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.