Burning Questions of Bingo Brown (7 page)

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—”

“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?

T
HE 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?”

“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?

“C
OME 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?”