Burning Questions of Bingo Brown (8 page)

“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.

B
INGO 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 sound 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.”

“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.

“T
EST?” 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?