Your Move, J. P.! Read online

  J.P. wished that his weird friend Ralph was there. Ralph, who understood about stupidity and adolescence and who was able to brush it all away with a wave of his hand in order to concentrate on real stuff.

  "Quack, two, three, four." The ducklings giggled, marching importantly.

  I, J, K, L. He said the letters to himself in order, in the same rhythm as the ducklings. That's what he and Ralph had gotten to. I, J, K, L.

  Imbecile.

  Jerk.

  Knucklehead.

  And loser.

  Loser in chess. Loser in love. Loser in life.

  12

  J.P. stood helplessly, all alone.

  Helplessly, ha. The word should be hopelessly, J.P. thought, without any amusement at all, wishing that Hope were nearby to give him a hand. But not even Hope Delafield, who had proven to be such a help and such a friend, could help him now. He was in the boys' bathroom.

  Here he was, standing upright in an idiotic stiff canvas golf bag. And he had to pee.

  Through the door he could hear the noise as the student body and faculty and guests all trooped up the stairs toward the school chapel. Now that the parade was over, everyone was headed to the chapel for the opening ceremonies of the day.

  No attendance would be taken at school today. Usually the teachers counted heads at chapel each morning, to make certain no one ducked out. But today, no one would notice if J.P. was missing or late.

  Angela would notice, he realized. Angela would be sitting—no, she would be standing. Angela couldn't sit. Neither could he.

  J.P. squirmed inside the golf bag. This costume was the dumbest thing he had ever thought up in his entire life.

  He waited, standing in the middle of the deserted bathroom. Surely someone would come in soon, someone who could help him lift this golf bag off. Anyone at all—it wouldn't matter who. Mr. Goldfine, even, wearing that dumb bird suit. Even his arch-rival, Kevin Kerrigan, would do.

  But through the door, the sounds of footsteps tapered off. Fewer people passed by. J.P. glanced at his watch and realized that the chapel service would be starting.

  If he could just lie on the floor, he could wiggle his way out of the bag. But how on earth could he lie down when he couldn't bend his legs? He would have to fling himself onto the floor, which was covered with hard, white tile. One whomp with his head on that, and he might be a goner.

  He squirmed again. He really had to pee.

  But did he have to pee bad enough to risk a fractured skull?

  J.P. eyed the floor, assessed his own discomfort, and decided that he could give it two more minutes. He would wait two more minutes for someone to come into the bathroom and save him. At the end of two minutes he would throw himself to the tile and probably die.

  There was a knock at the door.

  A knock? People didn't knock at a door that said GENTLEMEN on it in very plain black letters. They simply walked in.

  But there was another knock.

  "Yeah?" J.P. called.

  "J.P.? Is that you?" It was Hope's voice.

  "Yeah."

  "Are you okay?"

  J.P. hesitated. "Not exactly," he said, at last.

  "I saw you go in there and then you never came out," Hope called softly. "So I got worried."

  "Is there anyone out there in the hall?" J.P. called through the door.

  "No. Everyone's at chapel."

  "Well," J.P. called in a resigned voice, "there's no one in here but me. So you might as well come on in."

  Ten minutes later, J.P. and Hope made their way up the stairs to chapel.

  "Thanks, Hopie," J.P. whispered as they slipped inside as quietly as they could.

  "No big deal," she replied.

  His gratitude was very real. When he had explained his predicament, Hope had matter-of-factly helped him out of the golf bag, waited for him in the hall, and then helped him back in.

  J.P. spotted Angela standing against the wall. He joined her there. They were the only two people in the chapel who weren't able to sit down. Angela looked a little angry.

  "Where were you?" she whispered. "I was looking all over."

  "Shhhhh."

  "Are you all right?"

  "Shhhhh."

  J.P. faced resolutely front, not looking at Angela. There was no way he was going to explain to her about the problem he had had. It was just too embarrassing. People like Angela wouldn't understand, anyway. People like Angela— perfect people—never had to pee.

  On the stage at the front of the chapel, a group of third-grade girls dressed in bluebird outfits were singing, "Welcome, sweet springtime, we greet thee in song." When they had finished, they curtsied and everyone applauded.

  The school's headmaster stood and made a series of announcements:

  Refreshments available all day long in the courtyard behind the main building.

  Balloons imprinted with the school logo for sale in the bookstore.

  Gymnastics exhibition at eleven o'clock.

  Dancing for all ages, with live music, seven clarinets, drum, trumpet, four flutes, and a cello, in the gym all afternoon. Come and go as you please.

  Chess tournament finals in the library at one. Kevin Kerrigan versus J.P. Tate.

  Kindergarten play about rabbits and elves starting right after chapel, in the basement kindergarten area. Everybody welcome.

  J.P. watched the kindergarten children poke each other in excitement at the announcement of their play. He yawned. His knee itched, and he couldn't reach it. Beside him, Angela shifted her posture.

  "This isn't terribly comfortable, is it?" she murmured.

  He grunted something in agreement. Angela sure used the word "terribly" a lot. He hadn't realized that until this very minute.

  Finally the headmaster put his list of announcements into his folder and looked out to the crowd seated in the chapel.

  "One final and important thing before I dismiss you to enjoy the day's events," he said. "We have very special guests with us today." He looked down into the first row. "Would you stand, please, so they can see you?" he said to the couple seated there.

  J.P. looked, and groaned silently. Mr. and Mrs. Myerson stood up and turned around so that all the students could see their Brillo hair and their boring faces and the fronts of their very boring blue suits.

  "These are the parents of our student Raymond Myerson, whom some of you older folk will remember," the headmaster went on, beaming at the Myersons.

  "Raymond was a fine boy, a fine student, a fine citizen," the headmaster said.

  J.P. shifted from one foot to the other. His knee still itched. He felt sweat run down from his left armpit to his waist, where it caught in a puddle just above his belt.

  The headmaster droned on about fine, fine Raymond Myerson.

  "After Ray's tragic death—" He looked down, suddenly, at the Myersons. "You don't mind if I call him Ray, do you?"

  The Myersons flashed sad, proud, gleaming, very rich smiles. "Please do," Mr. Myerson said.

  "After Ray's very tragic death in a boating accident at summer camp," the headmaster went on, "his parents decided to honor his memory with one of the most generous gifts ever made to the Burke-Thaxter School. Our science lab, the Myerson Lab, has been called one of the finest in all the independent schools in the United St—"

  Rigid in her red plaid golf bag, Angela hitched herself slightly to the left, closer to J.P. "Did he say boating accident?" she asked in a loud whisper.

  J.P. looked at the floor. "Shhhh," he said.

  "And their gift today of Bausch and Lomb optical equipment, including twelve of the finest microscopes ever made"—the headmaster was going on and on, reading now from a paper of information in his hand. The Myersons continued to stand and beam.

  "James, did he say boating accident?" Angela's voice was louder now.

  "SHHHH!" Several people seated in the audience nearby turned toward the wall where J.P. and Angela stood side by side. Someone gestured, with a finger to his mouth, for Ang
ela to shut up.

  "Indeed," the headmaster droned on, "as a result of this impressive gift from the Myersons, we have decided to institute a new program at the high school level, a program in Marine Biology, which was, of course, our Ray's greatest interest, and the thing that he was pursuing at the time of the very tragic accident in which he died. A healthy, robust young man like Ray: such a loss. If he had not, it is fair to say, been reaching from the boat for a particularly interesting specimen, he might not, in fact—"

  J.P. began to listen, with a grotesque sort of interest, to the account of Raymond Myerson falling out of a rowboat when he tried to collect some sort of floating oddity. He also watched Raymond's parents with curiosity, mystified by their beaming enthusiasm for the lengthy account of their son's demise, the apparent bliss with which they were recalling Raymond, his steel-rimmed glasses probably still intact, floating upside down in a murky New Hampshire lake.

  If they have all that money, J.P. was wondering—enough money to buy a whole science lab and twelve Bausch and Lomb microscopes—why the heck didn't they buy their kid some swimming lessons?

  Listening to the speech, watching the Myersons, and wondering about Raymond's failure, by age thirteen, to have learned even the simplest dog paddle, enabled J.P. to divert his attention away from Angela, who was now tugging on his arm.

  "I find this terribly, terribly peculiar, James," Angela was saying very angrily.

  He pulled his arm away.

  13

  The day dragged on. Usually the day of Spring Fling seemed to fly past and end too soon, even for J.P., who had always been more of an onlooker than a participant.

  But today, it dragged. It got hotter and hotter, and J.P. became moister and moister, as he perspired inside his golf bag.

  Angela became less and less friendly, less and less charming, and less and less desirable. She said "terribly" more and more often.

  She pulled him along by the hand to various events. The gymnastics competition, where they stood on the sidelines and watched J.P.'s sister win an award for the parallel bars.

  "She's terribly good at sports, isn't she?" Angela said to J.P.

  "She's okay."

  "You're terribly quiet. And you never answered me about your cousin, James. Was it a boating accident? And if so—"

  "I don't want to talk about it right now, Angela," J.P. interrupted her.

  Angela looked at him suspiciously. "When, then?" she asked.

  "Later," J.P. promised, miserably.

  "I'm quite certain my father would like to talk to you later, as well," Angela reminded him pointedly.

  J.P. sighed, and looked at the floor.

  "Now for refreshments. I'm terribly keen on some lemonade." And she grabbed his hand and yanked him away again.

  Standing beside Angela in the courtyard, J.P. chewed on a hot dog and watched the kids and parents milling around, admiring each other's costumes.

  "Don't you want a lemonade, James?" Angela asked. She was filling her second glass from the spigot at the big lemonade urn.

  "No." Angela was really amazing. J.P. hadn't dared to have even one drink because he was afraid he would have to head to the bathroom again. Yet Angela was on her second—gulping it down—and she had not yet, not once, gone to the ladies' room.

  J.P. looked around the courtyard for Hope. There she was, on the side, eating an ice cream cone and watching everyone, the way he and she had stood together and watched last year. He waved when he caught her eye. Hope grinned and waved back. Then she gestured toward her own wrist and called something.

  "What?"

  Hope called again, more loudly. She was pointing to her wristwatch. "One o'clock! In the library! Don't forget!"

  J.P. shook his head. "I won't. I'll see you there."

  As if he could forget the chess tournament. J.P. reached around the golf bag he was wearing, and felt its bulging pocket. Weird, having golf bag pockets to carry stuff in. But there it was, still safe, the special item he had brought, in the zippered pocket that usually held golf balls.

  It was twenty minutes to one. J.P. glanced around again, looking for Kevin Kerrigan, but his enemy was not in the courtyard.

  He's probably in the library already, J.P. thought. Getting ready. Plotting. Not plotting the Gruenwald Defense of a single queen's pawn opening—because he knows my middle game is better than his. He knows I can beat him at chess.

  He's plotting how to clobber me a different way. And luckily I've been warned. I know that he's got his friends and their distractions lined up.

  And, J.P. thought, patting his golf bag pocket again smugly, I have a counterweapon.

  "Come on, Angela," he said, remembering that she was his official partner for the day, "we'd better get to the library. It's almost time for the chess tournament."

  "You're terribly impatient, James," Angela said, coolly. "Let me finish my lemonade at least, please." She sipped. It was, J.P. realized in astonishment, her third.

  The library was crowded with spectators, and electric fans were turned on to move the warm air around.

  The chess board was set up on the center table, and the official—Mr. Donovan, the school janitor, who was also adviser to the chess club and a former city champion himself—sat in a chair to the side.

  Mr. Donovan was wearing a tightly coiled wire, like a huge Slinky, around his body. J.P., who hadn't seen him earlier in the day, looked at him in surprise.

  Mr. Donovan rolled his eyes sheepishly. "I'm a spring," he explained. "It seemed like a great idea at the time."

  J.P. laughed. "Well," he said, "at least you're flexible. You can sit. That's more than I can say." He hopped, in his golf bag, over to the table.

  Kevin Kerrigan, in his bathing suit and flippers, was already sitting at the chess board. The official draw had decided that J.P. would be white, and therefore go first, in the first game. The tournament was best out of three, with a half-hour break between games.

  One year the chess tournament had lasted into the night. But J.P. was pretty certain he could take Kevin quickly, in two games.

  The spectators grew quiet, conversation halting, as J.P. approached the table.

  "Just a minute, folks," Mr. Donovan said, in a loud voice. "I don't think anyone would mind if we allow Mr. Tate to take his very original costume off, so he can sit while he plays. Can I help you off with that golf bag, J.P.?"

  Kevin stood up angrily. "No fair! I'm wearing my costume, so J.P. has to wear his!"

  J.P. stood silently, waiting.

  "But, Kevin," Mr. Donovan explained, "J.P. can't sit in his costume. He'll be uncomfortable!"

  "So?" Kevin said. "You think I'm comfortable in this snorkeling gear? I have all this fake seaweed and stuff around my neck. So I'm just as uncomfortable as he is."

  "Kevin—" Mr. Donovan began.

  J.P. interrupted. "I'll leave the bag on, Mr. Donovan, and play standing up. Thank you anyway. But Kevin's right. He's wearing his costume, so I'll wear my costume.

  "In fact," J.P. went on with a sigh, "I'll even wear my complete costume." He unzipped the pocket of the golf bag, took out a huge red knitted bootie, and pulled it on over his head. There were two slits, knitted exactly to J.P.'s specifications, for his eyes.

  Kevin exploded. "What's that? Make him take that off!"

  "It's part of my costume," J.P. explained. "It's the knitted thing that golfers put over their golf clubs to protect them. Isn't that right, Mr. Donovan?"

  "I don't play golf," Mr. Donovan said. "Anybody here play golf?" He called to the crowd around the room.

  Countless hands shot up. Almost everybody's parent played golf. Even Angela's father, J.P. noticed, peering through his eyeholes, had raised his hand. Even both of Raymond Myerson's parents played golf.

  "Is it legitimate golf bag equipment?" Mr. Donovan asked the crowd.

  "Yes!" the golfers called in unison.

  "So let's start the match, then," Mr. Donovan announced. "J.P., you move first."

&nbs
p; Standing, J.P. looked down through his head bootie to the chess board. Carefully he made his move, using his king's pawn.

  P-K4

  While J.P. watched through his eye slits, Kevin, frowning, reached up to his ear and turned off his hearing aid. It was a substantial part of Kevin's chess game—the total concentration that his deafness allowed. Although the crowd was very still, there were the inevitable distracting small noises that any large group makes: a cough, a sigh, a sneeze, a whisper.

  Kevin could hear none of them. It was a huge advantage for him. He reached forward and made his move.

  P-QB4

  J.P. recognized the Sicilian Defense to a king's pawn opening. He smiled inside his bootie. The noises of the crowd were muffled by the wool, which helped.

  In the crowd surrounding the table, Kevin's cohorts began the distracting maneuvers they had planned. But J.P. didn't notice. He couldn't see Antonio, fidgeting and moving, on his left. Or Kevin's brother, Ryan Kerrigan, who pulled out a huge white handkerchief and began to wipe his nose with a flourish, to his right.

  Next Antonio stretched and yawned widely, his open mouth drawing the attention of most of the people in the room. But J.P. saw nothing through the eye slits except the chess board. Nothing at all. Concentrating only on the game, J.P. made his next move and began the slow, relentless battle that he was quite certain he would win.

  14

  The first game took an hour, instead of the twenty or so minutes that J.P. had thought he would need to beat Kevin.

  Hope had been correct when she warned J.P. that Kevin was getting better. That he was practicing a lot. That he was becoming more ruthless, more of a risk-taker.

  And J.P., of course, had not practiced chess, read about chess, or thought about chess since the day, three weeks ago now, that Angela Patricia Galsworthy had entered the seventh-grade math class and taken the unoccupied seat beside his.

  The head bootie helped. Inside his hot red woolen fortress, J.P. was alone with his brain. Through the narrow eye slits he watched only the board, only the chess pieces, only Kevin's hands.