Burning Questions of Bingo Brown Page 7
“But why? He seems like such a nice boy.”
“I cannot explain it but you’ll just have to believe me, Mom. I cannot spend the night with Billy Wentworth.”
“But why? Give me one reason.”
“No, just take it from me, I cannot spend the night with Billy Wentworth.”
“But it’s all set.”
“Then it will have to be unset. I will not stay with Billy Wentworth.”
“Do it for me.”
“No.”
“For your dad.”
“No!”
“Bingo,” his mom said, abandoning her efforts at soft-sell, “you are so interested in yourself and your own problems that you never even notice anyone else. It’s one of your worst faults. You go through life like you are the only person with any problems. All your life is a crisis. You never think of anyone but yourself.”
“I do. I’m interested in people. I spend half the school day going to the pencil sharpener just to see what they’re doing.”
“I’m not talking about spying on people.”
“Mom—”
“I’m talking about the fact that you have not even noticed your own father lately.”
“What about Dad?”
“He’s quiet. He’s withdrawn. He hates his work. The one thing he’s got to look forward to is homecoming.”
“He doesn’t hate his work—”
“Can you honestly imagine that it’s fun to sell insurance for a living?”
“Just get me a baby-sitter.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know—somebody.”
“Well, I promise you one things—you are the one who is going to have to tell your father. You are going to be the one to say, ‘Dad, you cannot go to homecoming because I won’t stay at the Wentworths.’ You just get up off that bed right now and call him up on the phone. I mean it.”
She pulled Bingo up and into the hall. She dialed the phone and said, “Sam, your son has something to say to you.”
Bingo took the phone. “Dad?”
“What is it, son? I’m in sort of a hurry.”
“I just wanted to tell you not to worry about me for homecoming weekend. I’m staying with the Wentworths.” He handed the phone to his mom.
“Thank you, thank you,” she said. “You are the most wonderful son in the world. I will never forget this. I’ll make it up to you. I promise. Bingo, you are—”
“Leave me alone,” he said.
The Test
“TEST?” MR. MARKHAM SAID. “What test? Was I going to give you a test?”
Bingo didn’t remember the test either, but then the knowledge that he was going to have to spend the night with Billy Wentworth had forced everything else out of his mind.
He had spent the whole night going over it. Would he sleep in the bottom bunk or the top one? Would Billy scorn his Superman pajamas?
“Yes,” Mamie Lou said, “you told us to study for a test and so we did. Where’s the test?”
“Thanks a lot,” Billy Wentworth grumbled. “Now he’ll give us one. He’d forgotten all about it. If anybody flunks, it’s your fault.”
“Gang,” said Mr. Mark. “Mamie Lou is right. I said we were going to have a test and rather than disappoint those who studied, we are going to have a test.”
He got up from his desk.
“So we have a problem—no test. But there is a simple solution to the problem. Get out your paper.”
The class groaned.
“No, wait, you haven’t heard this. You’re going to like this. Give me a chance. Paper ready, everyone?”
The papers were ready.
“All right, I am going to let you make up your own history test. Yes, you heard correctly. You will make up your own questions. You will answer your own questions. They may be true-false questions, fill-in-the-blanks, or essay-type questions. The details are up to you.”
He sat down at his desk. “Oh, yes. Gang, each test must consist of at least ten questions. Good luck.”
Bingo decided instantly on fill-in-the-blanks. That would be easiest. He would just write ten sentences about the Constitution and then he would underline one word in each sentence as if that were the blank.
Everyone was writing. No one was having problems with either the questions or the answers.
As usual, Bingo was one of the first to finish. Out of habit he glanced at his pencil, but he found he had no desire to sharpen it.
He reached under his desk for his journal. He flipped it open. He had pages and pages of burning questions by now. He had not even known there were that many burning questions in the entire world.
Can I be ill?
Can the fact that I have to spend the night with Billy Wentworth bring on a genuine illness?
Will my mom believe it is a genuine illness or will she claim I am faking?
Would she realize the seriousness of my not wanting to go to the pencil sharpener?
Will I stop wanting to do other things?
Will I end up without even the desire for burning questions?
He did not get to finish, because Mr. Markham was asking for their attention.
“I see that some of you are through. Several of you have even attempted to hand in your papers.”
He stood up and walked around to the front of his desk.
“Now, gang, here’s part two of the test. I am going to ask you to grade the tests yourself. Put your hands down. Yes, you will grade your own test. No, I do not want you to exchange papers. I am putting you on your honor to grade your own paper. If you are capable of making up your own test, you are capable of grading it.
“When you are finished, you will hold up your graded paper so that I can record the grade. Please make your A’s large enough for me to read.
“Now are there questions? Yes, George.”
“Can we make up all our tests from now on?”
“We’ll see.”
All day long Bingo had a hard time concentrating. Every time Billy Wentworth shifted in his seat, Bingo steeled himself for something like, “I hear you’re spending the night with me, Worm Brain.”
“Yes, I hope you don’t mind,” he would answer.
“Well, I do mind, so what are you going to do about it,” he would say.
Then he would say, “I—”
“Bingo.”
“What? What?”
Bingo looked up. School was over. The classroom was empty except for Melissa and him.
Melissa said, “Hi.”
“Hi.”
“I’ve been worried about you all day.”
“Have you?”
“Yes, you didn’t go to the pencil sharpener even one time.”
“I didn’t really feel like it.”
“Is it because of what I told you?”
“What?”
“About Mr. Mark?”
“No, no, it wasn’t that.”
“I was worried because—you know—like sometimes you tell somebody something that worries you and it makes you feel better but it makes them feel worse, and I was worried that that was what I did to you.”
“No, you didn’t make me feel worse. You make me feel better.”
“Really? You mean that?”
“Yes.”
“Anyway, I found out Dawn’s last name.”
“You did?”
“It’s Monohan. I asked Mr. Mark and he told me.”
“Oh.”
“So now I don’t know whether to call her up or not. I’m really worried about Mr. Mark. If I knew she was his girlfriend, I’d feel better, wouldn’t you?”
“Maybe.”
“Because if she’s his girlfriend, she would be helping him through things, and if she’s not his girlfriend, then she wouldn’t.”
“Yes.”
“So what do you think? Should I call or not?”
“I think you should call.”
“Really? You aren’t just saying that because you know I want to call?”
> “No.”
“Thank you, Bingo. I’ll let you know what I find out. Bye.”
“Bye.”
Bingo got up slowly. Now he knew he was sick. He didn’t even enjoy mixed-sex conversations anymore. With his head hanging, he started for home.
Journal II
“MR. MARK?”
“Yes, Bingo.”
“What are we supposed to do when our journals are full?”
“Well, let’s worry about that when they are full, all right?”
“Mine is.”
Mr. Mark looked up in surprise. “Your journal is full, Bingo?”
“Yes.”
“Did you use just one side of the paper?”
“Both sides.”
“Both sides are full?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Of writing?”
“Well, there are some illustrations.”
“But the journal is full?”
“Yes, sir. It’s been full for three days, but I didn’t have anything to write, so I wasn’t worried about it.”
“Is anybody else’s journal full?”
No hands went up.
“Is anybody else’s journal halfway full?”
No hands.
“A quarter full?”
Melissa put up her hand. Bingo glanced at her with gratitude.
“Well, Bingo, I guess I’ll stop by the store on the way home and get another volume for you. In the meantime, can you make do with a few sheets of loose paper?”
“I don’t have anything to write, Mr. Mark. I’m not even sure I’m ever going to write again.”
“Oh?”
“I just wanted to know what you wanted us to do when our notebooks were full.”
It was Friday. That night he would be sleeping in one of Billy Wentworth’s beds. Against his will, he began sketching the beds on the last page of his journal.
When he drew himself on the top bunk, the lead broke and shot, bullet-like, across the aisle.
He got up slowly and went to the pencil sharpener. It was the first time he had been to the pencil sharpener all week.
He was grinding away, worrying about the supper, the bunk beds. He had even started worrying about the poodle. At that moment Bingo’s thoughts were interrupted by a distinctive sound.
Bingo would have known that sound anywhere—the breaking of pencil lead. Bingo knew the pencil lead was Melissa’s. He ground slower.
He watched the floor. Reeboks with plaid shoelaces came into view. It was Melissa. He looked up.
“It’s a bad day for pencils.” She grinned and showed him the broken lead.
He said, “Obviously.”
He took out his pencil and blew off the shavings. He wished he had blown them in the opposite direction. However, Melissa didn’t seem upset that they landed on her. Bingo liked women who were not easily offended.
To give Melissa the opportunity to brush them off, he said, “I better empty this.”
He untwisted the pencil sharpener and went to the trash can. Mr. Markham said, “What are you doing, Bingo?”
“Emptying the pencil sharpener.”
“There’s nothing in it.”
“Oh. So there isn’t.”
Bingo went back to the pencil sharpener. Melissa had been waiting for him. She whispered, “I tried to call—” She glanced at Mr. Markham. “—you know who.”
“Who?”
“You know.”
With the eraser of her pencil, she wrote D A W N on the windowsill. Bingo said, “Oh.”
“But guess what?”
“What?”
“She’s got an unlisted number.”
Mr. Markham said, “What’s going on over there?”
“I was just going to my seat.”
“That sounds like the first good idea you’ve had all day, Bingo.”
Bingo said, “Excuse me,” to Melissa and started to squeeze past her. At that moment, something unexpected happened—something Bingo couldn’t have planned in a million years.
Harriet jumped up to sharpen her pencil and for a moment Bingo was sandwiched between them like the filling in an Oreo cookie.
Harriet said, “Bingo!” in a disgusted way, as if he had done it on purpose.
Bingo said, “Sorry.”
“Well, watch it.”
“I will from now on.”
“Bingo,” Mr. Markham said tiredly.
“These things happen,” Bingo explained. Then he went directly to his seat.
Well, now he had the answer to at least one of his questions. One mystery was solved.
He had been embraced by both girls at the same time, and when he drew the picture, he decorated Melissa with plus marks and Harriet with minuses.
When he got his new journal and if he survived the weekend, he would start a new section—Questions that Burn No More.
If—he repeated for emphasis—he survived the weekend.
Double-Decker Misery
BINGO LAY IN THE top bunk bed. He had been there for ten minutes and he was miserable. He had to go to the bathroom.
He told himself that he could not possibly have to go again, that he had gone five times since supper. He reminded himself that he did not want to climb down from the top bunk, that there was no ladder.
The bunk-bed set was modern Western, and in going over the wagon wheel at the foot of the bed, Bingo had hurt himself on one of the spokes.
He had not cried out in pain—he was grateful for that—but he knew that if it happened again—and in the dark it was bound to—he would cry out.
It had been a very long evening. The only relief had come after supper when Bingo pretended to have forgotten something.
“I’ll be right back,” he told the Wentworths.
“You want Billy to go with you?”
“No, it won’t take me but a minute.”
He went home, unlocked the door, and walked through the painfully empty rooms. He went in the bathroom to look at himself in the mirror.
The face looking back at him was pitiful. He must have looked this bad when his parents left him. How could they have left?
Bingo recalled the last moment in the front yard. He had stood with his knapsack hanging from one hand, the other hand lifted in a farewell gesture.
“See you Sunday,” his mom called.
He nodded.
He hoped for one brief moment that they would turn and say, “Oh, it was just a joke, Bingo. You didn’t really think we’d leave you. Oh, he really thought we were going.”
“Bye!”
They got in the car and slammed the door. His mom was laughing. As they started down the street, she rolled down the window and blew the trumpet.
“Bingo?”
It was Billy Wentworth’s voice. Bingo could not let Wentworth see him looking at himself in the mirror. Quickly he flushed the toilet and came out in the hall.
“My dad’s taking me to the movies. Rambo III. Want to come?”
“Yes.”
“It’s better than Rambo II, but not as good as Rambo. Which one did you like best?” Billy asked as they crossed the lawn together.
“I liked them all the same.” Bingo had never seen either, but he instinctively knew he had spoken the truth.
While Bingo was reliving the experience of Rambo III, much of which he had watched with his eyes shut, a miracle happened.
Bingo fell asleep.
It was Saturday. Bingo heard the familiar sounds of cartoons. In his eagerness to be in front of the TV, he almost threw his feet over the side of the bed and jumped off.
He opened his eyes and was instantly grateful he had not leapt. If he had, he would have fallen six feet to Billy Wentworth’s floor and broken both his legs.
He spent a few moments looking at Billy Wentworth’s ceiling. This was the closest he had ever been to a ceiling. Then he leaned over the side of the bunk.
The bottom bunk was empty. That was something else to be grateful for. He would not have to climb o
ver the wagon wheel with Billy watching him.
Bingo climbed down from the top bunk carefully. He found his clothes. He put them on. He went into the living room. Billy’s sister said, “Everybody’s in the kitchen,” without looking at him.
“Thank you.”
Mrs. Wentworth said, “Good morning, Bingo. We just fix our own breakfasts around here. There’s plenty of cereal. Help yourself.”
“I will.”
Mr. Wentworth was reading the paper, but he paused to say, “Midge tells me your parents went to Catawba College.”
“Yes, sir, they’ve gone back for homecoming.”
“Is that a Baptist college?”
“No sir, they both majored in marketing.”
Billy said, “Mr. Markham says there’s no point in going to college.”
“Oh, I’m sure Mr. Markham didn’t say that,” Mrs. Wentworth said mildly.
“Yes, he did, didn’t he, Bingo?”
“Maybe. I’ve missed a few things this past week.”
“He also said that by the time we got out of kindergarten we’d learned all we needed to know—to share, not to hit people, to say we’re sorry when we hurt somebody, and to hold hands when we go out in the world.”
Mr. Wentworth said, “That doesn’t mean there’s no point in going to college.”
“Well, he must not believe in going to college. He’s stopped teaching us, hasn’t he, Bingo? How are we going to get into college if he doesn’t teach us anything?”
“I don’t think he’s stopped teaching us,” Bingo said. “Maybe he’s slowed down a little.”
“Don’t exaggerate, Billy.”
“Mom, he doesn’t teach us a thing. He really doesn’t. We write in our journals, we make up our own tests, we even grade our own tests. Every single person gave themselves an A.”
“Now, Billy—”
“Mom, I’m not exaggerating. Am I, Bingo?”
“We did grade our own tests, Mrs. Wentworth, and there were a lot of A’s, but Mr. Markham does stuff like that to keep us interested.”
“I don’t think his elevator goes all the way to the top floor,” Billy said.
“How many times have you made your own tests?”
“Just once, but, Mom—”
Something cold touched Bingo’s ankle, and he quickly crossed his legs. It was the poodle again.