The Julian Game

by Adele Griffin

  This didn’t make any sense. I’d only just met Julian Kilgarry last night, and here was his good-bye. More than a good-bye, it was a complete kiss-off, and rightly so—I’d been such a child. I wanted to scream, or cry, or throw something. There was nothing I could say in my own defense. I’d trusted Ella, which was mistake number one. And when I had the opportunity to come clean, I’d shown myself to be just what Ella said I was, a flustered little ant too scared to take a risk. So why did losing Julian feel like I’d risked and lost everything anyway?

  seventeen

  MacArthur Academy was a redbrick monster, overbuilt in gables and turrets. Originally it had been a private home, but I couldn’t imagine who’d want to live there. A Dickens or Disney villain, maybe.

  On Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, Julian had lacrosse practice until five. I didn’t know if he took the late bus or car-pooled or how he got home. Either way, I’d have to snag him before he left the grounds.

  And so at four forty-five on Monday afternoon, I stayed late and finished my homework in the Fulton library before taking the footpath that cut between the two school campuses.

  In the murky water of my online relationship with Julian, I’d had power. Elizabeth’s personality flowed so naturally from my fingertips. Sometimes she’d seemed absolutely real, this girl who lived far from home, who rode her bike along the Schuylkill River by day and painted in her studio dorm till morning. She hadn’t been condescending with Julian, but she’d always had her say on everything from how much to pay for distressed jeans to the difference between fair use versus copyright infringement—a point that we’d hotly debated during one of our late-night sessions.

  Elizabeth had confidence. She didn’t hesitate.

  Where did that leave me?

  Earlier this morning, I’d locked myself in my bathroom. Where I’d tugged on the electric blue wig and blotted on more of the berry lipstick that I was wearing all the time now. When I’d looked into my reflection, I’d found myself and Elizabeth together in the same face.

  “You can do this,” I told the girl in the mirror. If Elizabeth was Julian’s learning experience, she was mine, too. As Elizabeth, I’d learned I was pretty and confident and interesting enough to catch not only Julian’s eye, but also Ella’s attention. And I knew I could continue to tap into her, even while being myself. Of course I could.

  Then I’d taken off the wig and stuffed it in my book bag. Just so that a little piece of Elizabeth came along with me on my mission.

  Lacrosse practice was already over. I saw cars and the late bus pulling out through the gates. I stepped up my pace. Julian was number 08. My eyes picked him out trotting across the field, his helmet wedged on his stick that he carried over his shoulder.

  “Julian.” When he didn’t hear, I shouted it deeper through cupped hands. “Julian!”

  He looked over. Signaled to the car before U-turning to jog across the field to where I stood, where he slid the helmet off the stick and planted it in the ground like a flag on the moon.

  “Unhaughty. You tracked me down.” He sounded happy about it.

  The place where he’d been punched was as thickly blue as an oil painting of a night sky and centered by an eye so darkly bloodshot that my own eyes hurt just looking. He was out of breath and sweating in the cold air, his dark hair damp against his cheeks. On the back of one hand, he’d scrawled the words get juice + pasta in Sharpie. Smudged now. It made him seem more human. (Julian did errands! Julian ate food!)

  “Hey. I came over here to tell you something.” I forced myself to say it. My confession was the last thing I wanted to tell him, but I had to get it over with. “And I understand if you never want to speak to me again because of it. But I’m Elizabeth Lavenzck. And your eye is partly my fault, and I’m incredibly, sincerely sorry about that.”

  “Aha.” He took the news with the controlled, careful face that reminded me of Dad pretending not to mind Stacey’s eggplant lasagna. “How do I know that’s not a lie?”

  I reached down into my book bag and pulled out the blue wig. Tossing it to land like a Frisbee on the net of his lacrosse stick.

  Julian glanced at the car and signaled he’d be another minute. His face was inscrutable, but I could feel his defenses up like two fists. He plucked up the wig and twirled it on his finger. Then used it to wipe his forehead. “So what’s up with the vendetta? Or is this how you get your kicks?”

  “No, of course not. A friend of mine was mad at you for a really idiotic reason. Mostly the reason is because she likes you, and the feeling wasn’t reciprocated.”

  “Okay.” He didn’t seem to care about this information. Was it because so many girls flung themselves at Julian Kilgarry that he couldn’t even begin to figure out which one from a list of lovesick suspects?

  “Anyway, it’s my fault. I had no idea that all those guys would show up, but . . .”

  “But your partner in crime did.”

  “Right. And I misrepresented myself. So I played a part.”

  The silence was brutal. My feet were poised to carry me off quicker than winged Mercury.

  “Then you read my last message?”

  I nodded. “You were right. We’d gotten to know each other. I wanted to confess it the minute I saw you at Meri’s, but I didn’t have the nerve.”

  “And the other girl—she was there, too, right? She goes to Fulton?”

  “No, she’s a friend from camp.” Oh, wonderful. Another lie. But otherwise the arrow pointed too sharply to Ella, especially since Henry had seen us together. “I feel extremely bad about everything.”

  “The cops nailed us.”

  “I heard. But it’s not on any record, or they’d have made the report public.”

  The trace of a grin. Julian cocked his head. “So you’ve been looking up police reports.”

  “I was worried,” I admitted. “It was the worst thing I could think. That it would go on your permanent record or screw up your Presidential Classroom application.”

  “Thanks for caring.” Sarcasm sharpened his voice.

  “I do care,” I said honestly. “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”

  He softened. “Yeah, okay. I’ll give you decency points for—”

  The car beeped. Julian startled.

  “That’s my ride. Bye—” There was a pause as we both realized Julian didn’t even know my name, not from online or the party, or even now. “Elizabeth,” he finished.

  Then he scooped up his helmet and in a graceful arc of movement, uprooted his stick from the earth and used it to catapult the wig back so that it flew at me like a wild bird that I caught and held against my heart as we stared at each other. I didn’t want to let the moment go, and I sensed he didn’t, either.

  “Danny’s mom gets fierce when I make her wait. But listen.” He regarded me. “My mom’s working tonight, so I’m on dinner duty for my brothers. But tomorrow I’m free. You wanna meet up at Luddington?”

  Thursdays, Fridays and Saturdays were the social nights at Luddington. Even Natalya knew that—which was why she went other nights. I’d tried it once, alone on a Thursday. I couldn’t shake the feeling that everyone at the library had already made friends with everyone else, and I was the only person not at a center table. I had sweat it out for one hour in a carrel and then never went back.

  “Luddington on Tuesday?” I asked, so he’d know I knew the difference.

  “Early in the week’s the only time to get work done.”

  “Okay, I’ll be there.”

  “Sweet, then I’ll meet you.”

  “Sweet.”

  The car honked again. He turned before he could hear my good-bye, slamming into a hard run across the field and leaving me all alone with my utter surprise. Here I’d come over to be miserable and contrite, and the result was entirely different. What I’d got instead was an honest-to-God almost-a-date at Luddington library with Jay-Kay himself. In the flesh. It was kind of too much to believe.

  eighteen


  “Do you think you’re pretty?”

  In answer, Stace blew her stuffy nose with extra drama, then poured more hot water into her mug of chai before answering. “Honey, I’m gaw-geous.”

  “I’m not joking.”

  “Me either. Sure I’m pretty. Why not?” She sighed. I saw her fingers close around the napkin drawer where she liked to keep her American Spirits hidden since Dad and I were both extremely anti-smokes.

  “Did you consider yourself pretty in high school?”

  “I was into goth during most of my misspent youth, so I didn’t care about my looks as much as ‘the look.’ My main issue in the nineties was getting my hair straight as death.” She took her hand off the drawer and pulled a springy chestnut curl, then released it so it boinged back. “I don’t fight it now.”

  “But could you have gotten any guy? In high school?”

  “Are you joking? I was adorable, don’t get me wrong, but some fish were way too big to catch—Brian Jeffries, Jack Salt. Oooh, Salty. I haven’t thought about him in a dog’s age.”

  “But what if you really matched up with, say, Jack Salt? Personality-wise? Don’t you think you’d have been pretty enough for him? If he really liked you?”

  “Raye, is this conversation about me or you?”

  I shrugged, caught.

  “Why would you want to go out with some guy who’s prettier than you anyway?” Stacey made a face. “Why wouldn’t you want to date your cuteness equal? Which would be a very attractive specimen, by the way.”

  “What if he was my equal on the inside?”

  “This whole so-called dilemma is beneath your intelligence,” said Stacey.

  It was beneath my intelligence but not beneath my i nterest.

  Stacey blew her nose again, and then I got it. Her red-rimmed eyes. The silent dinners. “Let me guess. Did Dad ask you to marry him and you said no, or did you ask him and he said no?”

  She looked shocked. As if I’d broken the news to her, instead of confirmed it. “Saturday. He proposed. How did you figure that one out?” Her eyes narrowed. “Did he say something?”

  “No way. Dad’s the vault.” I opened the next drawer down, where I’d rehidden her vice, and tossed them over. “But you two have gone through this routine every six months, almost to the minute, since you got together.”

  “Well, it feels different each time,” she said. “And this time’s no different. So I’m putting it out of my mind for a little while. Until I get some clarity. Ooh, I think Ellen’s doing a talent search today.” With a click on the kitchen table television, Stacey’d smoothly switched off the conversation.

  The first time Natalya had hung out at my house, she’d said, “Your dad’s girlfriend sure puts his lights on.” It had been a perfect phrase for The Stacey Effect on my father. No matter that some of Dad’s lights were Barry Manilow, yard sales, and a quest for the perfect grilled squid. Stacey thought Dad’s clutter—both in and outside his head—was charming, and she’d embraced his philosophy that the Exchange was an artist’s co-op and not a refuge for woebegone crafts.

  Now I stared at her set jaw. Maybe Stacey made Dad shine, but what was he doing for her? If she didn’t love him enough to marry him, it would kind of break my heart. I’d gotten used to Stacey. No, more. I’d gotten used to how happy Dad was with Stacey. She gave me the freedom not to worry about him.

  But I’d take Stacey’s lead and put the conversation into the back of my mind, too. Right now I had more than enough to think about, and Stacey needed her tobacco fix.

  nineteen

  Tuesday, and I could hardly believe it was school as usual. Although I hadn’t confessed anything Julian-related to Natalya, all day I agitated that she’d come out and tell me about her sudden plans to study at Luddington that evening.

  “Did you submit your CAFÉ composition?” she asked instead as I took the seat next to her in the computer lab.

  I had. I’d been up with the sun every morning with it. The essay was a contest open to all the schools, a two-page response to “the meaning of youth culture today.”

  “I’d so love to win it,” said Natalya. “First prize is a weekend in Paris.”

  “I know . . .” My mind was wandering. I didn’t need Paris. I had Luddington. Tonight. Even if my nerves were wired tight for the snap of getting busted. It wasn’t every day a non-Group girl got a chance with the hottest guy at MacArthur. But of course, nobody had a clue. Julian didn’t even know my name. And it seemed too soon to invite him (as me) to be a Facebook friend.

  And what would Ella do to me if she did find out?

  I hadn’t been in anything but breezy contact with Ella since her Sunday morning call. In homeroom, she’d even called on me to second an opinion about how Meri Clemence’s new bangs made her face too round. “You were there, Raye. Back me up.”

  As the others turned, waiting. Some non-Group girls were also regarding me fresh, like a houseplant that had just bloomed a daisy. I was grateful that Natayla was down in the language lab and well out of earshot.

  “Oh, yeah,” I answered, though I had never seen Meri pre-bangs. “Face like a cake pan.”

  And while the Group roared its approval, I felt pretty spineless.

  “Hey, Raye.” Natalya’s voice jumped me back to the moment. “Did you mess with the Elizabeth Lavenzck page?”

  “Why are you asking?”

  “It’s not like I care, but I found out Tim Wyatt won Regionals and I wanted to write on his wall. Give it a shot, on the one percent chance he’d answer.” A pause, as I heard her tapping away. “It doesn’t make sense. Her page is just—poof. Gone. Unless it got infected, the only people who know her password and could shut her down are you and me. And I swear I haven’t touched it.”

  “Must have been a technical glitch. Try it again tonight.”

  Natalya shook her head. “I tried yesterday and again this morning. Strange.”

  “Yeah. Very.” I’d give Natalya the rundown in a day or so. Right now, I didn’t want any more complications.

  When Ella approached my locker that afternoon, though, I feared some kind of trouble brewing. Had she been unable to access Elizabeth, too? But she didn’t appear to be exactly angry. Just determined.

  “I’ve got the best idea,” she announced.

  “What?”

  “I want to play another trick on Julian.”

  His name thrilled a rush of blood from my head through to the tips of my toes. But what was she talking about, another trick? “We did enough, don’t you think?”

  “Hear me out. It’s really funny. You know how his mom has that little catering shop on Lancaster? Well, I want to call in an order from a disposable cell and pretend to be having a party. We’ll have them make caviar on toast points and all this insane amount of food. Then never pick it up. How good a burn is that?”

  She was serious. “But . . . she owns that shop. You’re financially attacking the whole family.”

  Ella flicked her fingers. “That’s only your nerbity first reaction. C’mon, you know you want to.” Her smile was sunny but her eyes were like a sharpshooter. I’d never had a bona fide girl crush, but something about Ella’s physical beauty and the way she was standing so close to me made me understand, with sharp and aching clarity, how you could fall wildly in love with a girl like Ella. She looked perfect as a daffodil. What did it matter that she was rotten at the root, if you could somehow get her to love you back?

  But I didn’t love her. In fact, even as I got partly sucked in by her smile, I was also experiencing a completely different emotion: Ella was freaking me out.

  “Listen,” I started, “my dad owns a shop. It’s hard to make ends meet even in good times. To mess with a small business like that would be devastating.”

  “You told me you were treacherous.” Ella crossed her hands at her chest, working her slight height advantage and staring down at me as though I were a disobedient child who needed a slap. “I thought we had something in common.”
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br />   And that’s when I said the thing that I immediately wanted to take back. “But your idea isn’t treacherous, Ella. It’s stupid.”

  She instantly recoiled. Like I was the one giving out slaps. “Oh, excuse me. So what I’m hearing now is that Miss Sophie Fulton-Smartass thinks I’m stupid?”

  “No, not you personally. Just . . . you can’t mess with somebody’s livelihood.” Somehow it seemed like I was still correcting her.

  “You’re such a nun.” But quick as the anger had appeared in her face, Ella’d erased it. “Fine, forget that idea. But if you’re the brains of this team, then it’s up to you to figure out our next thing. Don’t you want to? It was so hilarious, last time. And Julian’s a jerk. We could get him back for every girl he ever crapped on. What’s the word for that—for what we could be?”

  “Vigilantes?”

  “That’s the one.”

  She was wearing a pair of lemon yellow gloves today, and as she lightly squeezed my wrist, I realized how few times I’d been touched by a person wearing gloves. My doctor. My dentist. My grandpa Archer, who lived up near Hershey and was never without his pair of webbed Mechanix when he took me out on his tractor. Gloves meant protection and authority; they were the uniform of heavy lifting, or of scientists and trained assassins.

  Ella was still talking. I tuned back in and caught the end. “ . . . of what happened to me Saturday night, that insane friction between all those stupid little boys, I was like—now this is real. This is power. And then when I saw his picture on Facebook? Didn’t you feel it, too? As in, ‘I did that. That happened because of me.’”

  “No,” I said. “To be honest, I felt pretty awful about it. I’m sorry, Ella. I guess I’m not that good at revenge after all.”

  “But you’re wrong,” she said. “You get off on the risk. I can tell. It’s in you. You just need me to bring it out is all.” Ella smiled thinly. “Don’t you see that, Nerb? You’re the brains, and I’m the balls. We’re a perfect team.”

  “Then I guess I’m not a team player,” I said. “Not for these kinds of games, anyway.”