aren’t mad that I called you, are you?”
“No, I’m not mad.”
“Oh, good, I couldn’t stand it if you were mad at me, Bingo.”
Bingo hung up the phone and stood for a moment in his sagging Superman pajamas. His mom was watching him from the doorway. “Another tornado?” she asked.
He nodded. He pulled his Superman cape around him as if he were shielding himself from the world.
“Good night,” he said.
Boehmer!
B INGO CAME UP THE school steps slowly. He was deliberately late because there were so many people he did not want to see—Harriet, Billy Wentworth, the punched-out Mr. Markham. He didn’t even want to see Melissa. Lately Melissa seemed to think he wanted to know more than he really did about things.
He stepped inside the front doors. He had thought the hall would be deserted, that he would walk unobserved to class, taking his time, preparing himself to open the door. But his entire class was in the hall, clustered at the door of the classroom.
Melissa ran toward him. “Bingo, Boehmer’s in our room! Boehmer!”
“What’s he doing in there?”
“Nobody knows.”
“Is Mr. Mark there?”
“No, just Boehmer. Everybody thinks we must have done something!”
“What?”
“That’s just it. We don’t know. But if one of us had done something, we’d be called to his office, wouldn’t we, so it must have been all of us.”
Bingo and Melissa walked slowly to the classroom door. They joined the back of the group. There was an air of apprehension. The whispered questions, the lack of answers—Bingo could not remember a moment so filled with dread.
He peered around heads. Boehmer was there all right, reading some papers on Mr. Markham’s desk. It looked like it might be their letters.
The late-bell rang, causing the apprehension to grow.
“Should we go in or what?” Mamie Lou asked.
Tara said, “We have to go in, don’t we?”
“Yes,” said Harriet, “we can’t be late in front of Boehmer.”
“Then go in,” someone said from the safety of the back of the crowd.
There was a push, and three students—Harriet Tara, and George Roges—popped unwillingly into the room. The rest followed, and silently they went to their seats.
Bingo’s heart had started pounding. He positioned himself directly behind Billy Wentworth, grateful for once for Billy’s size. Bingo did not want to be noticed.
Mr. Boehmer was still engrossed in the papers. Finally he looked up and took off his glasses.
“Boys and girls,” he said, “I’ve had some very bad news this morning about Mr. Markham. He was in a motorcycle accident last night. We just found out about it.”
Everyone inhaled the news. It was an audible sound, and then there was silence.
The furnace had been turned on for the first time that morning, and the only sounds in the room were the crack of unused pipes, the faint hiss of steam.
Despite the heat from the radiators, Bingo was cold. The chill started in his feet, moved up his legs, and now flooded his stomach.
He had expected the worst, but he had thought the worst would be that he himself was in trouble. Under his desk, his knees began to tremble. He pressed them together.
He knew accidents happened. He had read about them in the newspaper and seen them on TV. But up until this moment, the only accidents he had really worried about were those that could happen to him.
Bingo’s reaction was all physical. First the coldness, then the trembling, and now his throat began to tighten. He felt as if he had been the victim of an accident himself.
“Yes, Melissa?”
“I don’t believe it.”
Even in his state of shock, Bingo was aware that Melissa would be the one to speak for all of them.
“I’m afraid it’s true. I felt the same way when I heard it. Yes, Mamie Lou?”
“Is he hurt bad?”
“He’s in intensive care. He has some broken bones and a head injury. He was not, as I understand it, wearing his helmet.”
“He always wore his helmet,” Billy Wentworth
“No, I’m not mad.”
“Oh, good, I couldn’t stand it if you were mad at me, Bingo.”
Bingo hung up the phone and stood for a moment in his sagging Superman pajamas. His mom was watching him from the doorway. “Another tornado?” she asked.
He nodded. He pulled his Superman cape around him as if he were shielding himself from the world.
“Good night,” he said.
Boehmer!
B INGO CAME UP THE school steps slowly. He was deliberately late because there were so many people he did not want to see—Harriet, Billy Wentworth, the punched-out Mr. Markham. He didn’t even want to see Melissa. Lately Melissa seemed to think he wanted to know more than he really did about things.
He stepped inside the front doors. He had thought the hall would be deserted, that he would walk unobserved to class, taking his time, preparing himself to open the door. But his entire class was in the hall, clustered at the door of the classroom.
Melissa ran toward him. “Bingo, Boehmer’s in our room! Boehmer!”
“What’s he doing in there?”
“Nobody knows.”
“Is Mr. Mark there?”
“No, just Boehmer. Everybody thinks we must have done something!”
“What?”
“That’s just it. We don’t know. But if one of us had done something, we’d be called to his office, wouldn’t we, so it must have been all of us.”
Bingo and Melissa walked slowly to the classroom door. They joined the back of the group. There was an air of apprehension. The whispered questions, the lack of answers—Bingo could not remember a moment so filled with dread.
He peered around heads. Boehmer was there all right, reading some papers on Mr. Markham’s desk. It looked like it might be their letters.
The late-bell rang, causing the apprehension to grow.
“Should we go in or what?” Mamie Lou asked.
Tara said, “We have to go in, don’t we?”
“Yes,” said Harriet, “we can’t be late in front of Boehmer.”
“Then go in,” someone said from the safety of the back of the crowd.
There was a push, and three students—Harriet Tara, and George Roges—popped unwillingly into the room. The rest followed, and silently they went to their seats.
Bingo’s heart had started pounding. He positioned himself directly behind Billy Wentworth, grateful for once for Billy’s size. Bingo did not want to be noticed.
Mr. Boehmer was still engrossed in the papers. Finally he looked up and took off his glasses.
“Boys and girls,” he said, “I’ve had some very bad news this morning about Mr. Markham. He was in a motorcycle accident last night. We just found out about it.”
Everyone inhaled the news. It was an audible sound, and then there was silence.
The furnace had been turned on for the first time that morning, and the only sounds in the room were the crack of unused pipes, the faint hiss of steam.
Despite the heat from the radiators, Bingo was cold. The chill started in his feet, moved up his legs, and now flooded his stomach.
He had expected the worst, but he had thought the worst would be that he himself was in trouble. Under his desk, his knees began to tremble. He pressed them together.
He knew accidents happened. He had read about them in the newspaper and seen them on TV. But up until this moment, the only accidents he had really worried about were those that could happen to him.
Bingo’s reaction was all physical. First the coldness, then the trembling, and now his throat began to tighten. He felt as if he had been the victim of an accident himself.
“Yes, Melissa?”
“I don’t believe it.”
Even in his state of shock, Bingo was aware that Melissa would be the one to speak for all of them.
“I’m afraid it’s true. I felt the same way when I heard it. Yes, Mamie Lou?”
“Is he hurt bad?”
“He’s in intensive care. He has some broken bones and a head injury. He was not, as I understand it, wearing his helmet.”
“He always wore his helmet,” Billy Wentworth
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