well, make up your mind.”

  Bingo walked into his room with one question in his mind.

  In the morning at school, could he say to Billy, “Man, did you hear that terrible trumpet-playing yesterday? Somebody stinks”?

  Would Billy answer, “Yeah, and it’s your mom”?

  While he was lying on the bed, trying to get his mind to return to the mixed-sex conversation, his mom came into the room.

  “Oh, about homecoming—”

  “What about it?” Bingo said without interest. In his mind Melissa had just said the opening word in the mixed-sex conversation. Bingo.

  “Well, Mom’s not going to be able to stay with you. This is her bridge weekend. You know, once a year she and her seven best friends go to a resort hotel and play bridge all weekend. They’ve been doing it since 1965. Last year she had to miss because of her gallbladder, and I couldn’t ask her to miss again. This year they’re going to the Myrtle Beach Holiday Inn.”

  “So what am I going to do?”

  “Well, this falls under the heading of a stroke of luck. I went over to the Wentworths to introduce myself and while we were talking, I mentioned the weekend and that I didn’t have anyone for you to stay with, and she said, ‘Why, he can stay with us. Billy has an extra bunk bed.’ I really like her. She is so nice. I—”

  Bingo sat straight up in bed. “Mom,” he said, his voice was firm, adult, and controlled except that it was four notes higher than usual. “Mom, I cannot spend the night with Billy Wentworth.”