Your Move, J. P.!

  He had planned never ever to telephone a girl, except maybe his mother on her birthdays, after she got old.

  Now he found his eyes turning toward the telephone on the desk. He thought about calling information to find out Angela's number.

  He thought about calling that number.

  He thought about asking for Angela. "Ah, is Angela at home, please?" he would say politely to whoever answered. A butler, maybe.

  "Is Miss Galsworthy available?" he would say.

  He stared at the phone.

  Suddenly it rang. He jumped.

  Caroline answered it, spoke briefly, then covered the receiver with her hand, turned, and whispered to J.P., "It's for you. It's Angela."

  6

  J.P. extended the telephone cord as far as he could, carried the telephone into the bathroom, and closed the door for privacy. He cleared his throat several times in order to be certain that his voice was working properly, sounding mature, with no squeaks or hiccups in it.

  "Hello, hello." He tested his voice, holding his hand over the telephone receiver so that Angela wouldn't hear. He eyed the shower, knowing that if he spoke in that tiled enclosure, there would be, in his voice, a resonant baritone quality that he couldn't achieve anyplace else. But the telephone cord simply wouldn't reach that far.

  Finally he took a deep breath and spoke into the receiver. "Hello?" He tried to sound like James Bond, mysterious, sophisticated, and slightly amused.

  "Hi, J.P.," Angela replied sweetly. "I hope I'm not interrupting anything."

  "No," he reassured her. "My sister and I were just starting to fix dinner because..."

  Oh, no. J.P.'s voice trailed off and his shoulders slumped. He had been about to say "because my mother's not home from work yet." How gross could you get? Probably at the Galsworthy home, a staff of servants fixed dinner.

  Fortunately, though, Angela hadn't really been paying attention. She interrupted his unfinished sentence. "J.P.," she said in a concerned whisper, "I know that what you told me today was terribly confidential. And that I shouldn't repeat a bit of it to anybody. "

  "Right," J.P. agreed. He sighed, with a little smile. He wasn't, actually, paying a lot of attention to her words. He was listening to the way she said them. "Anybody," for example. When J.P. said that word, he pronounced it "Ennybuddy." But Angela—well, Angela said something that sounded like "Innabawty."

  "Innabawty," he said aloud into the telephone, testing his accent. "Innabawty a tall." It sounded so much more refined than his usual "ennybuddy add awl."

  "And I wouldn't, I promise," Angela said. "I feel so honored that you confided in me."

  J.P. blinked. What exactly was she talking about? He'd been so consumed with passion for her British accent and her sweet, soft voice that he hadn't really listened to the words.

  "Excuse me, Angela," he said. "What's confidential?"

  "You know," she whispered. "Your disease."

  Oh, that. His disease. He'd almost forgotten the list of diseases. Acne, body odor, common cold—that had sort of been a lie. He had a slight cold, maybe—an occasional sneeze—but it might even be an allergy, even though he'd never had an allergy before. Allergies could just sneak up on you and take you by surprise at any moment.

  "Which disease?" he asked Angela. He feared the worst. He feared she would say body odor. He glanced at the medicine cabinet where the deodorant, in its pale green container, sat on a shelf behind the mirrored door. He wondered if the phone cord would stretch that far, if he could open the cabinet and reach the deodorant, if he could wedge the telephone receiver against his shoulder and use both hands to remove the cap from the spray can, and reach in under his shirt, and—

  "Please, J.P.," Angela said. "You don't need to pretend. Don't be brave. Not with me."

  Oh. That disease. The fake one. He couldn't even remember its name. J.P. slid down to the floor and sat there, hunched over, with the phone to his ear. He felt miserable.

  "Yeah, okay," he said. "I'm not being brave."

  "And of course," Angela said, "I understand why you don't want our classmates to know, because you don't want pity or anything—"

  "Right," J.P. agreed. "No pity."

  "But," she was going on, "I know that you don't mind doctors knowing about it."

  "Doctors?"

  "Especially doctors who specialize in genetic disorders. Since it runs in your family."

  "Genetic disorders?" J.P. didn't know what she was talking about. Maybe it was her British accent.

  "My father is a terribly famous doctor," Angela said. "He specializes in genetic disorders."

  "Genetic disorders," J.P. repeated again. He was aware, suddenly, that he sounded like a tape recorder on playback. He was simply repeating everything Angela said.

  "I just know he'll be terribly thrilled to meet you," Angela told him cheerfully. "Aren't you fortunate that out of all people you might have told, you chose me— and I'm the one person in the whole world whose father is a famous doctor who specializes in genetic disorders?"

  J.P. stared at the bathroom wall. He lifted the edge of the fuzzy green rug with the toe of his shoe.

  Through the closed bathroom door he heard voices: his sister's and his mother's, talking to each other in the kitchen. He heard the oven door open and close.

  "Angela," he said, "I have to go."

  "I understand," she said sympathetically. "You're stunned."

  "I'm stunned," J.P. agreed.

  "I'll ring off, then," she said. "But let me just tell you quickly, first, that the obvious time for you to meet my father is May first, at school."

  "May first? Why is that obvious?" J.P. remembered, suddenly, that he had intended to ask Angela to be his partner for the Spring Fling. "Do you know about the Spring Fling, Angela?"

  "I've just been hearing about it from the girls at school," Angela said, "and it sounds like such fun. And parents are invited, so I'm sure my father will be terribly keen on coming.

  "And of course," she went on, "he can meet your cousin's family at the same time."

  J.P. blinked. All of his cousins lived in the Midwest. He hardly ever saw them. One of his girl cousins was a gymnastics champion in Iowa. Or Ohio. Or Idaho, maybe. One of those vowel states.

  "My cousin's family?" he said, puzzled, to Angela.

  "The Myersons," she said. "J.P., didn't you know they were coming? It's right there in the school calendar—that's how I knew."

  "I really have to hang up," J.P. said miserably. And he did.

  There it was, wedged in between the information about the chess tournament and the kindergarten zoo trip. He hadn't even noticed it. The Myersons were going to be there, to rededicate the Myerson Lab and to donate more equipment in memory of their kid, Raymond. It was the tenth anniversary of his death, so they were buying a batch of new microscopes.

  "J.P.," his mother said, "can't you put that down during dinner? Let's try to be civilized, okay? Even though it's just meatloaf."

  J.P. folded the school calendar and laid it on his lap. He took a bite of meatloaf.

  "Spring Fling's coming, Mom," Caroline explained. "And J.P. never bothered about it before because it seemed too silly. But now he has this girl, so he has to pay attention to stuff like this."

  J.P. glared at his sister. But Caroline wasn't needling him. She really was only explaining to their mother.

  "I wish I didn't have to work that day," Joanna Tate said. "I remember that one year I got to go to your Spring Fling, and it was really fun. But this year I have to work. I took too many days off when I had the flu in February."

  "Are Angela's parents coming, J.P.?" Caroline asked.

  J.P. sighed, and mashed some margarine into his baked potato. "Her parents are divorced," he said. "And she's here in New York with her father." He sighed again. "And yes," he went on, "her father is coming."

  Caroline looked up eagerly. "Is her father handsome? I bet he is, because she's so pretty. And he's probably just the right age. Mom—"

/>   Joanna Tate shook her head firmly. "No," she said. "Absolutely not, Caroline. I am not interested. And I doubt if he is, either."

  Caroline made a face and turned her attention back to her meatloaf.

  "J.P.?" his mother asked. "Are you okay?" She looked at him with concern.

  "Me? Yeah."

  His mother reached across the table and touched his forehead. "You're so preoccupied tonight," she said. "Do you have a fever? You don't feel sick, do you?"

  J.P. nudged her hand away. "I'm fine," he muttered.

  "The chess tournament's coming up, Mom," Caroline pointed out. "So J.P. has a lot to think about. Also," she added. "Don't forget. He's in love."

  And in trouble, J.P. thought, though he didn't say it aloud. Serious trouble.

  7

  Just one week until the Spring Fling, and the day of the Spring Fling would also be the—

  day of the chess tournament finals, and J.P. had not been thinking about chess, not been playing practice games, not been reading chess magazines. In the old days—before Angela—J.P. frequently, and secretly, tried out a Russian accent, pretending to himself that he was Boris Spassky, former Soviet champion. Now the only accent he used was his fake James Bond, a vaguely Scottish-British affectation, which made him feel glamorous, dangerous, and desirable as long as he avoided looking into a mirror. He would use his James Bond accent in one week, on the day of the Spring Fling when he would be forced to meet—

  Angela's father, Dr. Galsworthy, who would probably, as they shook hands, be secretly trying to feel his pulse. Before that day, just one week from now, J.P. would have to think of methods to create symptoms of triple framosis. He knew that he could trip over his feet and walk into doors, because he did that all the time anyway. But it wouldn't be enough, not for a distinguished British specialist in genetic disorders. J.P. would have to create a pale complexion, perhaps a low-grade fever, a racing pulse, all of those things probably familiar symptoms to the family of—

  Raymond Myerson, whose parents, whom he had never met and never seen and never really even heard of until the day he read the plaque outside of the science lab, would be visiting the Burke-Thaxter School on the day of the Spring Fling. J.P. would have to figure out how to deal with that. He knew that the only answer might be moving to a different state and changing his identity. He wondered how excruciating it would be to burn off his fingerprints with acid. He wondered whether, after he had eaten away his fingertips and changed his facial features by plastic surgery and taken a new identity and moved to a small town in North Dakota, he would be able to get in touch with a very few selected people who would not give him away. His mother, for one. His father, in Des Moines. And maybe, just maybe—

  Angela Patricia Galsworthy, who, only a few minutes before (J.P. grinned, remembering) had agreed to be his partner on the day of the Spring Fling.

  He had asked her just as school ended, just as all the kids were crowding through the front doors of the building, calling to each other, shoving and poking and laughing. Asking her there, in the crowd, in the confusion, would have given him a chance to fade away and disappear, if she had said no.

  But she had said yes. And then, smiling, she had waved to him and dashed off down the steps with some girls from their class.

  And so, despite his other worries, and his very real fear that he wouldn't adjust well in North Dakota and that burning off his fingerprints with acid would so reduce the sensitivity of his fingers that he would never ever, if he wanted to, be able to read Braille, use an abacus, or play the violin—despite all of those concerns, J.P.'s steps were light and his shoulders straight as he headed home, through the park.

  Because Angela had said yes.

  Ralph was there, on the same bench, wearing today a pair of mottled green-and-brown camouflage trousers and a sweatshirt that said NEW ENGLAND PATRIOTS. Even J.P., who ordinarily cared very little about clothes, could see that the mix-and-match was not successful.

  Ralph looked up matter-of-factly, as if he had been expecting J.P., and said, "So, kid. What's your D?"

  J.P. had prepared. He was planning to say dandruff. If Ralph wanted proof, he was planning to lean his head over Ralph's lap and run his fingers through his hair. The camouflage pants might be a hindrance. But J.P. really did have dandruff, and he was certain it would show.

  But he found, when he began to speak, to answer Ralph, that he didn't say dandruff. Instead he said, to his own surprise, "Deceitfulness."

  Ralph stared at him with a long, squinting, thoughtful look. Finally he said, "We'll do character flaws next. Right now we're dealing in the strictly physical. I'll ask you again: What's your D?"

  "Dandruff," J.P. replied, with a sigh, and Ralph nodded, accepting the answer.

  "What's yours?" J.P. asked.

  "Huh?"

  "I said, 'What's yours?' What's your D, Ralph?" J.P. repeated.

  "What say?" Ralph cupped one hand behind his ear, tilting his baseball cap a bit.

  J.P. grinned. "WHAT'S YOUR D?" he bellowed.

  "Deafness," Ralph said, and adjusted his cap.

  "Why don't you get a hearing aid? This kid at school, Kevin Kerrigan, has a hearing aid, and he uses it like a weapon." J.P. glowered, thinking about Kevin Kerrigan, who was such a pain.

  Ralph shrugged. "Maybe if it gets worse," he said. "Right now it comes and goes. Now for E. Gimme your E."

  J.P. hadn't thought ahead to E. But, thinking quickly, he remembered back to the pre-Angela days, back when he was still paying a lot of attention to his chess game. He remembered those hours of sitting and staring at the chess pieces, occasionally rubbing his eyes with weariness and with—

  "Eyestrain," he announced to Ralph.

  Ralph made a face, twisting his mouth into a skeptical look. "Eyestrain?" he asked dubiously.

  "And earwax," J.P. added quickly. "Excessive earwax. What's your E, Ralph?" he asked politely, hoping to divert Ralph's attention away from his own E, which even J.P. had to admit was not as well thought-out as it might have been.

  "Emphysema," Ralph muttered gloomily. "Forty years of cigarettes. Now I can't even breathe. Listen." He drew a deep breath, or tried to, and it ended in a wet, choking cough. J.P. could hear the gasping wheeze behind Ralph's breathing. He cringed. He had already, long ago, decided never to smoke. Now he renewed that decision.

  "We're up to F," he said to Ralph, who was still trying to stop coughing.

  Ralph nodded, slapping his hand against his knee as he struggled to catch his breath. "You go," he said.

  "Framosis," J.P. announced in a stricken voice. Then he continued, "Also, fabrication and fraud."

  "I told you," Ralph said impatiently, when he got his breath and his voice back, "character flaws are a different competition. And what are you talking about, framosis?"

  "Triple framosis," J.P. muttered.

  "No such thing. You got an F, or not?"

  J.P. sighed. If even an old bum on a park bench knew that there wasn't such a thing as triple framosis, how on earth would he fool Angela's father, the famous doctor?

  "Let's get on the ball, here, kid. I asked you: You got an F?"

  "Facial hair?" J.P. suggested. "I've got a little if you look close."

  "Listen," Ralph said wearily, "I like you, kid, so I'm going to help you out a little here. Facial hair is not an affliction, it's simply a condition of the male half of the human species, sometimes even the female half as well. I had an aunt once who had a full mustache. And my wife, when I had one, did an occasional pluck in the chin area. It's no disease, kid.

  "But lemme ask you this: Do you ever see little spots drifting across your line of vision? Like pieces of dust inside your eyeball?"

  J.P. thought about it. He looked up at the sky; and there, against the expanse of blue, as J.P. stared, a small spot flickered across and disappeared. "Yeah," he said in surprise to Ralph. "I just saw one."

  Ralph nodded. "Okay. You got floaters. Most people do. Won't kill you, won't make you b
lind. But floaters are a legitimate F. I got 'em myself."

  He stood up, smoothed his Patriots sweatshirt, and stretched. "I've got you beat on F," he said, "because I suffer from flat feet and flatulence, both. But you're doing okay, kid. You're keeping up, now that you got the hang of it. I'll see you Monday. We'll be on G then."

  He turned and began to walk away. Then he stopped and looked back at J.P. "Listen," he said, "about the character flaws. Yours seem to be falling into a pattern, see. For G, you're gonna wanta say guile. It goes with that other stuff: deceitfulness and fraud. But the thing is, kid, you don't hafta have character flaws like that. That's why I don't sympathize with 'em, see?"

  Ralph turned again and shuffled off along the path while J.P. watched. He looked back one more time and called, "Floaters, you're stuck with those. No getting rid of floaters!"

  He waved briefly and disappeared down the curving path.

  8

  J.P. stood alone in front of the science lab, staring gloomily at the photograph of Raymond Myerson. The hallway was empty. It was lunchtime, and everyone else was in the cafeteria. But J.P. hadn't felt like eating.

  "This is all your fault, Myerson," he muttered.

  Raymond Myerson stared back with glassy eyes.

  "You turned me into a liar and a cheat," J.P. explained to the photograph. "And my very first love affair is going to end disastrously because of it.

  "Because I'm guileful," he added. He hadn't even known what the word "guile" meant when his friend Ralph had used it the previous afternoon. He had gone home immediately and looked it up in the dictionary.

  " 'Treachery and deceitful cunning,' " J.P. had read aloud from the dictionary in his bedroom. "Right. That's me, all right!" He threw the dictionary across the room in despair. It had still been lying there on the floor, next to his abandoned electric-train project, when he left for school this morning.