The Julian Game

by Adele Griffin

  “Why don’t you drop by Saturday afternoon?” Julian suggested. “I work from ten to six. We could do something after.”

  “Sure. I work for my dad Saturdays, too.”

  “Isn’t that cute of us? We could be clones. Except that you’ve got way longer eyelashes.” As he caught me casually by the elbow and then twisted me around so that we ended up wrapped back up in each other, kissing again. The sun was setting and the window glass sparkled rainbow prisms, as if a magazine stylist had crept in from the sidelines to feng shui up the moment.

  Which ended all too soon.

  Julian’s ride home was with his friend Jeff Calderon, who’d had a late study session and could give us both a lift. His Nissan smelled like damp dogs. Julian sat up front, but since the car was a two-door, he hopped out when we pulled up at my house.

  “Sorry if I went confessional back there. About my dad and whatever.” His hand dragging through his hair. “Must be my response to your Minnesota streak. I feel like I can trust you.”

  “You hardly even said anything,” I said.

  “I didn’t mean to start a pity party.”

  What he meant was he hadn’t liked to let down his guard, even for a second. It seemed like he was being extra-sensitive about this. “Please. I already forgot about it,” I told him, which seemed so uncaring, but I had a hunch that’s what he wanted to hear. Still, Julian looked regretful, and I didn’t know what else I could say that would make him feel better.

  Jeff raised the radio volume. “That’s your Wrap It Up music playing,” he called out.

  “See ya,” Julian said, moving away from me with a blandly awkward two-fingered salute that wasn’t quite as soft a landing as his signature , and of course didn’t come close to being as good as another kiss, but it would have to do. After all, this was just the beginning. I hoped.

  twenty-three

  Avenue Cheese Café was picturesque, with a striped awning and window-box ivy out front. But as soon as I pushed open the door, I wanted to turn and run. I hadn’t expected there’d be so many people here, including three other girls jammed at one of the tiny café tables, all nibbling on croissants. Not Fulton girls, but they were definitely, gigglingly here for Julian, who stood behind the glassed-in deli case, in rolled-up sleeves and a long white apron, a pencil stuck adorably behind his ear.

  He looked up. “Raye. Cool.”

  Those two words were all I needed. I stepped all the way inside. But it still felt awkward. “Should I come back later?”

  “No, no. You’re right on time. We’re closing.”

  Three sets of displeased eyes cut over at me. “Hey, Julianna,” said one of the girls, raising her silver table creamer. “You look busy—can I go back there to refill this myself?”

  He shook his head. “Are you deaf, Alexa? I just said we’re closing.” But his tone was a tease—leading her on, in my opinion—so I couldn’t really blame Alexa for jumping up anyway. With a lot of hip and butt wriggling, she pushed around behind the counter into his domain. He tried to stop her with a hand, and then with his whole body, squaring off against her and hardly three inches between them.

  “Baby, you’re impossible,” he said.

  Whatever she answered was too soft for me to hear.

  Luckily, at that moment Julian’s mother wheeled out from the kitchen, and in two hand claps, sent Alexa scurrying back around to the table.

  “Okay, girls,” she said to the table. “If you could take care of the check? We’re closing out.”

  Five minutes, Julian mouthed at me, starfishing his fingers as the other girls watched. I nodded, savoring the vibe of Alexa’s jealousy. They were all so irritated by my presence, and I felt victorious. Everyone might love Julian, but only I would be around in five minutes.

  I drifted to the grocery aisle, breathing in deep the cheese and coffee, cocoa and cinnamon smells of the shop. I slid a cookbook off a shelf and browsed soup recipes as I listened to the girls flirting their good-byes while Julian’s mom rang up the last straggling customers.

  “You didn’t abandon me, did you?” Julian called a few minutes later.

  I shelved the book and joined him up front where he’d just sat himself at a table and was drinking a Snapple. From right behind the swinging door to the kitchen, I could hear his mom on the phone. “Not even.”

  “Good. I need to cut loose. All I did today was make sandwiches.”

  “Anything good?”

  “Let’s see. A photo-worthy Muenster on rye for my friend Henry, and eight Italian subs in less than five minutes for some Pee-Wee league kids. They even timed me, the rugrats.”

  “Nice job.”

  “Yeah, except I’d rather be shooting goals in my backyard. I never get in enough practice on weekends.” For a second, Julian looked exasperated and very tired. He closed his eyes for a minute and rubbed his forehead. “But I’m cool now that you’re here.” As his hand dropped, his smile fell back on his face.

  Acting like everything was fine, all the time, was something I’d begun to notice about him.

  “You have a very intense desire to be Mr. Nice Guy,” I blurted. “But I can hang tough if the moment calls for Oscar the Grouch.”

  “I can’t stand it when I whine about nothing.” That smile was stuck on with superglue. But his voice was tight, and I didn’t want to press a point.

  So I changed the subject. “You’re healing.” The welting purple was lifting to a shade of strawberry that didn’t look quite as angry.

  “Someone gave me Neosporin,” he said. “Works like a charm.” He had that tease-voice that he’d used on Alexa. At least now, thankfully, it was turned on me.

  “See, I’ve got your back.”

  “You’ve got more than my back.”

  The late afternoon sun had crept down, flooding the shop with a warm light bath. Julian wedged his chair closer so that he could drop a leg over mine. “Good times. Except for my chaperone over there. So don’t try any moves.” As he squeezed my kneecap, which made me giggle, and then suddenly he leaned forward, his mouth brushing mine.

  “Your mom . . . ,” I protested.

  “Nah, she’s in the zone.” Julian held up a finger. “Listen.”

  I tuned in his mom, from the back of the shop, speaking softly, quickly into the phone. “And if we start with the shrimp, then we can put the crostini in the oven for ten minutes so it’ll be ready to pass with the Norwegian salmon.”

  Julian rolled his eyes. “She’s been on nonstop today.”

  “She sounds excited.”

  “She is. Big order. Mostly she caters faculty cocktail parties at Drexel or Villanova, but this one’s a biggie. A wedding. Over a hundred people.”

  “That’s awesome.” I took a sip of his drink. One of those crazy-sweet iced teas that Dad forbid in the house.

  Now his mom laughed. Her voice sounded girlish. “Fantastic. I can do a pickup in an hour.”

  Julian twined a strand of my hair through his fingers. “It’s a lot to pull off,” he told me. “They need filet and caviar and all this posh gourmet. The wedding’s at eight, out in Kennett Square. Mom’s filling in since there was some last-minute crisis with the other catering company.”

  My heart tripped up on itself, and I almost choked on my tea.

  He gave me a look. “What’s wrong?”

  “Don’t you think that sounds like a practical joke or something?”

  “A joke?” Julian repeated. “Like ha-ha, no wedding?”

  “Right, exactly.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Only because . . .” Crap. I’d screwed up. I’d blurted when I should have kept quiet. I should have been smarter. Led Julian right up to it. Then manipulated it so that he might have figured it out himself. “Because, um, we get hoax stuff at the Exchange sometimes,” I fumbled, panicking a little. “Copies of paintings and . . .”

  “What are you talking about?” Julian was staring. “You think this sounds like a hoax? Raye, that�
��s completely paranoid.”

  “Not really.” I blinked. “Think about it. An eight o’clock wedding, isn’t that a little late? And Kennett Square is a forty-five-minute drive. Why wouldn’t they have contacted someone local? You should have double-checked the order before—”

  By now, Julian had shoved up onto his feet. Swerving to the back of the shop. I counted thirty seconds before I followed.

  “But I don’t get it. What kind of creep would want to scam us?” With the phone clamped to her ear, his mother sounded more mystified than anything. “No, I can’t believe this. The young woman was so—bride-y. She gave me a huge story about how her wedding planner confused the date and she couldn’t—okay, nobody’s picking up.”

  Julian looked like he wanted to break down doors. “Don’t do another thing on this wedding, Ma. Not till you get a human voice on the other side.”

  I was retreating to the other end of the shop, where I paced up and down, looking at crackers. Stone wheat, caraway, rosemary dill, salted, sesame, low-fat, butter—Julian. He was waiting for me at the end. I hadn’t even heard him.

  “You know something,” he said. “Spill it, Raye. My mom’s fronted almost two thousand dollars on her credit card.” He moved toward me, fast. Gripped my shoulders so hard I winced. He let go.

  “It’s just common sense, it’s not like I can say anything for certain . . .” I was embarrassed by my terrible lying skills.

  “You owe me. I cut you a break, didn’t I? I never asked for one single detail on your nutjob friend from camp. But it’s the same girl, am I right? Someone I know? Was she at the party? Just spit it out, Raye. Does she go to Fulton?”

  I was paralyzed. As in, I literally did not have the presence of mind to move a muscle. Something in Julian must have sensed this. “Listen to me.” He spoke softly, confidingly. “I know you feel like you’ve got to protect her. But you owe me something, too.”

  “I can’t tell you.”

  “You can.”

  “Please don’t put me in this situation.”

  “No, you can’t play the victim here. My mom just took that hit.” He glanced over the shelves, his voice dropped an octave. “How about if I say a name, and all you have to do is nod. Fair?”

  I didn’t answer. I fixed my eyes just off to the side, to the Pepsi sign above the fridge. The yin-yang of blue and red.

  The red like my berry lipstick.

  “Ella Parker.”

  The blue like my wig.

  “It’s Ella Parker, right?”

  What a mess this was.

  “That’s the only girl I know who is ruinously pissed with me,” said Julian. “Ella Parker, that freak. She’s the one.”

  I nodded.

  twenty-four

  That night, I hung out at Julian’s house. A continuation of our not-really-maybe date. Splitting pizza pies with his family, even his gentle, frayed dad and Silas, who sported black nail polish and bleach-tipped hair. Eccentric but not the “major screw-up” that Ella had judged him. His younger brother, Matt, was surprisingly unbratty for a fifth grader. Although neither brother had Julian’s superstar quality, they didn’t seem to hold it against him.

  After another hour of calling the cell number, everyone had agreed that the wedding was a sham. Julian didn’t mention that the attack was personal. The general Kilgarry consensus was that it was a fraternity or sorority prank. Once this was decided, they treated it as a big joke. It seemed Julian wasn’t the only Kilgarry who knew how to cement on a happy face.

  The butcher and the pastry chef both agreed to reimburse the order, but the florist had already made the table arrangements, so that was a loss. Silas picked them up when he went to get the pizzas and stuck them all around the house.

  “Okay, I think one of you boys needs to get married tonight,” said Julian’s mom, “so these gorgeous roses and hyacinths don’t go to waste.”

  “Not Julian,” said Silas. “He’s the shittiest type of heartbreaker—the unintentional kind.”

  “Yep. Julian’s the heartbreak kid,” added Matt. “If we were a brothers band, he’d be the lead singer.”

  “If we were a brothers band, then we’d really be broke.” Silas snorted.

  I could tell Julian didn’t like that Silas had mentioned the Kilgarrys’ financial situation in front of me. A little too much truth, maybe.

  Mostly, though, Julian was distracted. Possibly deciding what he was going to do about Ella as the rest of the family scooped bowls of gelato and picked a movie. We went with Matt’s Syfy channel choice that Natalya would have seconded in a heartbeat. So in a way, I ended up with the same Saturday evening I’d always had.

  Except for later that night, as his family one by one disappeared off to their rooms, we had time alone. But by then, Julian didn’t want to discuss the Ella issue. Julian’s T-shirt smelled like mustard, and his eyes gleamed like a wolf’s in the dim light of the outside hall. He showed me his tattoos, the crossed lacrosse sticks inked on his left thigh, the delicate green shamrock on his opposite shoulder.

  I laid an ear to his bare chest and listened to his heart beat, he traced my mouth with the tip of his finger, and I let him unhook my bra, my breasts free for him to explore in the semi-darkness, first with his hands and then with his tongue, just like I’d seen a zillion times in movies. I was all racing heart and gooseflesh and held breath, startled and delighted that I wasn’t messing up or being outed as having never done this before.

  It wasn’t until Julian unbuttoned the top of my jeans that I made him stop, a simple gesture that he understood immediately, as if he’d been expecting it, and when he rolled the pressure of his weight off me, he kept his legs over mine, which made me happy since it didn’t feel so much like I’d lost him as just temporarily deactivated him.

  “What are you thinking?” he whispered.

  “I’m thinking I’m glad I don’t have to wait too long to see you again.”

  He laughed. “What makes you so sure?”

  I nudged him in the ribs. “I meant, aren’t you coming over to Fulton on Monday for that forum meeting about journalism?”

  “Oh, right. Yeah, the whole staff is going. But way to scare off the moment, Raye. Talking about the school paper.” His hand encircled my wrist and locked it lightly. “Confess. You’re a little bit of nerd, aren’t you?”

  “I’m not a nerd.” My voice was sharp. Now I really had scared off the moment.

  “I didn’t think so, but that’s what my sources tell me. Not that you’re the mayor of Geek City, but you’re most definitely leasing space near Nerdtown—paid for by the Fulton scholarship fund, right?”

  His tone was kidding, and I shouldn’t have gotten so prickly about it, but I did. I’d been lying against the couch cushions with Julian stretched on his side and facing me, one elbow propped and his chin resting in the heel of his hand. Suddenly, I felt vulnerable. I squirmed up on my elbows. “So what? So I’m not flunking out of Fulton and I’m not BFFs with the Group. Does that bother you?”

  “Obviously not. I’m just messing with ya.” He shifted up, too, adjusting his angle to fit mine. “It’s a bonus to be with a girl who doesn’t waste time gossiping about our whole stupid crowd. What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing.” But I was bothered. I’d never thought about it before, all those different conversations Julian shared with other girls. The Fulton-MacArthur alliance, and me not in it.

  “Something.” As he rolled up and over, pinning his body against mine. “Chill. You need your blue wig, Elizabeth.”

  “Ha ha.”

  “That reminds me, I was meaning to ask . . . what happened to that wig?”

  “It’s in my bedroom.”

  He put his lips close to my ear to whisper. “I wouldn’t mind seeing it again.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s a kick-ass disguise, right? And . . . you look pretty hot in it.”

  “And then I could reenact all your fantasies for you?”

  Now he grinne
d, wolf teeth to match his eyes. “All I’m saying is if you remember it next time, I wouldn’t complain.”

  Next time. That was the phrase I held on to, long after the local news came on and we realized how late it was, and Julian dragged Silas out of his bedroom to give me a lift home, the guys in the front and me in the back.

  Next time meant the future. Next time meant being alone again, with Julian.

  But next time also meant Monday morning. When Julian would walk onto Fulton’s campus and everyone would know he was mine, and not just for a Sweet Sixteen or a week at Club Med. And if Ella went ballistic and made a scene, so what? Who cared about Ella? Who cared about anything past this night, the best Saturday night of my life that made up for all the other, nothing ones?

  Meanwhile a thousand tiny intimate moments now stretched into a hazy infinity of daydreams that would keep me going until I saw him again.

  twenty-five

  That Sunday afternoon as soon as I arrived at Natalya’s, her mom steered me into the kitchen for borscht.

  “Hooray for Raye,” she said. “I didn’t want to go a whole weekend without seeing my second daughter.”

  I always loved the way Mrs. Z could diffuse tension in the room. Now she was taking my nearly two weeks’ absence from her home and making it all right again with her warm voice, her homemade borscht and the casual, comforting press of her palm between my shoulder blades as Natalya plunked down my glass of Welch’s white grape juice and took the seat opposite.

  But Natalya was annoyed about something. She muttered in Polish, and I turned to her brother, Tom. “One dollar if you translate.”

  “Keep your cash. She said you’ve got a boyfriend. And that’s why you won’t tell her the truth about where you were last night.”

  I picked up my spoon and started in, ignoring Natalya’s stare-down.

  Later on, lounging in the rec room, Natalya huffed. “What’s with the secrecy? Aren’t you even going to give me a hint about where you were last night? Is it that Conestoga guy with the artichoke hair? Why would you keep him under the radar?”