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.
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."
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.