by Betsy Byars
Here’s what transformed Bingo’s parents. They got letters from their college—they went to the same college, that’s how they met—and their college was going to have something special for the homecoming game. They were inviting back all the former cheerleaders to lead a cheer in unison at halftime, and all the former bandmembers to play the fight song, hopefully also in unison.
Bingo’s mom had played the trumpet in the college band and his dad had been head cheerleader, and a lot of their friends were cheerleaders and band members and would be coming too.
Halfway through the meal Bingo’s dad got up to look for his cheerleader sweater. His mom didn’t look for her uniform. Band members didn’t get to keep their uniforms, of course; they had to turn them in. She still had her trumpet, though, and after supper she was going to practice.
Bingo finally managed to break in with, “Mom, have you heard any more about the Wentworths?”
“The who?”
Bingo’s mom was already mentally on the football field blasting out the fight song. She looked blank because she thought the Wentworths were somebody she knew in college. “Oh, you mean next door,” she said.
“Yes, I meant next door.”
“They’re moving in next Friday.”
This time fortunately Bingo did not have any food in his mouth so all that went down his windpipe was spit. Still, if you inhale enough spit, you can get just about as choked on it as on shish kebabs.
Finally he stopped coughing long enough to ask, “What’s their hurry?”
“Their hurry? That’s a funny question. Well, I imagine they would like to get settled as soon as possible. I’ve met her and she’s very nice. The son was there, and I asked him if he knew you and he said he did.”
Bingo’s heart missed a beat. “Mom! You asked Billy Wentworth if he knew me?”
“Yes, what’s wrong with that?”
“Mom!”
“It was a perfectly natural question.”
“What exactly did you say?”
“I said, ‘I believe my son’s in your room. His name’s Bingo. Do you know him?’ And he said, ‘Yes.’”
“How did he say it, Mom, did he say it in a normal voice or did he—”
Bingo didn’t get to finish because his dad appeared in the doorway. His dad had found his cheerleading sweater and put it on. It was tight, and there was a moth-hole over his heart, but those imperfections didn’t bother him at all. He came into the kitchen doing a cheer.
ONE - TWO - THREE - FOUR
THREE - TWO - ONE - FOUR
WHO FOR?
WHAT FOR?
WHO YOU GONNA YELL FOR?
CATAWBA! CATAWBA! CATAWBA!
Bingo tried not to appear as horrified as he was. He could not look at his mom because he felt so sorry for her being married to his dad.
To his surprise, his mom clapped her hands together. She jumped up. Her napkin flew into the air. “I’ll get my trumpet,” she yelled.
She reappeared with her trumpet and began playing the college fight song, and his father—what had gotten into the man?—began doing a sort of Highland fling.
All Bingo could do to help them was to pray that no one would come to the door. If anyone saw his family at this moment, the family name of Brown would go down, as they say, in infamy.
A burning question to put in his notebook tomorrow:
What, exactly, is infamy?
The T-shirt War
BINGO MANAGED TO BE late for school the next day so that Billy Wentworth wouldn’t be able to say anything to him. Oh, he would be able to say something out of the side of his mouth, something like, “I don’t like living next door to Worm Brains,” nothing could prevent that, but Bingo wouldn’t have to answer.
As Bingo came through the door, Mr. Markham said, “Get in your seat, Bingo. I have an announcement from our distinguished principal and, as usual, it will deeply affect us all. I don’t want anyone claiming they didn’t hear it.”
Bingo sat.
These announcements didn’t usually affect him, so he began fumbling under his desk for his journal. He wanted to jot down a few quick questions.
Then he heard the announcement, and his journal fell to the floor along with the fragile structure of his life.
“‘In the future,’” Mr. Markham read, “‘no one will be allowed to wear t-shirts that have any writing on them.’”
There was such a long and terrible silence that Mr. Markham read the announcement again.
“‘In the future, no one will be allowed to wear t-shirts that have any writing on them.’”
Bingo had spent half the night planning to have a t-shirt printed up which read:
I AM A NONVIOLENT PERSON.
PLEASE RESPECT MY COMMITMENT
BY NOT HITTING ME.
Now his commitment to nonviolence could never be worn to school. He could wear it in his yard, of course; in fact he didn’t plan to go out in the yard in anything else. Still, it was a bitter disappointment.
Now a ripple of anger replaced the silence. Bingo joined in the murmurings. Every single person in the room, it turned out, was as affected as he was.
The President of the United States raised her hand.
“Yes, Mamie Lou.”
Mamie Lou had on her Beach Boys t-shirt.
“That’s not fair.”
“Maybe not, Mamie Lou, but there have been complaints from some of the parents. A few of the older boys have been wearing shirts that were vulgar, and since we don’t have time to check every word on every shirt, from now on there will be no t-shirts with writing. Gang, this affects me as much as it does you. I can’t wear my Beethoven Or Bust anymore.”
Billy Wentworth put up his hand.
“Yes, Billy?”
“What did the vulgar shirts say?”
Mr. Markham closed his eyes. When he opened them he said, “Now, gang, come on. Take out your arithmetic books, please. Once again we are going to have a stab at dividing fractions. I’m hoping for some sort of a breakthrough.”
Billy’s hand was in the air again.
“Billy, if this question is about the vulgarity on the t-shirts …”
“It’s not.”
Mr. Markham twirled his pencil and waited.
Billy stood up. He smoothed the front of his Rambo t-shirt. Although Bingo could only see the back of Billy’s head, he knew that at that moment Rambo and Billy wore the same tough expression.
Billy pointed to the word Rambo. “Would this count as writing?”
“Let’s see, Billy. Are those what you would call your ABC’s?”
Billy did not answer. He put his hands behind his back in a military stance.
“All right, gang, here’s a good rule to follow. If your shirt has any of the ABC’s on it—and I hope you know them by now—if it has any of the ABC’s on it, you can’t wear it to school.”
Billy kept standing there.
“What now, Billy?”
“I want a ruling on this shirt.”
“Billy—”
“An official ruling.”
Mr. Markham sighed.
“Because I’m wearing it no matter what.”
Billy sat down to applause.
Bingo spent the rest of math drawing pictures in his journal. These were pictures of the t-shirts which he would no longer be able to wear to school: MOZART FREAK, I LOVE THE SMITHSONIAN, his GENERIC t-shirt, BODY UNDER CONSTRUCTION …
He then drew a picture of Melissa as he would never (because of the principal’s cruel and unjust ruling) get to see her—in a t-shirt that said DR. JEKYLL AND MS. HYDE.
He was giving Melissa some extra curls when Billy Wentworth turned around. This happened so fast Bingo didn’t have time to shield his picture.
Billy Wentworth said, “I’m moving next door to you.”
Bingo said, “I know.”
Bingo was proud that his voice sounded almost normal.
After lunch the official ruling from the principal’
s office came down on Billy’s Rambo t-shirt. Mr. Markham read it aloud.
“‘Any writing, any word of any kind will not be permitted. If Billy’s Rambo t-shirt has a word on it, it falls into that category. Billy’s Rambo t-shirt will no longer be permitted at this school.’”
Mr. Markham put the paper on his desk. “It is as I feared. If even one of the dreaded ABC’s is on the shirt, it can’t be worn, gang.”
Billy slammed his history book shut and threw it under his desk.
As the sound of the book against metal echoed through the classroom, it sounded like the opening shot of a long and bloody war.
Bingo made a quick decision. He would have several of the nonviolent shirts made. Billy Wentworth’s anger might spill over onto an innocent victim. The innocent victim might be him.
He would stop at The T-Shirt Factory on the way home.
“Come on,” Mr. Markham said tiredly. “Give me a break.”
The Boy Behind the Rebel Leader
BINGO’S DAD LEFT THE supper table to answer a phone call. “You bet I’ll be there,” Bingo heard him say. “I wouldn’t miss homecoming for anything.”
While Bingo and his mom continued to eat, they had a surprising conversation. Bingo started it.
“Oh, guess what, Mom?” he said.
“What?”
“From now on, no one in our school is allowed to wear t-shirts that have any words whatsoever on them.”
“Oh?”
Bingo began to list the individual injustices so that she could see the enormity of their losses.
“Billy Wentworth—he’s the boy that’s moving next door—can’t wear his Rambo. Mamie Lou can’t wear Beach Boys, Melissa can’t wear her very beautiful, baby-blue Care Bears shirt, Amy Myers can’t wear her Mickey Mouse shirt because—get this, Mom—it has the words Walt Disney Productions under Mickey’s face.”
“Why did they decide this?”
“Somebody, not me, but somebody wore a vulgar shirt. We think we know who it was, and because this one boy wore this one shirt, and it did have something vulgar on it—I won’t tell you what unless you force me because it was very, very vulgar.”
“I won’t force you.”
“Anyway, the words were all run together with no spaces in between and so none of the teachers noticed it, but some girl—and we think we know who she is too—went home and told her mother.”
“Fink,” his mom said.
“Mom!”
“Well, she shouldn’t have told.”
“Actually she didn’t tell. She was too ashamed to tell. She wrote it on a sheet of paper just the way it had been on the shirt.”
“She’s still a fink.”
“Mom!”
“Go on.”
“So her mom looked at the words and finally she got them separated and she was furious. She called the principal and threatened to call the Board of Education.”
“But that’s terrible—to punish the entire school for the actions of one boy.”
“I know.”
“Grossly unfair.”
“I think so too.”
“You students ought to protest.”
“What?”
“You students should rebel and you ought to lead the rebellion!”
“Me? Me lead them?”
“Yes, you could do it. I’m sure you could. Why don’t you set the protest for, say, Friday. You could call it in a wear-in.”
“A what?”
“A wear-in. You know, like a sit-in, only this will be a wear-in. Everyone in the school must—” She held up one finger for emphasis. “—must wear a t-shirt that says something. And you, as the leader, must wear one that says Principals Stink.”
“Mom!”
Now Bingo was really shocked. He couldn’t believe his mom was advocating this. Usually she didn’t like for him to stick out in a crowd, much less lead one.
“I will be extremely disappointed in anything less,” she finished firmly.
“Mom, are you serious?”
Bingo didn’t get the answer because his father came back from his phone call. “You’ll never guess who that was.”
“Fig Newton,” his mom said. “Fig always makes you laugh like that.”
“He and his wife—second wife—are coming and—”
“May I be excused?” Bingo said.
“Yes, go on, go on,” his mom said. She seemed eager for him to get on with the revolutionary plans. “Who’s the second wife? I thought …”
Bingo went to his room with a heavy heart. Despite his mother’s encouragement, he could not lead the rebellion. Like all moms, she was blind to his inabilities.
He looked at himself in the mirror, searching for some characteristic of rebel leadership that he had previously overlooked. If only he had a little mustache.
His shoulders slumped.
He was not now and never could be a rebel leader. It was hopeless. He sank onto the bed. In the morning he would break the news to his mom. “I’m just not a Billy Wentworth,” he would say.
Billy Wentworth. Bingo got up slowly. He looked at himself again in the mirror.
No, he could not be the leader, but he could be the boy behind the leader. He did have the characteristic for that—knowing a leader to get behind. Maybe he could fulfill his mother’s dreams after all.
He started for the living room. His mom was practicing “Fight, Darn You, Fight” on the trumpet. His dad was pulling on his cheerleading sweater. Bingo decided not to interrupt. There would be time to tell them of his triumph later.
During the long night, as Bingo tossed and turned in his Superman pajamas, he tried out different strategies. “Billy, would you mind leading a rebellion for my mom?” Or, “Billy, I was thinking of having a rebellion and I was wondering if you would like to lead it.” Or, “Billy, do you like danger and intrigue?”
Finally he tried the truth. “Billy, my mom had an interesting suggestion about our t-shirt problem.”
Bingo got out of bed at once and stood in front of the mirror. “Billy, my mom had an interesting suggestion about our t-shirt problem.” Not bad for an opener …
An hour later, wrapped in his Superman cape, he fell asleep murmuring for the forty-fourth time, “Billy, my mom had an interesting suggestion about …”
The Rise of the Rebel Leader
THE CLASSROOM WAS QUIET the next morning. Billy Wentworth had on his Rambo t-shirt, but he had put a strip of black tape over the word Rambo. Bingo thought this had the effect of making it look worse than it was, like the black strips they put on nudes to hide vital stuff.
The girls wore unfamiliar blouses and dresses, and the boys, ill-fitting shirts. Bingo had on a t-shirt with one-fortieth of the American flag on it. This was from camp last summer. On parents’ night, forty campers had stood together on a hill, creating the American flag, and had sung a medley of patriotic songs.
Bingo took a deep breath and touched Billy’s shoulder. When Billy turned around he said, “Mymomhadaninterestingsuggestionabout—”
Billy said, “What?”
Bingo started over. “My mom had—”
Mr. Markham said, “Quiet, gang, no talking. This means you too, Bingo.”
Bingo said, “I’ll tell you later, Billy.”
Mr. Markham got up from his desk. He was twirling his yellow Scripto pencil in a new way, weaving it through his fingers so fast Bingo couldn’t keep up with it.
“I have an important assignment for you,” he said. He looked up at the ceiling, apparently working out the details in his mind. Then he looked down, somehow looking directly at every single one of them. Only Mr. Markham could do that.
“I want you to write a letter for me, and, gang, this will be the most important letter you have ever written in your life.”
Billy mumbled, “Here we go again, gang.”
Bingo felt uneasy. He didn’t like the way Mr. Markham looked. Mr. Markham put his pencil behind his ear and took hold of his chin as if he had an imagina
ry beard. He stroked the invisible beard. His eyes were too bright.
He said, “Has any one in this classroom ever seen my girlfriend?”
There was a shocked silence. Most of them had never thought of Mr. Markham as a romantic person who went on dates and had girlfriends. The boys looked down at their desks in embarrassment.
Even Bingo, who had previously thought he and Mr. Markham might share an unfortunate fate—being in love with three women—even Bingo didn’t want to hear about one particular girlfriend.
“Nobody has seen her?”
Melissa put her hand halfway up.
“You’ve seen her, Melissa?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.” Melissa glanced around as if she were looking for help. “One time I saw somebody on the back of your motorcycle.”
“Could you be a little more specific, Melissa? After all, a great many girls have ridden on the back of my bike.”
“Her name was Dawn.”
“That’s the one. Tell the class, Melissa, did you get a good look at her?”
“Pretty good.” Melissa was twisting her hair now. Bingo had never seen her so uneasy. “You got off and went in the grocery store and she stayed on the motorcycle. I went over and said, ‘Hi.’”
“Melissa, would you say Dawn is beautiful, very beautiful, or incredibly beautiful?”
“She was real pretty.”
“I’ll take that. Now, Melissa, for those who have not seen her, would you stand up and describe her?”
Melissa sighed.
“Please, Melissa.”
“I’m not good at describing people.”
“Try.”
Melissa got up slowly. “Well, she’s about that tall.” Melissa held her hand three inches over her head. “She’s got long blonde hair and it’s real curly. I don’t know what color her eyes are because she had on dark glasses.”
“Green.”
“She reminded me of Malibu Barbie. Can I please sit down now?”
“Yes. The point is, gang, that Dawn is very beautiful, but she is not incredibly smart. I guess you can’t have it all. So every now and then Dawn comes up with something stupid like—like she might say she wants to break up with me. She does not want to break up,” he went on quickly. “I want to make that clear. What she wants is to be talked out of breaking up with me. You understand what I’m saying?”
