"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.
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.