The Julian Game (16 page)

I was at MacArthur in ten minutes. I leaned over the fence to watch the lacrosse players slam themselves up and down the field. But there might as well have been brackets around my vision, because all I saw was number 08.

Julian was a star, one of two sophomores selected for varsity last year. Guys seemed energized by him, the way they shoulder-pad bopped him or hip-checked him or pounded their gloves against his helmet in headlocks, jolly as bears.

Henry was right. MacArthur was the same as Fulton. Filled with people who adored Julian. He was just one of those people who seemed to connect with everybody.

He’d seen me. Toward the end of practice, he spoke to the coach, inclined his head and crossed the field to where I waited.

“Raye, what’s up?” His voice friendly but uncertain. “What are you doing here?”

“It’s nothing.” Oh, God. This had been so much easier when I’d practiced it in the mirror and into my pillow last night.

“It’s something.”

“It’s hard.”

“Try me.” His hands were on his waist, his body bent forward as he caught up to his breath.

“I want you to talk to Ella.”

He shot me a bewildered glance. “And say what?”

“You know what. Tell her to close the site and end her campaign. Nothing else will work,” I continued when he didn’t speak. “I can’t control the situation. I thought you might be able to.”
Get brave
. “I mean, I know you can.”

He stepped back. “Back it up, there, Raye.” One palm raised, as if to hold me away. “You think I’ve got more pull than I do. Maybe I used to. God knows things used to be different. When my life was simple.”

“All I want is—”

“But did you know that last week, my mom started selling sandwiches for MacArthur’s cafeteria? Imagine how I’ve had to deal with that one. When Chapin Gilbert asks me to tell Mom to add more horseradish to the roast beef on sourdough?”

“So Chapin’s a big jerk. That doesn’t feel like news,” I said.

“No, look . . . all I’m saying is I’m in a different position. I’m not bulletproof anymore.”

“But you can’t do anything because your mom sells sandwiches? Are you serious?”

Julian’s face tightened. “You know, you’re not totally innocent yourself. You sure gave Ella all the ammunition she needed. A few of the guys here printed that raunchy picture of you—one’s tacked up in our old AV room.”

I stepped back. “That’s so out of line. Make a decision to help me or don’t help me, but don’t act like I’m getting what I deserve.”

Julian pulled up his T-shirt by the hem to wipe the sweat from his face. Embarrassed by what he’d just said, or maybe by what he was about to say.

I waited for it.

“The bottom line is that I can’t be what you’re looking for,” he said. “For what it’s worth, I was really into you. And I’d stand by everything I wrote in those first notes, especially when you were Elizabeth. Sometimes I wish we could go back to that time, you know?”

“Back to a time when I was a fake person.”

“When it wasn’t as complicated, is all I meant. Back when you were fun, and before everyone had all these opinions about who you are. And the truth is, I’ve slipped down too many rungs here already. I don’t mean to sound overly harsh, but you’d have to put yourself in my shoes to understand it. I just can’t risk slipping any more.”

In my worst imagining of Julian’s true self, this was the person I’d feared most. “You know what? I’d never want to be in your shoes,” I said, “because that would mean I’m a guy who makes all his decisions based on what other people tell him.”

“I’m not saying I feel good about myself.” With a weak smile, a flimsy attempt to charm me, against his odds.

“But if you can’t speak up for yourself, then who are you, Julian?”

“Well, maybe I’m still trying to figure that one out.” A defensiveness had crept into his voice. “But the thing is, I really do want to stay friends, Raye. It’s great hanging out with you online. And you can get close to people there, you know what I mean? It might be a better way for us to have a . . . r elationship.”

My face flushed. “Sending hot messages and pictures online, but then acting like we don’t know each other in real life? I’m sorry, but I’ve got a little more self-esteem than that.”

I could feel his loss for words, and his disappointment, even as I sensed him searching determinedly for the way out, to finish this. “Raye, this isn’t how I wanted it between us.”

I believed him, sort of. But I knew him well enough to see that things couldn’t be any different. When he stole a look at me, the hopeful plea in his translucent blue eyes—
don’t hate me, I’m a nice guy, promise
—seemed to swallow me whole.

Except I did kind of hate him now, as much as I wished I didn’t. And Julian wasn’t a nice guy. He was the guy who had decided the most important thing about him was that everyone thought he was nice. Which had nothing to do with actual niceness.

I’d come here to ask Julian if he would save me, and I ended up biting off the last thread that connected us. Maybe it was for the best. But it sure didn’t feel that way.

“Guess I’ll see you around,” I said.

“Sure,” he said. “Drop by the store sometime, if you feel like it.”

“Okay. Will do.”

Though I couldn’t help but feel cynical, later, when I thought about Julian’s compulsive need to go that extra Mr. Nice Guy yard. Offering up that folksy invitation to make us both feel better in the moment. Allowing me room to give an equally corny response—“will do!”—when we both knew full well that “sometime” meant no time, and that the entire promise smacked of insincerity, no matter how much I wanted to believe it.

The checkerboard bathroom was in the oldest part of
Fulton. The grubby black and white floor tiles had been trafficked in generations of cleats and penny loafers and ballet flats, and the press of thousands of privileged Fulton bottoms had gently grooved its two wooden toilet seats.

Girls hardly ever used this bathroom because of its proximity to the Admissions Office and the seething presence of Miss Flagler, but I’d learned early in the year that the Group liked to hang out there, for round-robin cigarettes and gossip. So I tended to stay away.

“Raye, hold up.” My name, lisped in Lindy’s husky voice, caught me mid-motion on the way to lunch, just as I was slowing my rush down the hall to pass the speed bump of Flagler’s doorway.

She’d been waiting for me. Which was strange. I stopped and turned reluctantly.

“What?”

“You’re wanted in the clubhouse.”

Using the side of her body to push through the bathroom door, she buttonholed me inside. Where the rest of the Group was already assembled. Jeffey guarding the door. Ella and Faulkner in the window seat. Alison wedged in the corner so that she could stand beside Ella. Lindy flanking the other end.

And between the two sinks and stalls, trapped in an unanchored middle space, Natalya.

“Hey, Raye.” Ella clapped her green-gloved hands. “So nice of you to drop in.”

“What’s up?” They all looked pretty smug, except Natalya, who stood with her arms crossed, weighted on one leg. Seeing them assembled, I felt weary and depressed. It had only been a few weeks, but it seemed like they’d been bullying me forever, with no end in sight.

“Apparently the Wad’s not as much of a Nerbit-hater as the rest of us, so I want you to release her from your insecty spell.” Ella’s eyes twinkled. “Tell her she doesn’t have to be friends with you anymore.”

“What do you want, Ella?”

“Just tell her.”

“Tal, you don’t have to hang out with me anymore if you don’t want to.” I said it hurriedly, the way you’d tell someone their fly was undone.

Natalya, expressionless, nodded.

“Wad must’ve told you we were tight once,” said Ella. “Didn’t we have some laughs, Natalya, back in the day?”

“Sure.” Natalya shrugged.

“But you and Nerb are Siamese twins. Two little smartypants fancy ants.”

“You were smart, too,” said Natalya.

“
Were
smart?” Ella snorted.

“The brain’s a muscle. It gets soft if you don’t use it.”

I cringed. This was not a good time for Natalya to go into Spock mode. Maybe she knew it. Maybe she was doing it on purpose.

Ella didn’t bother with being insulted. “We used to put spells on Mimi, remember? When she bitched at us.”

“Did we?”

“We’d rhyme them and chant them at her. It was so funny.”

“If you say so.”

“You still got your trampoline?” she asked.

“It’s in the garage.”

“That piece of junk. You couldn’t do somersaults.”

“Are we done with memory lane?” asked Faulkner. “We got Nerb to officially kill her friendship with the Wad. It’s shrimp tacos in the caf today, and I’m starved.”

“But you had other skills,” Ella continued pleasantly, ignoring the Group’s impatience. “I remember you could put your whole fist in your mouth. Remember that trick?”

“Not really.”

“Liar. Hey, Nub. Idea. Try and do it for me now.” Ella slid off the window seat and advanced until they stood facing each other, nearly toe to toe.

“Another time.” Natalya sounded irritated.

“No, now. For me.”

“Ella, enough,” said Natalya, crossing her arms tight, lifting her chin and arching her neck as if Ella were some random guy, brave on beer and coming on too strong.

“Do it. Show it off for us.”

“My hands got too big.”

“Then swallow someone else’s, how about?” Ella flexed her fist. “Put Raye’s in your mouth, and then we’ll cut your bestie a break with the online, how’s that?”

I could almost audibly hear Ella’s wheels turning, contemplating what a fun, viral little image that one would make. “Tal,” I said. “This is stupid. You don’t have to do anything.”

Natalya didn’t answer.

“Jeez, Natalya,” said Ella sweetly. “You’re looking at me like I’m the bad one. When we both know. We both know who was the meanie.”

“I was never mean,” said Natalya. “You were too much for me.”

“Oh, just do it already. I’m tired of being here. This bathroom stinks like farts.”

“Can she really?” rasped Alison. “My brother’s friend Darren can put his fist in his mouth. But I never saw a girl do it.”

“I’m not lying,” said Ella. “Why would I lie?”

“Give me your word,” said Natalya suddenly. “And I’ll do it.”

“And no photos,” I added.

Natalya nodded. “No photos.”

Ella shrugged, unbothered. “Okay. My word. No photo. Lighten up, Nerb. You look so grim.” The truth is, I didn’t know how or even where to look, exactly, as Natalya made a large O of her mouth, then jammed and wedged in her fist like a foot inside a new shoe. Everyone had gone silent, spellbound by the weird perversion of the moment.

“Eww . . . ,” sighed Lindy, a soft noise of delight. “Yikes.”

“Only halfway,” noted Jeffey. “Now a little more. Oh.” As Natalya’s face distorted over her fist, then re-humanized as she popped it out of her mouth. Then—her eyes hard on Ella’s—she yanked a paper towel from the bin to wipe her mouth. She looked like she was going to be sick, but if she was, there seemed to be enough paper towel to hide it.

Ella clapped, three slow beats.

“Nice job, Wad. Just like old times.”

“Zawadski, I’m not sure you can put that one on your Dartmouth application.” Jeffey was giggling. “But it was way impressive.”

“Oh, shì bú shì,” said Ella. “I thought it was sort of a letdown.”

“But you gave me your word,” said Natalya, and I might have been wrong, but it seemed that she wore the tiniest expression of victory on her face.

Ella held up her end of the bargain. Natalya had said she
would. According to Natalya, she was superstitious about giving her word. And so the Nerbit blog continued to exist on its link like a dead bird in a tree that I couldn’t chop down.

There were a couple of stray, outsider comments posted in the next few days, about how I’d scratched my head three times in assembly (I guess I did). And that I’d eaten something revolting at lunch (leftover chicken fried rice with Tabasco).

But not a peep from the Group.

Wednesday night, a half dozen of Fulton’s field hockey players posted a grainy nighttime video clip on Facebook of themselves squatting and peeing on the front lawn of a rival team’s captain.

It was a whole new scandal, and interest flipped like a flapjack.

Natalya never referred to what had happened in the checkerboard bathroom, but my curiosity got the better of me. “Are you mad at Ella?”

“No. It’s her way.” She shrugged, she didn’t seem mad—she never had, but
mad
was just the word I’d used to gun the conversation. “Ella lives to shame people. Nothing’s more fun for her than a big public scandal.”

Like Julian getting beat up at Meri’s, and my hate site. “She said it was a letdown,” I remembered. “She probably wanted you to cry or something.”

“Probably. Ella’s like that old saying—as in, if she bullied someone and nobody felt destroyed, would it really have happened?”

“But you didn’t have to play along with her.”

“I did it to get what I wanted.”

“Right.” She meant the blog, of course. “It worked, too. You can’t believe how glad I am not to see any new posts, thank you so—”

“Raye, you’ve thanked me a million times. I know you’d have done the same for me, so let’s just leave it at that.”

And I did. But I couldn’t help but feel that there was something more to the whole thing that Natalya wasn’t telling me.

Without any online activity, the Group reverted to acting like I didn’t exist, so in a way it was just like September again. Back when I was the invisible new girl.

Except, of course, that everyone knew who I was.