Dunces Anonymous (11 page)

The room was full of adults who were talking, piling donuts onto little Styrofoam plates and bumping into each other as they tried to get to their seats. In the center of one of the rows, nearly hidden among the adults, Wang saw two kids—Josh and Magnolia, he guessed, though both of them were wearing disguises so that no one would recognize them. Magnolia wore a big pair of dark sunglasses and a blond wig that reached down to her waist. Josh had a baseball cap pulled down over his eyes, while the rest of his face was hidden by the book he was pretending to read—
Strategic Algorithms: Learning the Chess Secrets of the Masters.

Wang wished he could run over and talk to them, but he tore his eyes away instead. Even looking at them could arouse suspicion, he reminded himself. Everything would be lost if he blew their cover.

Wang's dad walked straight to the front of the room and found two empty chairs in the very first row. He sat down stiffly. Wang sat beside him but not before noticing that another boy and his father were sitting a little farther down the row. They were both wearing navy blue suits and ties: the father looked angry, the boy uncomfortable. They must be Wilmot Binkle and his father, Wang guessed. Wilmot, just as Josh had described him, was sweating.

The people in the room settled into their chairs and their voices died down as the five members of the board of directors took their seats at the head table. Wang's watch read exactly 9:00 am when the man sitting in the center of the table—obviously the chairman of the board—banged his wooden gavel and called the meeting to order.

The chairman had a square jaw, large square-rimmed glasses and a thick thatch of bushy brown hair. He wore a brown jacket and a brown tie, and at the end of each agenda item, he whacked his gavel on the table and barked “Next item!” in a businesslike voice.

Wang swallowed hard. He imagined the chairman banging his gavel and shouting “Guilty! Next item!” at the end of his fraudulent-impersonation hearing. He imagined being grabbed by the elbows by two other members of the board and marched out of the room, under the stern and shame-filled eyes of his father. Wang snuck a peek at Wilmot Binkle, but the sight of the sweaty pink-faced kid wasn't reassuring. Denial and confusion—that was the essence of their plan. They'd worked it out with Wilmot by e-mail and text messaging over the past week, but Wang had never seen Wilmot face-to-face until today. What if the plan went wrong? What if Wilmot had second thoughts? Why had he entrusted his life to a perfect stranger?

Wang himself was feeling less and less confident about his ability to carry out their plan. It had been one thing when his dad didn't know about the board of directors' meeting, when Wang was supposed to be here alone. But now his father was sitting right in front, listening to everything, witnessing everything. Could he really get up there and lie in front of everyone— in front of his own dad?

“Next item!” The chairman banged his gavel on the table, after finishing a discussion of the purchase of new chess sets for underprivileged schools. “An allegation of fraudulent impersonation brought against Wang Xiu by Wilmot Binkle and his father. Could Wang and Wilmot now come forward, please!”

Wang glanced at his dad, who motioned him to get up. Then he looked over at Wilmot Binkle, who was already edging toward the head table. Wang felt his knees shaking as he rose from his seat. This is no time to panic, he told himself.

The chairman peered at Wang and Wilmot through his large square-rimmed glasses; then he motioned them to sit on two chairs on the elevated platform. As they sat down, Wang shot another glance at Wilmot, who had a look of panic in his eye, like someone had hurled a dodgeball at him and he couldn't get out of the way fast enough. Drops of sweat beaded on his forehead.

“You're Wilmot Binkle?” said the chairman, turning toward him.

“Yes, sir.”

“And do you have a parent or legal guardian present in the room who can vouch for your identity?”

“Yes, sir, that's my dad over there.”

As Wilmot pointed, his father rose from his seat in the front row. One of the board members left his chair and went over to check Mr. Binkle's identification. Then the chairman nodded and turned to Wang.

“And you are Wang Xiu?”

“Yes, sir.” Wang's voice shook.

“And do you have a parent or legal guardian present in the room who can vouch for your identity?”

“Yes, sir.” Wang turned toward his father, who was sitting very straight, his eyes fixed on the chairman, creases tracing a line from his cheekbones to the down-turned corners of his mouth. Now, he rose and bowed toward the chairman. The board member checked his identification too and nodded.

“Very well. Now that we've established that you boys are, indeed, who you say you are, let's turn to the matter at hand. The allegation of fraudulent impersonation during the Centennial Fall Chess Tournament.” The chairman pinned Wang with his eyes, which seemed magnified in both size and power by his glasses.

“Now, Wang, is it a fact that you were registered in the Centennial Fall Chess Tournament this October?”

Wang opened his mouth, but it was too dry to speak. He felt the blood drain from his face and go rushing through his heart, to form a sickening pool in the pit of his stomach. He could feel his dad's eyes upon him. Registered to attend? Well, that was true at least. He was
registered
. Wang licked his lips and turned to face the chairman.

“Yes, sir,” he croaked.

“And you were scheduled to play a match against this boy sitting opposite you, Wilmot Binkle?”

The pit of Wang's stomach burned. Scheduled? Well, it was true that he was
scheduled
to play Wilmot.

“Yes, sir,” Wang squeaked again.

“Now, Wang, we get to the crux of the matter.” The chairman leaned toward him. Wang didn't want to look at his father, but he couldn't help himself. It was as though a powerful force was making him turn his head toward the audience. Wang's eyes locked on to his father's. His father stared back at him, his gaze seeming to penetrate into Wang's very soul. Wang couldn't lie, he knew he couldn't.

“Tell me truthfully,” the chairman said, “did you or did you not send another boy to the tournament to play in your place in order to improve your chess ranking?”

“Oh no, sir!” Wang exclaimed. He was so relieved to be telling the truth that the words gushed out of him. “No, truly, I didn't! I couldn't care less about the chess ranking! Really!”

“Hmmm.” The chairman studied his face for a long moment, then nodded and turned his attention toward Wilmot. Wang slumped back in his chair as though he'd just been released from an iron grip. The blood rushed from his stomach back to his brain, thundering like a river torrent in his ears. He looked at his father, but his father was no longer looking at him. Instead his attention was fixed on the chairman, who was now interrogating Wilmot Binkle, asking him if he had attended the Centennial tournament, and if he had played a match against a boy named Wang Xiu. Wang snapped back to his senses. He wasn't safe yet. His life still depended on Wilmot's answers.

“Now Wilmot,” said the chairman sternly, as Wang focused his attention on the proceedings. “Look carefully at this boy sitting here, Wang Xiu, and tell me, is this the same boy you played at the Centennial Fall Chess Tournament? Or was that boy, in fact, an imposter?”

Wang looked at Wilmot. His round face, already shiny with perspiration, broke into a new flood of sweat. He opened and closed his mouth several times, like a fish taken out of its bowl. Denial and confusion, Wang urged him mentally, wishing for telepathic powers. Finally, Wilmot choked out an answer: “I don't really know what to say, sir.”

The chairman tapped his index finger impatiently on the table.

“You don't know what to say?”

“No,” Wilmot gasped.

“What exactly do you mean by that?”

“I mean…I mean, I want to withdraw the charges,” Wilmot blubbered. “I mean, I never wanted to get anyone into trouble!”

“You wish to withdraw the charges?” The chairman drew his eyebrows together in a frown.

Wilmot nodded.

Wang felt like hugging him, sweat and all.

At that moment, Wilmot's father jumped from his seat. “Preposterous!” he thundered. “Outrageous! Scandalous! Egregious! Unbelievable!”

“Mr. Binkle! Order!” The chairman whammed his gavel on the table. “You will please wait for the Chair to recognize you before speaking!”

“Order? Order be hanged!” Mr. Binkle shouted. “Why, I was there! I saw the boy who beat my son! This boy looks nothing like him! This is nothing but… but…intimidation!”

“Very well, Mr. Binkle! You've had your say.” The chairman hammered his gavel on the table until Wilmot's dad sat down, fuming, in his seat.

“Now, Wilmot,” continued the chairman, turning toward the boy, “this is a very serious matter. First, you brought a complaint of fraudulent impersonation against Wang, and now you say that you wish to withdraw the charges. If you weren't sure, Wilmot, why did you bring the complaint in the first place?”

The chairman peered at Wilmot through his square glasses. Wilmot lowered his eyes and shot an unhappy glance toward his father. It looked like he was crying, Wang realized. But with all the sweat on his face, it was hard to tell.

“Because…,” Wilmot stammered, “because my dad was mad at me for losing the game.”

The chairman sat for a moment without saying anything. Silence fell on the room. Slowly, the chairman spoke: “According to the chess club Constitution, a complaint may be brought by a member of the club in conjunction with a parent or guardian, but the parent or guardian may not bring a complaint alone. In other words, the club member must always be involved. In this case, as young Wilmot has sincerely expressed his desire to withdraw the complaint, I must dismiss the charge of fraudulent impersonation.”

The chairman banged the gavel and declared, “Next item!”

Relief gushed over Wang like a waterfall. He turned to his father, who rose and acknowledged the chairman's verdict with a deep, respectful bow.

Mr. Binkle sprang up and stormed out of the room, shouting curses as he left and completely forgetting his son, who sat like a wet dishcloth in his chair on the dais.

But Wang stood up and reached out his hand to shake Wilmot Binkle's.

Wang's father said nothing as Wang returned to his place in the front row. He only stared at him with a grave and thoughtful look that made Wang lower his eyes to the floor. Finally, he said, “Let's go,” and they left the meeting room, retraced their steps through the lobby and back to the parking lot. Wang's father didn't speak again until the car was well out of the parking lot and heading down the highway, back toward town.

“The store needs sweeping and mopping today,” he said, staring straight ahead at the traffic and not turning to glance at Wang.

That caught Wang off guard. He'd expected a discussion about the board of directors' meeting, not a work assignment.

“Aw, Dad!”

Wang had stocked the shelves yesterday evening. Usually one big chore was enough on weekends.

“The refrigerators for the green groceries have to be cleaned out,” his dad continued. “Then you can finish by washing the windows.”

Wang opened his mouth to protest. Cleaning out the refrigerators! Washing the windows! Those weren't just chores—that was punishment! Punishment. That thought made Wang immediately close his mouth. He snuck a look at his dad's face but couldn't read it. He seemed intent on the traffic ahead.

Wang felt the burning return to the pit of his stomach. He wished he could ask his dad how much he knew about what had happened at the tournament. Maybe Dad thought Wang really had sent Josh there to improve his chess ranking, and this was his punishment for it. That would be the worst! But on the other hand, maybe he didn't suspect anything. Maybe he just really wanted the store cleaned out. Maybe, Wang thought miserably, the best thing to do was to keep his mouth shut. He leaned his forehead against the window and looked out. They passed some car dealerships and superstores with huge parking lots. The sky was gray but it wasn't raining. The air in the car smelled stale.

“I think,” his dad said finally, as though musing out loud, “that if someone wanted to send someone else to a chess tournament to improve their ranking, they would not send a beginner who would win only one game.”

“That's right, Dad!” exclaimed Wang, turning toward him hopefully. “That's true!”

“So, perhaps,” his dad continued, still not looking at Wang, but at the road ahead, “someone might send someone else to play for them at a chess tournament if they were very busy that day. Busy with something very important.”

“Yes! They would! They might!” Wang agreed.

“Still,” Wang's dad continued, bringing the car to a stop at a stoplight and turning to look directly at Wang, “it would not be right for that person to lie to his parents about it.”

“I know, Dad.” Wang met his father's eye; then he hung his head. “I…I had fencing practice for the school play. I thought if I asked, you'd make me go to the chess tournament instead.”

“Fencing?” The traffic light turned green, and his dad put the car in gear, turning his eyes back to the road.

“It's a kind of sword-fighting, Dad. All the Capulets have to learn it. See, the Capulets are Juliet's family and they're locked in a deadly feud with Romeo's family, the Montagues. And I'm a Capulet in the play! And Declan's dad says I'm a natural.”

“Sword-fighting in a play,” his dad repeated. He seemed unconvinced that this was an important enough reason for missing a chess tournament.

“But fencing is more than that!” Wang exclaimed. “It's really great. It teaches you concentration and discipline and strategy and everything. And I'd…I'd really like to take lessons, Dad. Really.”