Free Bingo Brown and the Language of Love by Betsy Byars Page A

the cabinet, giving up, his eyes spotted an unfamiliar container. He reached for it at once.
    Perhaps this bottle had been there all along behind the mousse, he thought. Perhaps it was a product that his parents had even concealed behind the mousse.
    He took it in his hand and read the unfamiliar words: Skin Bracer.
    Well, everything about him needed bracing, Bingo thought, that was for sure. Might as well start with the skin. He applied the skin bracer to both cheeks and waited.
    His skin was not braced. Maybe his skin was a little cooler. It certainly smelled better, but Bingo could not say it was braced.
    Bingo decided to do something he had never done before—read the directions.
    “Apply after shaving,” the directions said.
    Bingo drew in his breath.
    After shaving!
    Bingo felt these were probably the two most important words he had ever read in his life. He was so moved he had to close his eyes and hold onto the basin for support.
    He clung for a moment, head down, knuckles whitening. Then, slowly, he raised his head and had eye contact with himself.
    For days Bingo had felt like the helpless victim of the entire world, a toy in the turbulent mainstream of life. Now, at last, he could do something positive for himself. With one stroke of the razor, he could put childhood behind him forever.
    Bingo reached for his father’s razor, swallowed, and clicked it on.
    The ensuing buzz was the most comforting sound Bingo had ever heard. He rubbed the razor tentatively over his chin. Then his cheeks.
    Bingo moved with special care over his upper lip, where, for all he knew, a latent mustache lay below the surface.
    Then he went over his sideburns; they were latent, too. In his eagerness, he even took off a little bit of one eyebrow.
    Then Bingo clicked off the razor and stepped back for the result.
    It took his breath away.
    His face was—he loved this description—clean shaven.
    He actually liked himself better without that part of his eyebrow. And—and! It gave him a quizzical look, as if he questioned the very nature of existence—which he did.
    He looked at his reflection for a long time, turning this way and that. Finally satisfied, he reached for the skin bracer.
    Bingo splashed it on liberally. It was bracing! It was so bracing it stung. It actually brought tears to Bingo’s eyes.
    The phone rang.
    Blinking back well-deserved tears, Bingo went to the phone and picked it up.
    Fortunately the phone had a long cord so Bingo could take the phone back into the bathroom and watch himself in the mirror as he talked.
    “Hell-o!” This was the first cheerful hello he had heard from himself in months.
    “Bingo, it’s your dad.”
    “Oh, hi.”
    “Are you busy?”
    “Not really.”
    “Well, listen, what say we get some flowers and go see your mom?”
    Bingo lifted his shortened eyebrow quizzically. He loved it. He loved it! He looked like, a famous rock star. He looked like—
    “Bingo, are you there?”
    “Yes.”
    Bingo brought the eyebrow down. It looked good down, too! Down it was a suggestive snarl, like the curl of Elvis Presley’s lip. But up! Up it turned him into a totally different person. Up! Down! Yes, up was better, but down wasn’t shabby.
    “Bingo, what are you doing?”
    “Nothing. Nothing, Dad. I’m not doing anything. I’m talking to you.”
    “Well, I’ll get the flowers, Bingo, and pick you up in, oh, a half hour.”
    “I”—up—“will be waiting.” Up! Up!
    The last two ups gave Bingo a sobering thought.
    Now that he had this eyebrow, he would have to use its powers as carefully as a person with a black belt. Perhaps even have cards printed up. “Warning: The bearer of this card has a black belt in eyebrow.”
    Bingo smiled. With one final up/down, he backed reluctantly away from the bathroom mirror.

Hot Dog Surprise
    B INGO SAT BESIDE HIS father in the car. His father’s flowers, a dozen yellow roses, were in a box on the back seat.
    On Bingo’s lap was a small casserole, Hot