Burning Questions of Bingo Brown (3 page)

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

B
INGO 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.”

I
T 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 thought 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.

Here’s what transformed Bingo’s parents. They got letters from their college—they went to the same college, that’s how they met—and their college was going to have something special for the homecoming game. They were inviting back all the former cheerleaders to lead a cheer in unison at halftime, and all the former bandmembers to play the fight song, hopefully also in unison.

Bingo’s mom had played the trumpet in the college band and his dad had been head cheerleader, and a lot of their friends were cheerleaders and band members and would be coming too.

Halfway through the meal Bingo’s dad got up to look for his cheerleader sweater. His mom didn’t look for
her
uniform. Band members didn’t get to keep their uniforms, of course; they had to turn them in. She still had her trumpet, though, and after supper she was going to practice.

Bingo finally managed to break in with, “Mom, have you heard any more about the Wentworths?”

“The who?”

Bingo’s mom was already mentally on the football field blasting out the fight song. She looked blank because she thought the Wentworths were somebody she knew in college. “Oh, you mean next door,” she said.

“Yes, I meant next door.”

“They’re moving in next Friday.”

This time fortunately Bingo did not have any food in his mouth so all that went down his windpipe was spit. Still, if you inhale enough spit, you can get just about as choked on it as on shish kebabs.

Finally he stopped coughing long enough to ask, “What’s their hurry?”

“Their hurry? That’s a funny question. Well, I imagine they would like to get settled as soon as possible. I’ve met her and she’s very nice. The son was there, and I asked him if he knew you and he said he did.”

Bingo’s heart missed a beat. “Mom! You asked Billy Wentworth if he knew me?”

“Yes, what’s wrong with that?”

“Mom!”

“It was a perfectly natural question.”

“What exactly did you say?”

“I said, ‘I believe my son’s in your room. His name’s Bingo. Do you know him?’ And he said, ‘Yes.’”

“How did he say it, Mom, did he say it in a normal voice or did he—”

Bingo didn’t get to finish because his dad appeared in the doorway. His dad had found his cheerleading sweater and put it on. It was tight, and there was a moth-hole over his heart, but those imperfections didn’t bother him at all. He came into the kitchen doing a cheer.

ONE - TWO - THREE - FOUR

THREE - TWO - ONE - FOUR

WHO FOR?

WHAT FOR?

WHO YOU GONNA YELL FOR?

CATAWBA! CATAWBA! CATAWBA!

Bingo tried not to appear as horrified as he was. He could not look at his mom because he felt so sorry for her being married to his dad.

To his surprise, his mom clapped her hands together. She jumped up. Her napkin flew into the air. “I’ll get my trumpet,” she yelled.

She reappeared with her trumpet and began playing the college fight song, and his father—what had gotten into the man?—began doing a sort of Highland fling.

All Bingo could do to help them was to pray that no one would come to the door. If anyone saw his family at this moment, the family name of Brown would go down, as they say, in infamy.

A burning question to put in his notebook tomorrow:

What, exactly, is infamy?

B
INGO MANAGED TO BE
late for school the next day so that Billy Wentworth wouldn’t be able to say anything to him. Oh, he would be able to say something out of the side of his mouth, something like, “I don’t like living next door to Worm Brains,” nothing could prevent that, but Bingo wouldn’t have to answer.

As Bingo came through the door, Mr. Markham said, “Get in your seat, Bingo. I have an announcement from our distinguished principal and, as usual, it will deeply affect us all. I don’t want anyone claiming they didn’t hear it.”

Bingo sat.

These announcements didn’t usually affect him, so he began fumbling under his desk for his journal. He wanted to jot down a few quick questions.

Then he heard the announcement, and his journal fell to the floor along with the fragile structure of his life.

“‘In the future,’” Mr. Markham read, “‘no one will be allowed to wear t-shirts that have any writing on them.’”

There was such a long and terrible silence that Mr. Markham read the announcement again.

“‘In the future, no one will be allowed to wear t-shirts that have any writing on them.’”

Bingo had spent half the night planning to have a t-shirt printed up which read:

I AM A NONVIOLENT PERSON.

PLEASE RESPECT MY COMMITMENT

BY NOT HITTING ME
.

Now his commitment to nonviolence could never be worn to school. He could wear it in his yard, of course; in fact he didn’t plan to go out in the yard in anything else. Still, it was a bitter disappointment.

Now a ripple of anger replaced the silence. Bingo joined in the murmurings. Every single person in the room, it turned out, was as affected as he was.