by Betsy Byars
Bingo closed his eyes, ignoring it.
“Hey, Worm Brain, it’s me.”
Bingo did not get up. “What do you want, Wentworth?”
“It’s personal.”
Still Bingo did not move.
“It’s about you-know-who.” A pause. “And you better get up off your you-know-what.”
Could the news about the baby be out already? Had Billy Wentworth rushed over to be the first to taunt him? Was Wentworth too embarrassed to taunt him? Had he come to terrorize him? To say, “I don’t want to live next to no big brother?”
Bingo pulled himself slowly up from his Smurf sheets and crossed the room.
“Get it over with, Wentworth,” he said, leaning tiredly against the window.
Wentworth said, “Listen, you know that girl who was taking your picture?”
Bingo said, “What?”
“The blond girl. Remember I asked you to tell her that I was on vacation when she asked where I was?”
“Yes.”
“So did you tell her?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“She didn’t ask.”
“Come on. Quit lying. I know she asked.”
“No.”
Wentworth hesitated. Bingo glanced over his shoulder at his bed. He noticed that his mom had not changed his sheets in so long the Smurfs had turned an ugly purplish gray. Very few people, Bingo thought, could rest on Smurfs that unfortunate color, even if their world had not come crumbling down around them. Still, he wanted to sink down among them and lay his tired head.
“Let’s go over there,” Billy Wentworth went on in a rush.
“Where?”
“To her house, Worm Brain.”
“Whose house?”
“Her house.”
“What for?”
“To tell her I’m back.”
“You go. I’m not feeling so hot, Wentworth.”
“Look, just ride over there with me. That’s all I’m asking. Go up to the door with me. We’re pals, aren’t we? Just stand there. I’ll do all the talking. You won’t have to say a word.”
“So why do I have to be there?”
“I’ll look stupid if I’m by myself. What do you think? You think I want to go around looking stupid, Worm Brain? You can stand there looking stupid for both of us. You got a natural talent for that.”
Bingo said, “I’m really not feeling all that good.”
“You don’t want to feel worse, do you?”
“I’ll get my bike.”
Bingo and Billy Wentworth pedaled slowly toward Cici’s house. Bingo knew the way because Cici lived next door to Melissa’s old house. This, Bingo knew, was bound to bring more pain—seeing the very door that she had walked out of, seeing the very front porch where he had kissed her.
It seemed to Bingo, as he pedaled, that the entire eleven and eleven-twelfths years of his life had been one long struggle to get into the mainstream of life. Other people, he knew, were content with little pools on the sidelines, but he, he had always craved the thrill of the current.
But he hadn’t wanted it yet! Not before he learned how to swim! He hadn’t wanted to be pushed!
He began to question.
Once a person gets into the mainstream of life, can he ever get out? If he does get out, can he get back in? Or is it like an exclusive club: Once out, he must spend his remaining years on shore, watching the rest of the members swim by, thumbing their noses at—
“This is it, Worm Brain.”
“Oh, sure.”
Bingo braked and got off his bike. Together he and Wentworth walked toward the front door. Bingo said, “Er, Wentworth?”
“What?”
“Have you ever heard of something called the language of love?”
“No, what is it? A TV show?”
“No, it’s like, well, it’s a way you talk to girls.”
“I got my own way.”
“Yes, but mixed-sex conversations are different from regular conversations. I’m not saying I’m an expert, but I have had some successful ones.”
“Listen, I could give you some advice on talking to girls. Now, get this. You stay behind me and don’t say anything. We were just riding bikes down this street, see, and we pass her house, see, and naturally we think, Hey, maybe Cici don’t know I’m back from vacation. We walk up the walk, see, like we’re doing, and I ring the bell, like this. All you got to do is keep your mouth shut.”
The door opened at once, and Cici peered around it. “Oh, hi, Bingo.”
“I’m back from vacation,” Wentworth said.
“Bingo, did it come? The letter?”
Bingo shook his head.
“Oh, when I saw you, I thought it had come and you were, like, bringing it back to me. I worry about that letter. When the mail comes, it’s like panic time, you getting Melissa’s letter, her getting yours. You promise it hasn’t come?”
Bingo nodded.
Wentworth said again, “I’m back from vacation.”
Now Cici looked at him. “So?”
“So if you’ve been wondering where I am, you don’t have to wonder anymore.”
“Bingo, let me know about the letter. Promise?”
Bingo nodded.
“Well, I’ve got to go. My mom and I are going to the Nautilus to pump iron. That’s why I’ve got this on.”
She stepped out like a model and showed them her pink stretch-knit exercise suit. “Taaa-daaaaaa!” Wentworth gasped and would have fallen over backward if Bingo had not grabbed him.
“Bye!”
And she was gone.
As they walked to their bikes, Wentworth said, “Now what was this language thing you were talking about?”
Two Helps in a Row
“HELP!”
The call came again!
“Help!”
Then the scarlet water closed over the boy’s head, and he found himself twisting downward in a tightening spiral toward the bowels of the earth.
Bingo was not starting a new science-fiction novel. Bingo was having a bad dream.
A faraway voice said, “Bingo.” A hand shook him. “Wake up, Son.”
Bingo opened his eyes. He was twisted into his sheet so tightly he could not move. The top sheet was damp with well-earned sweat.
“You must have been having a bad dream.”
“A terrible undertow …” Bingo gasped. “… drowning …” He tried to twist free, but the Smurfs seemed to be clinging like leeches.
“Let me help you,” his father said kindly.
“Thanks.”
“Do you have drowning dreams often?” His dad continued to unwrap him as if he were unwrapping a mummy.
Bingo shook his head. “Just since I got in the mainstream of life.”
“Yes, it’s tough out here.” His father smiled wryly. “Listen, Bingo, your mom wants to talk to you.”
“Mom’s home?”
“No, she’s still at your grandmother’s. She wants to talk to you on the phone.”
Finally Bingo was free from his sheet. He got up. His notebook and pencil fell to the floor. The notebook fell open to a picture he had drawn weeks ago when, in his new maturity, he actually believed he had given up burning questions for all time and would never need the question mark again.
Bingo walked to the phone, bent forward, and took a deep breath. “Mom?”
“Bingo,” his mother said in a rush, “listen, I’m sorry about the other night. That was a terrible thing to do, run out on your supper.”
Bingo said, “Oh, well, it was just tuna lasagna.”
“Now you’ll never want to cook for me again.”
“I’ll cook again, but probably not lasagna.”
“Are you all right? You aren’t getting sick, are you, Bingo? You sound funny, as if you’re far away.”
“That’s the way I feel.”
“Did you just wake up?”
“Yes. I was having a terrible dream about the mainstream
of life, which, incidentally, it appears I am now in.”
“Well, go back to bed, Bingo. I’ll talk to you later. I just wanted to apologize. I haven’t been able to sleep for worrying about you.”
“I’m worried about you, too.” Bingo’s father was in the doorway, listening. This reminded Bingo of why they were here in this awkward position. “Dad told me about your, er, problem. Maybe problem’s not the right word. Maybe I should have said your difficulty, your”—he swallowed manfully—“pregnancy.”
He went on in a rush. “Mom, if you’ll come home tonight, I’ll fix you the best supper you have ever had in your life. You name the recipe and I’ll make it. I don’t care what it is. I don’t care how much the ingredients cost. Mom, I’ll make it if you just tell me what it is and come on home.”
“Bingo, I’m going to have to call you back. I can’t deal with this right now.”
“Mom—” Now his brain started working. “Mom, listen, I do feel funny. Maybe I am getting sick.”
But she was gone.
He sat for a moment, holding the phone, and then he put it in its cradle. The mail was beside the phone, as if whoever had brought it in had abandoned it.
The top letter was to him. … Melissa.
He opened the flap without much enthusiasm and began to read.
Dear Bingo,
I’m definitely worried now. I haven’t heard from you in ages, and I can’t help but wonder why.
I should not have asked Cici to go to your house and take your picture—I know that now—because I remembered that one time I was talking about you to Cici. I was telling her about the time you and I went to the hospital to see Mr. Mark. I was saying you made Mr. Mark laugh even though he begged you not to. Anyway, that was when she said that you sounded cute and she wished she knew some cute boys.
Then, later, when I pointed you out to her in the hall, she said you were cute and that she wished she knew you. Now I guess she does!
Please write me, Bingo, because I don’t know whether you want me to send my picture or not, so I won’t put it in, but I’ll keep it in my stationery box.
Love (???)
Melissa
Bingo’s dad came out of the bathroom then. “Bingo, I’m not going to take time for breakfast. I want to stop by your grandmother’s on my way to work.”
“I’ll go with you.” Bingo spun around. “It won’t take me a minute to get dressed.” He had his pajamas almost over his head before his father answered.
“That’s not a good idea.”
“Dad, wait! I have to tell Mom something. I just thought of something to—”
“Call her back.”
“Dad!
But his dad was gone.
“This is wrong!” Bingo picked up the telephone and slammed it down on the table. It gave its usual short ring of protest. “This is terribly wrong!”
He—he was supposed to leave the nest, and they—they were supposed to suffer from something called empty nest syndrome. Instead they—they had left him. And he—he had the disease. And it was an adult disease! How could someone eleven and eleven-twelfths be expected to handle an adult disease?
And—and how could they even consider having a second child when they had given their first a disease?
Sighing, he picked up the phone and dialed his grandmother’s number. The phone rang so long he thought no one was going to answer. Then his mother’s voice said cheerfully, “Hello.”
She probably thought it was a real estate call. Bingo said with forced cheer, “Mom, hi. Sorry, it’s just me again.”
“Hi, Bingo.”
“I just wondered if you’d had time to think about my offer, for supper.”
“Not really.”
“Mom, listen,” he went on in a rush, “I don’t want to say anything that will upset you, but have you ever heard of something called empty nest syndrome?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I think I’ve got it.”
“Bingo, Bingo, I’ll come if I can.”
And she was gone.
De Letter, Delivered
BINGO WAS MAKING A sign for his bedroom window. It said DO NOT DISTURB. A threatening sketch completed the sign.
The necessity for a sign of this nature had become clear, because last night Wentworth had come over four times.
Finally, at this fourth interruption, Bingo had lost control.
“Wentworth,” he had cried, “I’ve told you all I know about talking to girls. You talk to them like they’re perfectly normal, everyday human beings and then suddenly—and, Wentworth, I don’t know how this happens—but suddenly you’re talking a different language. You’re saying one thing and you’re meaning another. There’s a lot of eye contact involved. You can’t do it looking down at your feet. You can’t do it over the phone. Well, I can, but you can’t. Now that is all I know!”
Bingo had gone back to bed and the series of burning questions that had been troubling him.
When I am a man, if something goes wrong with my life, one of those cruel U-turns of fate like my mom had, will I want to come home like my mom? Will I want to sleep in this bed? What color will the Smurfs be then?
Will I be able to come home? Won’t there be a child in this room? In this bed? On these Smurf sheets?
At last Bingo had fallen into a troubled sleep.
Now it was morning, and making the sign made Bingo feel better. At last he was doing something positive.
He put away his magic markers and set the sign in the window. Then he went outside to see how it would look to someone ready to knock.
Arms crossed, head to the side, he judged his work. Any person in their right mind, seeing such a sign, would not knock, but then …
Shaking his head, he started back into the house. He was at the steps when the mailman handed him the letters. The top letter was for him.
It was another letter from Melissa. One yesterday, now one today, and both on top.
Bingo thought it was as if Melissa’s letters rose to the surface, as if they were lighter than bills and junk mail, because they were always on top, always.
It didn’t make him love her again, but still he admitted Melissa’s letters were probably the nicest things the post office had to offer.
He turned the envelope over. On the back was written:
Deliver
De letter
De sooner
De better
De later
De letter
De madder
I getter
Bingo sighed. Now he knew he no longer loved Melissa.
As a writer, words were naturally important to Bingo. He was affected deeply by what people wrote. He had once fallen out of love with a girl named Mamie Lou just because she had written a letter to Laura Ingalls Wilder that said, “I know that you are dead, but please write if you can and tell me where you get your ideas.”
And, Bingo thought, he was especially affected by what people wrote on the backs of envelopes.
Yes, he no longer loved Melissa. Regretfully, he opened the flap. As he took out the letter, he smelled the fragrance of an unfamiliar flower.
Then he saw the heading: “From the Desk of Cici”
Cici!
Bingo drew in a deep breath. He should have known, but he was in such a state of personal agitation that he was blind to what was going on around him. In his agitated blindness, he had fallen out of love with a girl he had never been in love with!
This was the letter! The letter!
Bingo closed his eyes. If the first words in the letter were “Dear Melissa,” then he was honor bound—honor bound—to put it back in the envelope without reading it.
Even though this would mean that he would never know what Cici wrote to Melissa—and it had to be something about him—maybe even something hurtful. Maybe something to make Melissa fall out of love with him! And even though he was out of love with Melissa, he did not want her to fall out of love with him.
&nb
sp; If his eyes—when he opened them—saw two words, “Dear Melissa,” then he would have to—be honor bound to—put the letter back in the envelope.
He opened his eyes. “Dear Melissa.” Bingo read faster.
I got his picture!
I went to his house. He opened the door himself! He said, “Hi,” and smiled. I was so blissed out that I honestly didn’t mind he had freckles! He held the door open. I almost died! I went into his living room and into his kitchen. Melissa, guess what? He’d been cooking! In an apron!
We went out in the backyard. He smiled. I took his picture. Melissa, I was so blissed out I got my thumb in front of the lens. He smiled again. I took another picture. Then a terrible thing happened. This nerd next door stuck his head over the hedge. Bingo and I had to go in the house to get rid of him.
We went in the kitchen. He put on his apron, and he looked sooo cute. We started talking. I was holding a poodle. He was cooking. We were having a blast!
Then—booo—something really awful happened. His mom came home. I was hoping she’d say, “Stay for supper,” but she didn’t. She freaked out. Like, the whole time I was explaining why I was there, her eyes were shooting darts at me. Finally she goes, “Bingo is not allowed to have friends in the house when either his father or I”—blah, blah, blah.
I hope you like the picture. I kept one for myself, the one of him with the poodle. I love that dog.
Bingo bent closer. It looked to him as if the word “dog” had originally been “boy.” She had originally written, “I love that boy.” The d had been a b! The g had been a y! Bingo could see it plain as day. He bent to read the rest.
Write and tell me if you like the picture I took for you. I’ll go over to his house as often as I can so I’ll have lots of interesting things to write you about.
Your #1 friend,
Cici
The two i’s had hearts over them instead of dots.
Bingo’s photo had fluttered unnoticed from the envelope to the floor. Now he picked it up, and looked at it with new intensity.
He went directly to the bathroom. He stood looking at himself in the mirror.
Could this be the face that two girls loved?
His eyes gazed first at the face in the mirror, then at the face in the photograph. Could there be something in this face that he did not see? What was it? Where was it?