Burning Questions of Bingo Brown (5 page)

Over the rustle of paper, Mr. Markham said, “Normally, I don’t place any limits on length, but I do think the descriptions of my good qualities should be kept to no more than three pages.” He laughed, but nobody else did.

“Get started, gang. I’d like to have these by recess.”

Bingo bent over his paper instantly and began to write. He was aware that he was the only person in the class who had started. His pencil flew across the lined paper.

Billy,
he wrote,
my mom had an interesting suggestion about our t-shirt problem.

“Bingo!” Mr. Markham cried in a pleased way. “I knew I could count on you!”

Bingo shrugged and kept writing.

She said we ought to rebel. She said we ought to set aside one day
—
like this Friday
—
and every single person in the school would wear a shirt with words on it. She said it would be a wear-in. Like a sit-in. She said …

Later, after he gave the letter to Billy, he had time to scribble:

Dear Dawn,

Please, please don’t break up with Mr. Markham.

Hurriedly, but most sincerely,

Bingo Brown

The playground buzzed with questions.

“What did you say to Dawn?”

“I didn’t know what to say. What did you say?”

“I didn’t want to hand mine in, did you?”

“You think Mr. Mark’s flipped his lid?”

And then came the big question: “Hey, what’s Wentworth doing on top of the garbage can?”

Bingo had the answer to that one. “I think he’s going to make an announcement. It looks like that’s what he’s going to do. Come on. Let’s see what he’s going to say. It may be about the t-shirts.”

Bingo closed in around the garbage can with the others. His heart had moved up into his throat. This was his work. He had done this. He wished his mom could have been there to share his pride.

“I got an announcement,” Wentworth said. “Let me put that another way. I got a command.”

He had their attention now. Not one person moved. All eyes were riveted on the figure in the Rambo t-shirt. Billy Wentworth’s face was so stern, so hard, he made Rambo look like a wimp.

“On Friday,” he said, “everybody in this school is going to wear a t-shirt with something written on it. Did you girls in the back hear that?”

The girls nodded.

“I’m going to say it one more time, and that’s it. I’m not asking you. I am telling you. On Friday—that’s this Friday—everybody in this school is going to wear a t-shirt with something written on it.”

There was another silence. Bingo put his hand on his throat to keep his heart from going up any higher.

“If there is anybody here that has not got the guts to do that, then now is the time to step out and say, ‘I ain’t got the guts. I’m not going to do it.’”

The only movement was heads turning around to see if anyone had the guts to step out and say they didn’t have the guts. There was not one gutless person on the playground.

“Any questions?”

There were no questions.

“Pass it on,” Billy Wentworth said. Then he got down from the garbage can.

The garbage can was made of tough, industrial-strength steel, but the top had been permanently indented by the weight of Billy’s combat boots. He walked away, and everyone looked with awe at the garbage lid. It was as if they were in front of Grauman’s Chinese Theater, looking at the footprints of a star.

The bell rang, and Bingo hurried in to write down his burning questions of the afternoon.

Has a principal ever expelled an entire school?

Will I have time to get a t-shirt that says PRINCIPALS STINK?

Will Mr. Markham notice that my letter to Dawn is short? Should I get it back and add a P.S.? What could the P.S. be?

Is my life ever going to be calm?

B
INGO RAN ALL THE
way home from school. At last he had something to tell his mom that would make her proud of him. He burst into the kitchen.

“It worked!”

His mom was on the phone, selling Mary Kay cosmetics. His mom wanted a job in marketing, but was filling in the gap with Mary Kay cosmetics. She held up her hand for silence.

Bingo sat down at the table and waited eagerly for her to finish. When she hung up, he said again, “Mom, it worked!”

“What worked?”

Bingo could see that she was not interested in his news, but, oh boy, was she going to be! “Your suggestion!”

“What suggestion.” Still no interest.

“The wear-in!”

Now she looked up. She said, again, “What?” This time she dragged the word out in an unpleasant way.

“The wear-in.”

She came toward him. Her head was turned to the side as if she had heard wrong out of her left ear and was giving her right one a chance.

“Run that by me again,” she said.

Bingo got up from the chair and moved behind it. He took two steps backward toward the dining room.

“You know, last night, at the table? Remember you said we should rebel and have a wear-in, and that I should be the leader? Well, I can’t be the leader—I’m sorry, I’m just not up to it. I honestly tried, but you know me.” He gave an apologetic shrug.

His mom kept coming.

“But it’s not off. You know the boy who’s moving next door? Billy Wentworth? He’s leading it. He got up on the school trash can to announce it and—”

“Wait a minute. Wait—a—minute.”

Bingo waited, but not happily.

“You told this boy, this Wentworth boy, that I had suggested a school rebellion?”

Bingo struggled for a better way to put it. For the first time in his life he felt the nickname
Worm Brain
might be right. His mother took his silence for a yes.

“Well, that is the end, the absolute end.”

She looked up at the ceiling. She took several deep breaths to calm herself, but it didn’t work. When she looked down at Bingo again, her eyes were as cold as those of the President of the United States.

“Have you ever heard,” she asked, in a voice to match the deep-freeze eyes, “of tongue-in-cheek.”

“No, no, what is it?”

“Have you ever heard of humor, of saying something to be funny?”

“Yes, yes, I’ve heard of that.”

Now she said nothing. She breathed. Bingo would not have been surprised if fire had started coming out of her nose.

He couldn’t stand it. He grabbed the only way out—something he resorted to only when he was absolutely desperate—the lie.

“Oh, Mom, Mom! Listen, I didn’t say you personally suggested it. I just said, like, ‘It would be nice if we protested,’ something like that. No, here are my exact words, I just remembered. My exact words were, ‘Oh, I hope we don’t rebel.’ And he said, ‘How could we?’ I said, ‘I don’t know, maybe a wear-in day where everybody wears an illegal shirt.’”

Bingo had to swallow a lot of spit before he could continue. “I certainly have enough sense not to involve you. After all, you
are
Secretary of the PTA. I would never involve you in anything that would cast dispersions on your officership.”

She folded her arms over her chest. “If you are lying to me, Harrison—” His mom only called him by his real name in moments like this.

Bingo made an X on his chest to indicate truth, a big one that covered his entire chest and both his hips.

“So.” She began breathing more normally. “When is the wear-in going to be and what are you going to wear?”

“Friday and Mozart Freak. It’s the only thing clean.”

He didn’t think it was the moment to apologize for not having
PRINCIPALS STINK
.

“Good choice.”

Relief, Bingo decided, was the most wonderful emotion in the world.

“Thank you,” he said. “Well, I’ll be going now.” Bingo backed out of the kitchen, down the hall, and into his room, wiping well-earned sweat from his brow.

By the next morning, Bingo was back to normal. He joined the students of Roosevelt Middle School outside the building.

No one was thinking of going inside. Everyone was talking about the wear-in. The girls were in clusters, planning which of their shirts would be most appropriate.’

Bingo moved from group to group, happily eavesdropping. Naturally Billy was going to wear Rambo, but he had bought a brand-new Rambo shirt. That was a sign of the importance he himself placed on the day.

Bingo had assumed that Mamie Lou would wear
BEACH BOYS
, but she was not. She said it didn’t have enough words on it. She was going to wear one that said
IF YOU CAN READ THIS YOU ARE TOO CLOSE
. Although this did not make Bingo fall back in love with her, it did make him think of her as presidential material again.

George Rogers was wearing
WEIRD BUT LOVABLE
.

Hughie McManus was wearing
SHUD UPPA U FACE
.

Freddie was wearing
I ARE A GENIUS
.

Amy Myers was wearing
IN A WORLD FULL OF COPIES, HERE’S AN ORIGINAL
.

Marian Wong was wearing
HAVE YOU THANKED A PLANT TODAY
?

Harriet was wearing
SMASH COMPUTERS AND LET THE CHIPS FALL WHERE THEY MAY.

And Melissa! Now he was truly, hopelessly in love. Melissa was borrowing a shirt from her mom. On this shirt was printed the entire Declaration of Independence. Her mother—Bingo overheard Melissa telling Harriet this—wore the shirt whenever she’d absolutely had it with everybody in the family. Whenever the family saw her in this shirt, they backed off.

Bingo had the feeling that tomorrow was going to be the most wonderful day of his life. He went into the school with everyone else. He had only one question. What could spoil this perfect day?

Mr. Markham was sitting at his desk, looking as if he had the answer to Bingo’s question. His eyes were not closed, but there was something about his expression that made them stop talking about t-shirts.

“Is anything wrong, Mr. Mark?” Melissa asked.

“You tell me. Sit down, gang.”

They sat.

Mr. Markham stared down at his desk for one minute and then looked up. This was effective. Bingo had the feeling Mr. Markham was going to say something about the poor quality of the Dawn letters. Bingo looked down at his desk.

Mr. Markham said, “In case any of you are planning to wear shirts tomorrow with words on them—” He paused. This was also effective. Bingo looked up. “—don’t!”

The class sat without moving. All morning they had been in a blaze of unified excitement. Many of them already had their illegal shirts laid out on their beds at home. Many of them planned to wear the shirts to sleep.

Madame President said, “Why?” She was too upset to go through the ritual of holding up her hand.

“Mr. Boehmer will be at the door,” Mr. Markham said, “and the reason he will be there is so that he can personally inspect every student and send home anyone who is wearing a shirt with writing on it of any kind.”

Bingo had a rush of unmanly questions.
Could I wear a jacket tomorrow? Could I go in the side door? Could I be tardy? Could I
—

Billy Wentworth put up his hand.

Mr. Markham said, “Yes, Billy?”

“What time?”

“What time what?”

“What time will Boehmer be at the door?”

“Oh, eight o’clock.”

“Tell him something for me.”

“What?”

“Tell him I’ll be waiting for him.”

Bingo was electrified. This was the boy he didn’t want to live next door to! This hero! This man in a boy’s disguise! It would be a privilege and an honor to live next door to Billy Wentworth.

An awed silence followed Billy’s announcement. Then the class began to clap.

“Gang,” Mr. Markham said, “there is no reason to applaud anarchy.”

They kept clapping.

“Gang!”

Still they clapped.

“Look, I’m not going to be here to bail you out. I’m going to be out of town tomorrow. You’re going to have a substitute.”

They were going to keep clapping until they wore out their hands. Nothing could stop them. Nothing!

Only one thing.

Billy Wentworth put his fingers to his throat and gave them the signal to cut it.

They cut.

“O
H, BY THE WAY,”
Bingo said casually at the supper table.

“Not now, Bingo,” his mom said. “Your dad’s talking. Why can’t you go to homecoming, Sam? This is terrible.”

“Mr. Richardson wants me to go to Lima, Ohio, and give a presentation.”

“Didn’t you tell him it was homecoming?”

“Yes.”

“Didn’t he care?”

“Not really.”

“Well, if you don’t go, I’m not going either.”

“Of course you’ll go. You’ve been practicing ‘Fight, Darn You, Fight’ for weeks.”

Actually she had only been practicing for two days, but it seemed like weeks.

“It wouldn’t be fun without you.”

“You have to go. You were the best trumpet player they had.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“You mean you really would go without me?”

“I didn’t say that. I said I’d think about it.”

There was a silence, and Bingo filled it with, “Oh, by the way, I may be home from school early tomorrow.”

His mom said, “What time?”

“Eight-oh-five.”

The very casual delivery of the answer had the desired effect. Both parents stopped eating and looked at him. Bingo chewed his food slowly, the way his mom was always urging him to do.

“We’re having our protest wear-in tomorrow,” he said. He started a new shish kebab. “Mr. Boehmer, the principal, is going to stand at the front door of the school. At eight-oh-five he is going to personally inspect every student and send home anyone who has on a t-shirt with writing on it.” He waved his fork in a figure-eight. “Needless to say, I and every other red-blooded student in Roosevelt Middle School will have on such shirts and will be sent home.”

He put his food in his mouth. While he chewed, his parents had time to register doubts about the wisdom of a rebellion. It could go on his permanent record.
Participation in Middle-School Rebellion,
would not look good.