Read Online Nobody Cries at Bingo by Dawn Dumont - Free Book Online

bingo. The best I could do was to utter a series of words that began with B.
    â€œB-B-Bananas are a tasty fruit.”
    â€œB-B-Birthdays are fun.”
    â€œB-B-Bastard, that’s what they say my friend Jack is. B-B-But, I think that’s unfair b-b-because he had no choice in his b-b-birth.”
    My b-b-brilliance was awarded with a slap to the back of the head.
    The next number was called and it was mine. I was down to one. Bells started to go off in my head and my vision suddenly narrowed. I pulled my card closer. Mom noticed my sudden hoarding and looked over.
    â€œShe’s down to one.”
    Thirteen pairs of eyes turned towards me. I was suddenly hot from the heat of twenty-six retinas.
    Mom massaged my shoulder muscles like a coach in a boxer’s corner. “Stay loose, be alert. You can do this.”
    She whispered to Auntie Squaw, “She needs B10. That’s all.”
    Auntie pursed her lips together and nodded as if to say, “Okay, I’ll get right on that. I will make this happen.” She glared up at the bingo caller with renewed purpose.
    My hands tapped a rat-a-tat on the tabletop. Would this idiot never call the next number? What the hell was he doing? Did he know he wasn’t getting paid to sit there with his thumb up his ass?
    â€œDon’t swear.”
    â€œYou and Auntie say that.”
    â€œThat’s different. We’re adults, you’re a child.”
    â€œIsn’t it illegal for children to gamble?”
    â€œShut up and play your card.”
    I stared down at my numbers. Was it going to happen? Was I going to finally break my six-year unlucky streak? I was not a nice person — just that morning I’d put my sister’s shoe in the toilet. I did not deserve to win.
    The bingo caller cleared his throat and called his next number. B10. I looked up at my mom. She stared into my eyes and she knew. “Say it.”
    â€œI can’t,” I croaked.
    â€œSay it!”
    â€œEveryone will look at me.”
    â€œSay it!”
    â€œBingo!”
    Heads swiveled around the table as everyone heard the word. The runner, a slim mother of six, ran over. I gave her my card and she brushed it clear of the numbers. I showed her where my line was and she called out the numbers to the bingo caller. This was scarier than the game itself. What if I made a mistake? What if everyone thought I called a false bingo? Would they turn on me like a pack of rez dogs? Or would my age make them think twice? Just in case, I kept one foot on the floor to run out the door. If I could make it out into the parking lot, I’d get lost among the other sixty brown kids out there. Blending in, that was my only chance.
    â€œIt’s good!” The runner held up her hand and another runner ran up with a wad of cash. They counted out the money in front of me and pushed it towards me. Mom grabbed it before I understood what was happening.
    Women around the table glared at me. No longer was I the cute kid in pigtails, I was real competition like the chicken who played tick- tack- toe at the Fair.
    I had won forty-five dollars. Not a fortune even back then but it was more than enough to buy me chips, a drink and a chocolate bar, although my mom wouldn’t let me have the latter two until the second bingo game.
    As I sat there eating my Cheezies, I reflected on the bingo game. Was there anything to learn from this experience? I had wanted Cheezies. My mom made me wait until I won. I cried. And then I won. What was the moral? If I cried, then I would win? A dangerous conclusion as it would mean carrying tissue in my pocket for the rest of my life.
    It would be worth it if I could continue this streak. I wouldn’t have to get a job, just a lot of markers. No margarine tins for me, I’d have specialized pockets sewn on the inside of my jacket with a different pocket for each colour. I would learn how to play with both hands and I would be good —