Free Burning Questions of Bingo Brown by Betsy Byars

seen, something he had not dreamed could be true, something he would remember for the rest of his life.
    Billy Wentworth had a poodle.

The Worst News of Bingo’s Life
    B INGO WAS WALKING HOME slowly. This was because he had just had another mixed-sex conversation.
    Melissa had said, “Can I speak to you after school?”
    “Sure, sure.”
    “It’s about what I told you on the phone.”
    “All right.”
    The second mixed-sex conversation was held on the school steps. Melissa said, “After I talked to you, I started thinking.”
    “Yes, yes.”
    “Maybe Dawn wasn’t Mr. Markham’s girlfriend when I talked to her, but maybe she got to be his girlfriend after that. See what I mean?”
    “I think so.”
    “After I thought about that, I wanted to call you back because I was afraid I had made you worry about Mr. Mark like İ was worrying about Mr. Mark, but I was afraid to call you back because I was afraid your mom would answer and she would think I was calling you too much.”
    “You can call me anytime you want to.”
    “Really? You mean that?”
    “Yes.”
    Bingo was replaying the conversation in his mind when he rounded the corner, so he did not immediately recognize the awful sound that filled the street. Then he recognized it and broke into a run.
    “Mom!” He threw open the living room door. “Stop! Don’t!” he cried.
    “Don’t what?”
    “Play the trumpet.”
    “Why?”
    “They’ll hear you.”
    “Who?”
    “The Wentworths.”
    “The Wentworths have heard trumpet-playing before. Anyway, this is when people are supposed to practice—in the middle of the afternoon when nobody’s trying to sleep.”
    “Couldn’t you at least play it quietly? Aren’t there mutes or something you can stick in trumpets to make them quiet?”
    “Fight songs are not minuets, Bingo. You’re supposed to give them all you’ve got. Now let go of my arm.”
    “Can I at least close the window?”
    “I want to get used to playing outside—oh, all right, close the window and I’ll go out in the yard.”
    “No! Not the yard! The window’s fine.”
    “Well, make up your mind.”
    Bingo walked into his room with one question in his mind.
    In the morning at school, could he say to Billy, “Man, did you hear that terrible trumpet-playing yesterday? Somebody stinks”?
    Would Billy answer, “Yeah, and it’s your mom”?
    While he was lying on the bed, trying to get his mind to return to the mixed-sex conversation, his mom came into the room.
    “Oh, about homecoming—”
    “What about it?” Bingo said without interest. In his mind Melissa had just said the opening word in the mixed-sex conversation. Bingo.
    “Well, Mom’s not going to be able to stay with you. This is her bridge weekend. You know, once a year she and her seven best friends go to a resort hotel and play bridge all weekend. They’ve been doing it since 1965. Last year she had to miss because of her gallbladder, and I couldn’t ask her to miss again. This year they’re going to the Myrtle Beach Holiday Inn.”
    “So what am I going to do?”
    “Well, this falls under the heading of a stroke of luck. I went over to the Wentworths to introduce myself and while we were talking, I mentioned the weekend and that I didn’t have anyone for you to stay with, and she said, ‘Why, he can stay with us. Billy has an extra bunk bed.’ I really like her. She is so nice. I—”
    Bingo sat straight up in bed. “Mom,” he said, his voice was firm, adult, and controlled except that it was four notes higher than usual. “Mom, I cannot spend the night with Billy Wentworth.”
    “But why? He seems like such a nice boy.”
    “I cannot explain it but you’ll just have to believe me, Mom. I cannot spend the night with Billy Wentworth.”
    “But why? Give me one reason.”
    “No, just take it from me, I cannot spend the night with Billy Wentworth.”
    “But it’s all set.”
    “Then it will have to be unset. I will not stay with Billy