"What's your H?" Ralph asked cheerfully.
J.P. thought. My H, he thought. Hypocrisy, that's what it is. I'm the world's biggest hypocrite.
But he knew that Ralph wouldn't accept that as his H. It wasn't physical—even though (J.P. could feel it) he had decidedly physical symptoms. A pain in his chest and a spasmodic twitching of his whole upper body.
He looked at Ralph and sighed. "Heartburn," he announced. "And hiccups."
Then he trudged disconsolately on to school.
10
J.P. glanced at the blackboard when he entered English class. Each day Mrs. Hunt put a different quotation on the board, and she gave a little extra credit to whichever class member could identify the source of the quotation.
J.P. had been pretty successful at many of them, though he never got the ones that came from movie stars or musicians, not even the ones from old Beatles' songs, which everyone else in the whole world seemed to know.
But just last month he had been the only one in the class to identify: "I LIKE THE MOMENT WHEN I BREAK A MAN'S EGO."
He had even been the only member of the chess club to identify that one, which came from Bobby Fischer, the famous chess player. J.P. wasn't certain that he agreed with the philosophy, though he had been happy to get the extra credit from Mrs. Hunt.
Today he didn't recognize the source of the quotation, but glumly he realized, after reading it, that he did agree with what it said.
"OH, WHAT A TANGLED WEB WE WEAVE,
WHEN FIRST WE PRACTICE TO DECEIVE!"
It was Angela who raised her hand for the extra credit today. "That's Sir Walter Scott," she said, and Mrs. Hunt beamed at her.
"He was British," Angela explained to the class. "And I studied him at school in London last year. That's how I knew."
J.P. bent his head toward The Prince and the Pauper as the whole class turned to the chapter they were discussing. But the quotation on the board stayed with him. J.P. had a phenomenal memory. Whatever he saw, whatever he heard, whatever he read, he remembered.
That was why he got good grades in school, why he was a terrific chess player, why he would always know, from now on—ever since yesterday—that Coolidge had been president, Jimmy Walker had been mayor, Pius XI had been Pope, and Bubbling Over had won the Kentucky Derby in 1926.
And now, he knew, he would always remember what Sir Walter Scott had said about deceit.
He sighed, turned the page in his book, and wished devoutly that he were a prince, or a pauper, or a president or a Pope, even—anyone at all except James Priestly Tate.
"J.P.?"
"What?" J.P. turned at the door to Mrs. Hunt's classroom. English class had ended, and he had lingered in the doorway, hoping to walk with Angela to History, maybe even carrying her schoolbooks the way boys did in old magazines and Andy Hardy movies. But she had dashed on ahead, giggling, with some girlfriends.
It was red-haired Hope Delafield who was standing by his side waiting to say something to him. Good old Dopey Hopie. Hope wasn't really a dope; in fact, she was the best girl chess player in the school. But her parents should have known when they named her that she would be nicknamed Dopey in third grade. Parents should always think about stuff like that when they name a kid, J.P. thought for about the sixty-seventh time. Look what happened to Elvis, for example; he got stuck with the nickname Pelvis, and even though he made a fortune being Elvis the Pelvis, J.P. suspected that he probably had secretly wished all his life to be named something like Elmore, instead.
Hope's freckled face was distressed. "I just wanted to tell you that I lost to Kevin in the semifinals of the chess tournament," she said gloomily. "We played after school yesterday. I thought you'd be there to watch."
Darn. Even with his phenomenal memory, J.P. had forgotten the Kerrigan-Delafield match. He had meant to go and watch. But he had been sidetracked by Angela and the golf bags.
"How did you lose to Kerrigan? You're usually better than he is, Hope," J.P. said. "Even when he turns off his hearing aid. You're better than I am at ignoring distractions."
Hope sighed. "Well, I blew it. I was white, and I tried a queen's pawn opening. Pawn to queen four?"
J.P. nodded with interest, picturing the chess board in his mind. "What defense did he use?" he asked Hope.
"I think it's called the Gruenfeld Defense. Knight to king's bishop three was his next move."
J.P. chuckled. "I didn't think old Kerrigan was that smart. So you ended up losing. Rats, Hope. I thought you'd beat him."
She smiled ruefully. "Maybe next time. Anyway, J.P., I thought it would be you and me playing against each other for the championship. But now you have to play him. Have you been practicing?"
"Of course," J.P. lied. I've been practicing how to dance while wearing a golf bag, he admitted to himself. I've been practicing how to arrange my lips to kiss Angela Galsworthy. Of course I've been practicing.
"The final match is during the Spring Fling," Hope reminded him tentatively.
"Yeah, I know. It is every year."
"Are you, ah, going with anyone to the Spring Fling?"
J.P. looked at her. Last year he hadn't gone with Hope, actually, to the Spring Fling. But she and he had been two of the very few who hadn't worn costumes. They had spent a lot of time standing on the sidelines together. So it almost seemed as if they had been a couple.
He felt bad when he responded to her question. "Yeah," he said. "I'm going with Angela."
Hope nodded and shrugged and smiled, the way she always did when people called her Dopey Hopie. As if she understood that they liked her anyway, that they didn't mean it as an insult. "Well," she said, "I hope you beat Kevin in the finals. You've been champion for three years now. I'll be there rooting for you.
"Spring Fling's next week, you know," she reminded him as they walked on to History class together. "You'd better start brushing up on the middle game after a single queen's pawn opening. And listen, J.P., here's something else.
"Kevin's got his friends and his brother all lined up. I heard them talking. They're going to do a whole lot of distracting stuff. Blowing their noses, and sneezing, and burping, and scratching mosquito bites—that kind of stuff. Nothing illegal. Nothing they can get thrown out of the room for, just stuff to make you lose your concentration."
J.P. nodded as they entered the classroom, where the teacher was already pulling down a large pink map of the Roman Empire from the roller above the blackboard. He took his seat quickly and tried very hard to think about the conquest of Gaul. In his mind, though, J.P. was seeing knights and bishops marching across a checkered landscape, knocking helpless pawns aside as they advanced.
"Mom," J.P. asked that evening after dinner, "you know how to knit, right?"
His mother looked at him in surprise. "Of course I know how to knit. Who do you think made you that heavy brown crewneck sweater you like so much?"
"Yeah, right. I forgot."
"Why?"
"Well, I was wondering how long it would take you to knit a—what do you call those things that babies wear on their feet?"
Caroline looked up from the magazine she was reading. "Booties," she said.
J.P. made a face. What a gross word: booties. He forced himself to say it, nevertheless. "How long would it take you to knit a baby bootie?"
"Let me think," Joanna Tate said. "I made a pair of baby booties when Dottie Sorenson had her baby, and I guess it took me about—"
J.P. interrupted her. "I don't mean a pair. How long would it take to knit just one bootie?"
His mother stared at him with a puzzled frown. "Do you know someone with a one-legged baby, J.P.?"
"It's just an academic question."
Joanna Tate shrugged and thought for a minute. "An hour," she said, finally. "I could knit one baby bootie in one hour. No fancy stuff or frills, though. Just straightforward baby bootie."
"Regardless of size?"
Caroline had set her magazine completely aside and was listening avidly. "
J.P.!" she said. "Tell the truth. Do you know somebody who's pregnant?"
"Mom!" J.P. exploded. "Does she have to eavesdrop on every single conversation in the whole world?"
"No," his mother said mildly. "Of course she doesn't. Quit eavesdropping, Caroline. Read your magazine." Her voice dropped slightly and became just as eager as Caroline's. "Now, tell the truth, J.P. Do you know somebody who's pregnant?"
"Forget it! Forget I even asked."
His mother grinned. "I'm sorry. What was your last question. Size? They're all pretty much the same size, I think. One baby foot's just like every other baby foot. It's not the same as adolescent feet." She glanced at J.P.'s enormous Reeboks. "I still would love to know why you asked," she added.
"It's probably a math problem, Mom," Caroline said, looking up from the magazine again. "J.P.'s math teacher always gives interesting problems like that. 'If one knitter can knit one baby bootie in forty-three minutes, and one weaver can weave one tablecloth in forty-three days, then how long would it take the knitter to knit a tablecloth and the weaver to weave a baby bootie?' It's probably a math problem like that."
J.P. stared at his sister. "Caroline," he said, after a long moment, "you're an idiot. I hope you flunk fifth-grade math."
Caroline tossed her head and turned back to the article she was reading in Newsweek.
"I'm going to take a shower," Joanna Tate announced. She got up from the couch and started toward the hallway of the apartment.
"Wait!" J.P. said. He got up and followed her, bumping the corner of a table and stumbling over a footstool on the way. "Wait just one minute! I need you to do something for me. I need you to knit something for me, Mom."
Joanna Tate stood in the hallway and listened, nodding, while he explained earnestly.
"Sure," she said, laughing, when he had finished. "I can do that. You're a genius, J.P."
11
"Lady, I ought to charge you a whole lot extra for this stuff. A whole lot extra," the cab driver grumbled as he loaded the two golf bags into the trunk of the taxi.
"Come on," Joanna Tate told him impatiently, "it's no worse than a couple of suitcases. Pretend you're taking someone to the airport.
"Here, J.P.," she said, and handed him some money for the cab. "Don't give him too big a tip," she added in a whisper. "He's a grouch.
"Have fun," she called from the front steps as Caroline and J.P. got into the taxi. "Happy Fling! Watch that antenna, Caroline!"
Caroline, wearing her bumblebee suit, ducked carefully into the cab, watching to be sure that the antennae didn't catch on the doorframe. J.P., dressed in his regular school clothes, climbed in beside her after watching the golf bags being safely stowed in the trunk.
The main brick building of the Burke-Thaxter School was festively hung with banners proclaiming spring in various colors. Bunches of helium-filled balloons, attached to each window, swayed in the light May breeze. Garlands of crepe paper flowers decorated the wrought iron fence that bordered the building in front.
The sidewalk was crowded with teachers, parents, and kids, many of them in costumes. One mother was making final adjustments on a bright yellow daffodil hat that her first-grade daughter was wearing.
"Rats," Caroline muttered, looking through the cab window as they pulled up. "More bumblebees. I knew it!"
"There are always lots of bees, jerk," J.P. reminded her. "I told you you should think up some other costume."
"Look at Stacy!" Caroline pointed. "I wish we were rich. Her parents bought that costume."
J.P. looked. Stacy Baurichter, Caroline's best friend, was waiting on the front steps, swathed in lavender chiffon; attached to her back somehow were two gauzy butterfly wings. She waved, and Caroline, oddly pudgy in the striped bee body she had made by stuffing a leotard, ran over to join her on the steps. Her antennae wobbled as she took the steps two at a time.
J.P. paid the cab driver and picked up the two golf bags that the man had deposited on the curb. He looked around for Angela, who had promised to meet him.
"Hi, J.P." It wasn't Angela. It was Hope, dressed in her everyday school uniform of skirt and pale blue blouse. "Angela's in the art room waiting for you. I told her I'd watch for you and let you know. Can I help carry something?"
"Thanks. " J.P. gave Hope one of the golf bags and followed her up the steps, making his way around the crowd of giggling kids. The day was to start with a parade of costumed students around the block. Very soon the teachers would begin to try to impose some order and get the kids lined up. J.P. could see the huge BURKE-THAXTER banner that two high school seniors would carry in the lead; at the moment they were leaning against the building talking, and the banner, folded on itself, read BKEHXER.
Nearby, some band members were taking instruments out of cases and playing a few warm-up bleeps on clarinets. Burke-Thaxter, which was a very small school, had a terrible band. Seven clarinets, one trumpet, four flutes, and a drum. That was it. A tenth-grade girl named Anna Vlados was such a good cello player that she sometimes performed with whole adult orchestras. But you couldn't drag a cello down the street with a marching band. So Anna Vlados—J.P. could see her talking to one of the flutists—was today wearing white tennis shorts and shirt and a reddish-blond wig; she had a sign on her back that said BORIS BECKER, and her cello was nowhere in sight.
Down the street, J.P. could see, residents of the brownstones in the quiet neighborhood were emerging from their homes and waiting on the sidewalk to watch, as they did every year. 86
He followed Hope to the art room, the two of them dragging and thumping the golf bags up the stairs. Angela was waiting there, leafing through a book of Picasso's paintings. She smiled a greeting. "Are you feeling all right today, James?" she asked.
"Yeah, I'm fine."
Hope looked puzzled. "Have you been sick, J.P.?" she asked.
"No." His voice was abrupt. "I'm fine."
Angela gave him a sympathetic, knowing, private look. "I asked Hopie to help," Angela explained, "because I suddenly realized that we need someone to stand us up, after we're inside our costumes."
J.P. blinked. He hadn't thought of that. "Good show, Angela," he told her, British fashion. "Let me go first, because I'm heavier, and I may need two of you to stand me up."
He slithered into the green bag, and together Hope and Angela took his arms, which extended from their armholes, and pulled him upright.
Next Angela wiggled into the red plaid bag. When she announced "Ready," Hope pulled her to her feet.
Walking awkwardly with tiny steps, their heads protruding from the tops of the golf bags, Angela and J.P. made their way down the stairs and out to the front of the school to take their place in the Spring Fling parade. Hope followed them, ready to prop them upright again if they lost their balance. It was very tricky, walking while wearing a golf bag.
Outside, Kevin Kerrigan called "Hey!" and J.P. looked over at the sound of his voice. Kevin was wearing a bathing suit, flippers, and snorkeling mask. He had plastic seaweed, with a rubber fish entangled in it, dangling around his bare shoulders.
"One o'clock, in the library!" Kevin called. He smirked arrogantly at J.P. "You ready? Ready to get beat?"
J.P. glared at Kevin, at the gaudy bathing suit, the pink rubber snorkeling mask pushed up on his forehead, and the hearing aid visible through Kevin's curly dark hair.
"Sorry, Kerrigan," J.P. called back. "I can't hear a word you're saying!"
Beside him, Angela waved to someone. To J.P. she explained, "That's my father. See him over there, wearing the striped shirt?"
J.P. followed with his eyes to the place she was indicating with her hand, and saw the distinguished looking man who wore a striped shirt and horn-rimmed glasses. The man waved to Angela.
"I'm terribly eager for you to meet him," Angela whispered.
"Yeah." J.P.'s voice was noncommittal. The famous doctor was the last person in the world he wanted to meet.
"We'll find time later. Maybe after the chess match."
"Sure," J.P. told her.
"Let's get these lines sorted out, kids!" Mr. Goldfine, who looked absolutely ridiculous in his yellow and black bird outfit, was indicating where people should stand. Ahead, the Burke-Thaxter banner had been hoisted and was held aloft by the two seniors who would carry it down the street.
The seven clarinets tried to start a marching melody, faltered, and stopped. The drum thumped once. The clarinets began again.
"Look who he's with!" Angela said.
"What? Who? What are you talking about?" J.P. asked. He was trying to move into the position Mr. Goldfine had directed him to, but it was hard to move in the stiff, unyielding bag. He felt as if his feet looked like ballerina feet, tippy-toeing around with his ankles wedged together inside the golf bag. And he was hot. Sweat was trickling down his back, and the day had barely begun.
"My father," Angela said impatiently. "Look who he's with."
J.P. glanced over to where Dr. Galsworthy stood on the sidewalk talking to a middle-aged couple dressed in serious corporate clothes. Dark blue suits, both of them: man and woman. The dark blue wool suits looked only slightly more comfortable than golf bags.
"I don't know who they are," J.P. said irritably. "Get in line."
"Move out, guys!" Mr. Goldfine bellowed. The clarinets were at it now, full blast, and the one trumpet now and then. Those not in costume, including Hope, dropped back to the sidewalk. Only the costumed people were to march.
Sweating, J.P. hobbled along beside Angela. In front of them, some first-graders in duck outfits made from yellow rain slickers giggled and quacked as they marched.
"It's the Myersons, silly," Angela said. "They look exactly like the photograph of Raymond. Don't you even recognize your own aunt and uncle?"
The drummer at the head of the line thumped away with a regular beat. J.P. marched. His eyes swept the crowd on the sidewalk, jumping over Dr. Galsworthy and the Myersons with humiliation and a feeling of doom. Hopie waved happily from where she stood.