The Julian Game

by Adele Griffin

  nine

  Ella’s calls came late at night after I was logged off and in bed, door locked, lights off, no distractions, so that I could focus in on everything she said, down to the tiniest detail.

  And there were a lot of those. Every minute of Ella’s day seemed crammed with friends she adored, friends she could kill, plans for the weekend, demerits and the stupid teachers who gave them, the awesomeness of lacrosse, and what all the hottest Mac guys were up to.

  “How do you always know what’s going on at MacArthur?” I asked.

  “Because we’re texting them, like, every second?” She sniffed. “Especially couples like Faulkner and Chapin. It’s practically a coed school for them, they’re texting each other so much.”

  Then she got serious as she told me she’d made some decisions about Julian.

  “We can’t interchange,” she said. “I was online for ten seconds tonight before Kilgarry began referencing all this random intel from your conversation last night. So I got off.” She didn’t sound mad about it, and then—bam—she did. “You chatted with him more that you said, Raye.” Her voice so cold I had to laugh, nervously, which only made it seem like I had something to hide. “Why did you lie to me?”

  “Julian’s online a lot,” I defended myself. “He didn’t say anything big deal on Sunday. Just about his heel spur and—”

  “Christ. Not that again. He talked about his heel spur the entire drive to Alison’s party,” said Ella. At least she didn’t sound mad anymore. “What else?”

  “His brother dropped out of college this semester, and he was saying how—”

  “Oh, everyone knows about Silas the Screw-up,” Ella cut me off. It was like she couldn’t stand to think Julian had told me anything she didn’t already know. “Okay, I guess it’s better this way. You keep being Elizabeth. Reeling him in. Soon I’ll give you the green light for when to start planting the seeds.”

  “Sounds good.” I waited. “Seeds of what?”

  “Seeds of his smackdown,” she said. “This is going to be hysterical. Too bad it’s got to be a secret from everyone.” Meaning from her friends.

  I had no idea what she meant in terms of Julian’s smackdown, but I did learn that Ella wasn’t good at keeping secrets. Maybe hitting the eleven digits of my number had become another compulsion, but she began to call me every night. Sometimes, she’d run me through her old hurt, of how Julian had humiliated her at the Sweet Sixteen. It was like she just had to press that button. She’d rewind the whole thing, from her confusion about where Julian had gone, to Lindy’s smirking face, to her glimpse of Julian and Mia outside by the steeplechase, while I assured her that everyone had long forgotten the entire calamity.

  Mostly, though, she’d just talk about whatever popped into her mind while watching TV and doing homework, her chatter punctuated by breaks where’d she demand answers to her math, Chinese, or history homework.

  And yet, as inconsiderate as Ella could be on the phone, none of that mattered when she started in on the Group.

  The first time, I thought I hadn’t heard her right. She’d been recounting some movie she’d watched at Faulkner’s house last summer, and how she’d never seen the end because they’d been interrupted by Faulkner’s mom wobbling into the den wearing nothing but bikini bottoms and singing “My Heart Will Go On” at the top of her voice before passing out under the paddle-tennis table.

  “That’s . . . wait . . . what did you just say?” As I tried to picture Faulkner’s shy, impeccable mother flinging herself around her house in a drunken stupor.

  “Yeah, it was wild. Boobies flopping and she was slicked down in suntan oil, then, bang, down for the count. Thank God it was just me and Faulkie there. Her mom is a certified dipsomaniac,” explained Ella. “She’ll be careful for weeks, then mad binge. She’s rehabbed at Hazelden and Betty Ford a thousand times and her driver’s license was revoked for keeps last year. It slays Faulk. Probably why she used to wet the bed. She hid that rubber sheet in her sleepover bag for years.”

  “I won’t say a word,” I solemnly promised.

  “Whatever, that’s like the worst-kept secret at Fulton.”

  I wondered about that. Faulkner more likely would be horrified to know Ella was calling her a bed wetter—and it wasn’t as if Faulkner strutted around school referring to her mother’s drinking problem, either. Her class party was very much the opposite, all perfect toothpicked cheese chunks and Faulkner’s mom ladling carefully from the punch bowl and remembering all our names.

  I also found out that Ella and her “ex-best” Lindy were hardly speaking because last month during an all-Group sleepover, Ella had marked in glitter pen every point on Lindy’s body where she should lose weight.

  Another time, Ella told me that Alison’s parents had declared personal bankruptcy after being suckered in a Ponzi scheme, “creditors call them all hours, it’s so noisy there,” and that Jeffey not only had been on birth control pills since eighth grade, but last year got herpes from a famous photographer. “The reason I know is because her aunt’s gyno is also my mom’s and they’re best friends.”

  “That’s a violation of her Hippocratic oath.” My mom had been a dermatologist, and she’d been rigid about keeping medical records sealed, though she’d probably inspected every wart, fungus, rash and face-lift within a fifty-mile radius.

  “Life’s unfair, shì bú shì.” Ella snorted. “That’s why I love to shock you with my wicked tales, I think. ’Cause you’re such a nerbit.”

  “What’s a nerbit?”

  “Like a really polite, proper nerd. Nerbit is what we all call you.” She laughed, but not unkindly. “Just so you know. You’re in on it now, which is better.”

  There it was. The Group’s name for me, out in the open. How awful. No, not awful. Better. Like Ella said. Ella had done me a favor. Now the others couldn’t hold it over me. Nerbit wasn’t the worst—certainly it wasn’t as bad as the Wad, or Boogertroll—what Natalya had told me the Group all called Hadley Bates, a tiny girl with sinus issues who’d skipped two grades and was my competition for highest average.

  Anyway, acting injured about some stupid nickname would annoy Ella, and I didn’t want the calls to end. As spicy and scandalous as they were, I’d never felt so connected to Fulton as I did through her stories. It was a thrilling amount of information, and I ate it up like ice cream.

  ten

  No matter how long and late Ella’s phone calls lasted, at school, the rules were different. Of course, I knew it had to be like that—after all, Ella had an entire crew of best friends. Still, after a week or so, it began to hurt a little. Ella might catch me in the hall for a what’s up? or raise her eyebrows a smidgeon or half-smile at me across the room, but nobody would have any idea that we’d forged this connection.

  Almost nobody.

  “So what have you got that Ella Parker wants?” Natalya asked me one afternoon during Health & Fitness, where we were playing indoor tennis.

  I’d been waiting for this question, or something like it. “Nothing. I help her with Chinese.”

  “Just Chinese?”

  “As far as I know.”

  “Watch out for that one, I’ve known her since nursery school.” She pointed her racquet at me like a wand. “And Ella suffers from the worst type of insanity.”

  “Which is?”

  “She thinks she’s normal. And the whole Group’s meaner than a bag of ferrets. I’d stay as far away from all of them as possible.”

  I knew what she meant, but I saw the Group a bit differently now. They were slightly less terrifying to me, more human for their hidden frailties.

  “I can take care of myself. Anyway, I’m just her lowly tutor,” I said, serving the ball over the net and ending all further discussion.

  What I’d told Natalya was mostly true, or at least it was true at school. Almost every day during midmorning break, Ella sought me out in the library to deal with Filth’s red-ink spills. And even though she had no problem
berating my bad tutoring, it seemed that I was doing something right.

  “I didn’t flunk my last quiz on adverbs,” she informed me during one of these visits. “My mother was pathetically overjoyed. I told her I was getting help from you. Now she wants to meet you.”

  “Oh. Great.”

  She shrugged. “My sister, Mimi, had such a geek tribe of friends here. That’s why they all got straight A’s, because they stuck together like the nerd mafia. Do you and the Wad jam it with monster study sessions all weekend?”

  “Not really.”

  “She still into all that nimrod galaxy stuff?”

  I nodded lightly. I didn’t want to betray Natalya.

  “The Wad’s smart,” said Ella. “I’d probably have a shot at a decent college if I rolled more with you two. But c’est la vie, shì bú shì, if I can’t handle chatting about Death Stars all day.”

  “Right.”

  Was Ella actually envious of Natalya? She did seem to take her bad grades more personally than other girls, always muttering loudly when she got her papers back about how unfair multiple-choice tests were and how she was way better at essays. As if she needed to ensure that the classroom understood she’d been wronged. But other times, I’d feel almost a physical ache, something between envy and horror, at Ella’s matchless confidence. Her easy insults and general indifference to everyone astounded me, and I watched her more than ever. Like the way she’d tap a teacher’s desk for just long enough to make it uncomfortable.

  “Sorry,” she’d say. “It’s just my little compulsion, shì bú shì.” Or the day when Cass Girard sat in Ella’s third-row chair, how Ella had ambled up and said, very sweetly, “Fat-ass Girlard , stop abusing my chair. Get off it.”

  Plus, she was an exciting break from Natalya. I hated to admit it, but there it was.

  Though I felt something a bit different when I heard a rumor that Filthcrack got in trouble after someone reported that he’d set his desktop screensaver to the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Edition.

  “I wouldn’t be surprised,” said Natalya when I voiced my suspicions. “Why don’t you just ask her next time you’re tutoring? Ella’d never deny herself credit.” Her tone was short. Ella’s continued existence in my orbit was a point of tension between Natalya and me. The other night, I’d gotten off a call with Natalya to take one from Ella. A bad move, and Tal had been quietly peeved.

  But I took Natalya’s advice and waited until Ella called me that evening and had chatted about this and that before I broached it.

  “Hey, did you set up Filth with the desktop?”

  A pause on the line. “Let’s just say two wrongs,” said Ella. “’Memba?”

  “Sure.” My heart turned over. “I just hope it doesn’t get him fired or anything.”

  “Who cares, and anyway it’s not your problem. What is your problem is it’s seed-dropping time. You need to get Jay-Kay to think he can meet Elizabeth at Mary Clements’ party Saturday night.”

  “Who’s Mary Clements?”

  “She hangs with my sort-of friend Hannah who goes to school way out in West Chester. It’s a West Chester High party, but that’s not important,” said Ella. “The important thing is to get Julian there, and we’ve got to hope he brings Henry Henry, so that both of them—”

  “Julian has a friend named Henry Henry?”

  “Yeah, he’s British,” said Ella, like that explained it. “He’s a student abroad at MacArthur this year. I met him once and he’s a jerk—everything I said, Henry’d answer, ‘What a curiously American opinion.’ We call him Henry Rubbish. But you’re getting me off point. Do you think you can get Julian to the party?”

  “So that when he gets there, we tell him we’re Elizabeth?”

  “No! Switch on your ears, Looze. The whole point is not telling him anything. He won’t know anyone at that party, and Elizabeth won’t show, and we can watch him wander around like an absolute leper.” There was a note of triumph in Ella’s voice.

  “So, that’s the revenge?”

  Silence. Then, “Well, posting some hot picture of yourself for Julian to shwack to isn’t exactly revenge, either. We always needed to set him up for something bigger. So get ready.”

  Her mind was made up, and it was useless to argue. “Right. I’ll try,” I said. Stranding Julian at a random party seemed more like a cheap shot than anything else, but I figured it was best to just play along with it. “If I can’t get him there, it’s not my fault.”

  “Obvie.” She sounded relieved. “But I know you can. You two have kept up online, right? Bet he’s begging to see you by now.”

  “Mmm,” I answered, and didn’t offer more.

  Later, I tried to find the silver lining in Ella’s plan. Julian and Elizabeth had traded enough conversation that getting him to the party would be cake. And once he was there, maybe I’d even have the chance to introduce myself as myself, since Elizabeth was basically my alter ego.

  And I couldn’t discount that I’d be out on Saturday night with Ella Parker. That was a score. I’d been hoping to climb a scene all the way since September. Now here it was. Opportunity had knocked.

  But that night and the next day at school, I couldn’t stop fretting over it.

  “If you had a sort-of real friend and a pure online friend, where’s your deeper loyalty?” I asked Natalya.

  Her eyes narrowed. “Is this about Ella Parker?” she asked. “Are you two status-updated to best pals?”

  “God, no.”

  “Okay, then she’s the sort-of real friend?”

  “Tal, this isn’t about Ella.” Except that it was—but Natalya didn’t need to know every single detail.

  She looked unconvinced but let it go. “I’d pick the sort-of real one,” she answered. “Go back to a classic, like The Terminator . You can’t trust the cyborgs. And an online friend is a cyborg, fused from natural and artificial elements. You need to defend the real, flesh-and-blood friend.”

  Natalya seemed sure of this, but in the back of my mind doubts lurked. What if Julian got angry at being stranded at this party? What if he was disappointed that urban, artsy Elizabeth was only Boring Fulton Sophomore Me? If I didn’t do it, though, I’d anger Ella. Maybe even lose her. And I really didn’t want that to happen.

  I wasn’t sure if Ella saw me as a friend, but the one thing I knew was that I didn’t want her as my enemy. Right now, our relationship was stable, with lots of potential upside—such as me being invited to future Group parties, where I’d be perceived as Ella’s levelheaded but non-suck-uppy ally (which is how I envisioned myself whenever I projected my social future at Fulton). And I was getting there. I was. Ella laughed at my jokes and listened to my advice, and I was sure the Group saw me as more than Nerbit the Newbie.

  So I was almost in, as long as I didn’t trip up. You should just stop obsessing. It’s a harmless prank. You might not even get Julian to the party anyway.

  I was lying to myself and I knew it.

  Especially when I was also talking to Julian Kilgarry every night and loving every minute of it.

  Julian was a night owl. He was logged on from eleven to one or two in the morning, researching for homework or playing games and checking out clips and IMing. Usually, he touched base with Elizabeth just past midnight.

  Tonight, he’d sent her a link to a show at the Philadelphia Academy of Fine Arts.

  alredy bin, I typed—which was true. Dad and Stacey and I had checked it out a few weekends ago before heading to Dmitri’s to indulge Dad’s foodie passion, grilled calamari.

  We traded a few more messages before I went for it.

  my gf mary clements sez hi

  Pause.

  meri clemence? That ur gf?

  Crappity-crap-crap. I swallowed. lol we all call her mc . . .

  . . . ?

  shes having a party sat—addy 114 rabbit run malvern? u on? or u + me + movie in philly & u show me @ the city sat? xcpt my rmate’ll prolly bug us & if we go 114 i can stay w/ mc o-nite No
response. Then: mcs mite be fun

  I sat back. My fingers were damp as Play-Doh.

  But I hadn’t messed up. k c u sat ☺ I typed.

  Julian answered. His symbol for “soft landing.” Meaning that he was drifting from this chat on to something else and might roll back to me in a few minutes, or maybe not. Julian liked to find glyphs to match precise decisions. He’d explained this to me, but I’d already known about it from his November “Guest Editor” column in The Wheel.

  I moved to Ella’s page that I could visit as Elizabeth. Though I’d shied at requesting friendship from Ella as myself.

  Also, she’d never offered.

  On Facebook, Ella gave up nothing. She was just who I’d have thought she was—if I didn’t know her.

  The surprise was her sister, Mimi Parker. If Ella was a watercolor, Mimi was her charcoal opposite. Harder eyes, sharper cheekbones, a challenge in her chin. Whatever the backdrop, she planted herself so strongly in the foreground—whether it was in front of a Christmas tree or on the Harvard green or at the Parkers’ beach house—that it often took a moment to notice that Ella was always there, too.

  “Do you get along with your sister?” I’d asked Ella once on the phone.

  “I’d like her better if we didn’t share parents,” she answered.

  “Meaning?”

  Ella’s voice was clipped. “Meaning, they see me only in terms of her. And where they should see me as taller, prettier, better athlete, more popular, what it all comes down to, for them, is less brains.” Then she’d sighed. “It’s a one-time mistake, being born second, but it’s got a lifetime of repercussions.”

  And her last sentence had sounded so plaintive that I’d refrained from asking what book or movie she’d probably stolen it from.

  Now, as Elizabeth, I left Ella the message: its on.