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?
New Meaning to Life
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
“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?
New Meaning to Life
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
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