The Game

I studied the prospects. The Guard were all so similar and alien, so hard to know. It’s not like I could just strike up a conversation and chat. Like we had anything to talk about. In school, it was easy. We all had the same teachers, the same classes, the same homework. We all had the same friends. We heard all the same rumors, or invented some new ones. From there, girls and boys could keep talking if they were both interested. Here, we just saw each other every day. Interaction was discouraged by design.

Their uniforms made it more difficult. A few years ago, all these young men would have looked brave, upright and honest with their shiny ranks and insignia which I’d never fully knew how to interpret. Once, I was convinced that the cut of those uniforms was specifically designed to enhance the appearance of those qualities, to stir any girl’s heart with a mixture of patriotism, pride, and longing. Now I couldn’t help but see their dark, field grey as evil, and each of them just subtle variations of the theme. But I had to pick one. The others were depending on me.

They all thought I knew exactly what to do. They were mostly right. The what wasn’t the problem. I’d honed my approach since middle school. Certain guys responded in certain ways. It was mostly intuitive and biological. Ok, that wasn’t really true. It had taken a lot of patience and practice to perfect my skills, a lot of rejection and misunderstanding. A lot of dry runs and mistakes. But never a catastrophic one. Never the ones our mothers had warned us about, or the ones we watched other girls make and could always see coming. By the time I’d graduated college, my technique was as much art as science. I could attract a guy’s attention across a bar or at a party with just the right glance and gesture. I never quite understood why so many other girls had so much trouble with it. Girls like Nicole.

No, it wasn’t the what, it was the who. I was never good at that. Left on my own, I would always make the most horrible choices. Choices like the one that had landed me here. Nicole had no idea what to do or really even how to approach a boy. All that came naturally, I told her, if she’d only let it. Eventually, I think I succeeded with her, or almost did anyway. But her real talent wasn’t in her hair or hips. It was her eye that was immaculate. At least in combination with mine.

I still don’t know why we became friends. I know it was in middle school. We’d gone to different elementaries before they funneled several together. That we didn’t each have our own friends was a coincidence. She had just moved to our neighborhood from the outskirts of the county, the poorer side we thought. Only later did I learn that it wasn’t so much poor as Principlist. My best friend had left that summer when her father had taken a new job in a sanctuary state all the way across the country before he could be laid off.

We met by accident. My name was right before to hers alphabetically. Not last name, first. So when Miss Rose aligned us to her custom seating chart in Reading by having us find our printed nametags on our desks, I sat right in front of her. Miss Rose was all too cheery and organized. She was one of those teachers who was desperate to be your friend. The one who told you that you could talk to her about anything at any time. The one who said she knew just how scary a new school could be like we were still little kids. Yeah, right. But to blossom our budding social skills, she had us introduce ourselves to each person in the desk in front of, behind and beside us. Of course, the first thing we’d all done was hide our nametags. Most of us knew each other already. The whole thing was embarrassing.

This was first period on the first day of school but Nicole already had her math book. The same one I’d used the year before. No, I mean the exact same one. When I turned to introduce myself, she had it open. I saw my name written above hers inside the cover. Most of us in my class had been pushed a year ahead, so we’d borrowed textbooks from the middle school. I told her she had my book. When she looked confused, I pointed and said that was my name right above hers. Oh. She didn’t even laugh. I didn’t think she got the joke.

Then Miss Rose began in the first row and had each of us introduce the person behind us. At the end of the row, she went sideways and then started back forward, snaking her way through the room. The first girl, Alicia, who Miss Rose said was meant to be our leader (which Alicia never forgot), introduced herself first and then the boy behind her. The last boy, Zack, who was meant to be shy, I guess, but never really was, introduced no one. He just said, hey. We laughed for days over Miss Rose’s system.

But before that, when Nicole came to me, she’d forgotten my name. Since we were in the middle of the room, she had four to choose from. But turning her head back and forth with Miss Rose’s zigzagging pattern, she’d gotten confused as to who was who. She paused while everyone stared at her impatiently, desperate to get this stupid ritual over with.

Finally, I whispered, “Duh, it’s in the book.”

Her eyes lit up and she quickly said my name. “And this is Michelle.”

She was so relieved that I had saved her that she came up to thank me after class. I found out they’d put her in remedial math and given her the book at orientation. I offered to help her if she wanted. I remembered it pretty well. She said she could help me with Reading. She’d read most of the stories in the book before. They were boring but I found out that she knew exactly how to answer Miss Rose’s questions in a way that satisfied her without coming off as a teacher’s pet. And our friendship was born.

By the time the sixth grade dance rolled around, we’d begun to think about boys. Ok, that wasn’t really true. We’d both known about girls and boys for a lot longer. Until now, we just hadn’t understood what it meant. How the choices we made, or that we allowed to be made for us, would shape us and follow us for the rest of our days in school.

I think I was the first to bring up the subject of who Nicole might want to ask her to dance. At first, she didn’t want to talk about it. I thought she was afraid no one would ask her. I knew she desperately wanted to be asked. We both did. But I saw the way some of the boys punched her shoulder while we were talking at our lockers between classes. That only meant one thing.

But I was wrong. It turned out that it wasn’t that Nicole hadn’t noticed the boys. She was more concerned that I would approve of whoever picked her, whoever she allowed herself to be picked by. She knew from living in her old neighborhood that boys could drive girls apart if they let them. But the girls she’d watched growing up didn’t want to disappoint each other by not sharing the same opinions. In their world, that violated some unwritten code of conduct which could force a wedge between friends faster than any boy. At the time, I thought it was stupid. Too late, I learned she was right.

So she came up with the game. It was simple, elegant really, and helped us navigate what we learned could be treacherous waters pretty well. It was based on rock-paper-scissors which we both had known for as long as we could remember. She called it yes-no-maybe.

It worked like this. One of us would indicate a boy with a whisper, a finger or a nod, and then point to either herself or the other girl. Both of us would shake a closed fist, just like rock-paper-scissors. On the count of three, we would reveal our answers at the same time. A fist held up was yes, a nodding head in sign language. One finger was no, the wagging warning our mothers gave. An open palm up was maybe, like weighing something off.

If both of us agreed, everything was clear. Yes meant not only could you accept his invitation but one or both of you could circulate that you were interested. Two maybes meant you could accept if offered but neither of you would seed a rumor. No meant no; he wasn’t right under any circumstances. Poison.

Where we disagreed, the game got more interesting. If one of us said yes but the other said maybe, it meant the interested girl could be as assertive as she wanted. Yes beat maybe. If one of us said maybe and the other said no, the girl was allowed to flirt but could back off if something felt weird. Maybe beat no. But if one of us said yes and the other no, she should be prudent and leave the boy alone. No always beat yes.

You listened to your girlfriend because she knew you better than you knew yourself and had your best interests at heart. We both understood we had things we either couldn’t or wouldn’t see. And anyone we disagreed on, we could bring up again the next year. People could change, girls and boys.

Like I said, it started with who we would dance with but quickly grew into who we would to go a movie with, who we would hold hands with, who we would kiss. A silly little game but one that saw us through middle school mostly unscathed. Sure, there were boys who broke our hearts and boys who made us cry. Boys who we longed for or dreamed about but left alone on the other’s advice. And boys who hurt us. But not physically, never physically like a few other girls we knew. Our game meant we always had someone watching our back, as long as we listened.

The game was quick and brutally honest, but fun in that your friend always revealed something about herself even as you revealed something, too. It was full of pressed foreheads, giggling and oh my gods, while constantly considering boys you never might have otherwise, or at least didn’t want to admit that you did. Sometimes with surprising results.

Ryan, the all-around popular one, was a definite yes-yes. Until he moved on to Debbie. Jim, the class clown, a double-maybe. He was fun for a while, but I moved on first. Preston, the quiet one, a maybe-no. Flirting practice paid off when he gave Nicole her kissing lessons. She said he was a really good kisser which even I had hard time believing. Dwayne, like likable guy, was a maybe-yes. The maybe had been right. He was different in a group than alone. Lisa found out exactly how different our sophomore year.

Tom, the rangy one who later joined the Guard, was our first yes-no. I was the enthusiastic yes on that one. Nicole an emphatic no. She must have seen something. We learned soon after that he liked to look down the long tables in Earth Science class and measure girls’ chests with the thickness of his books. He and his friends compared notes in the hallways in a code. Pam’s only Spelling, but whoa, Caitlyn’s American History this year. Ew.

In high school, the game expanded. We’d learned there were times you really, really didn’t want to listen. Sometimes you just had to find out for yourself. So we gave ourselves permission but with a price. If you went in aggressively after yes to the other’s maybe and it didn’t work out, you had been a tease. If you refused to consider her maybe to your no, you were an ice queen. And if you came up against a yes-no and went after him anyway, you were being a slut.

By our junior year, the game had become a series of challenges and dares. So we added a new signal. Flat palm down preemptively. I don’t want to talk about it or consider it. Too many of those and you became a bitch.

At first, we laughed about those titles. It was all in fun as long as you only got tagged once in a while. A second time too soon and the sting would give you pause. Eventually, we learned that the game was right much more than it was wrong. Two sets of eyes were always better than one. We only learned much later how many disasters we’d avoided. Girls began comparing notes defensively when too many boys grew emboldened after the Principlists rose in power.

At college, the game turned more serious. We relied on it heavily our freshmen year to help stave off the worst of the frat boy predators. Sophomore year, we tapered off. I thought it was the election. The deteriorating situation had us both worried. I lost my scholarship from the cutbacks. Nicole kept making suggestions for me but none for herself. I sensed she no longer liked my boyfriend, maybe-no who had worked out. All the suggestions I made for her were met palm down. I began to think she was jealous and ungrateful. I’d taught her all my tricks, things she never would have learned otherwise. Did she think I needed her but she no longer needed me? The bitch.

Then, in the lull after finals before we went home that spring, we celebrated down in the Ratskeller. It finally felt like old times. Three beers in, Nicole motioned down the bar toward a cute junior sitting behind a female classmate, then pointed at herself. I was so excited, I didn’t even wait for her. Oh, my god, yes. Yes, yes, yes!

Nicole waved me off, palm down, annoyed. Not him, she discreetly gestured. Her.

I was stunned. Confused. A woman? Was she screwing with me? How was I supposed to evaluate a woman? Wouldn’t the Principlists have fun with that. Their youth group were already taking over campus and recruiting for the Guard. If this was an experimental phase, it was dangerously timed.

I didn’t know what to do.

She held up her hand to start the game. Reluctantly, I shook my fist three times, uncertain what I would say until my hand opened tentatively, palm up. Maybe? I just stared at it, not even seeing what Nicole had signed.

She slapped my hand and started to shake her fist again. My palm stung but this time I answered her nodding hand with a wagging finger out of spite. No. No, no, no! I crossed my arms in front of me and looked away before she could hit me again.

Instead, Nicole gently steered my chin with one hand until I looked her in the eye, then held up her other fist again. Her eyes filled with vulnerability.

I slapped my hand palm down on the bar, loud enough that everyone turned to look. I just stared at Nicole defiantly. I didn’t want to talk about it. This wasn’t our game.

Mechanically, she rose from her barstool and strode to the back door and out. Only when I looked down did I see she’d left a trail of tears across the bar onto the well-worn wooden seat. The woman four stools down left immediately after. That made me think the whole thing had been a setup. Now I felt angry and betrayed.

Before I could calm down enough to see clearly, Nicole had left school. She had scored an internship that summer, so we didn’t see each other. I was busy working, trying to fill in the money my parents didn’t have to make up for my lost scholarship. Not that I much cared. Nicole knew where to find me. And we had signed up to be roommates again the next year. We could always sort it out when we saw each other then.

Only Nicole didn’t show up on move-in day. No message, no warning, just a no-show. Which left me scrambling for a last minute roommate. I could barely afford a double much less a single. I ended up with a pair of overseas freshmen, two best friends who weren’t looking for a third. That stung.

I only saw Nicole occasionally around campus that year. She arranged her classes to avoid mine. I tried to approach to her a couple times, but she turned away whenever she saw me coming. Senior year, I learned she was roommates with the woman from the Rat. That brought the betrayal raging back. I stopped trying.

The elections that fall sealed it. The Principlists went from a strong minority to the ruling party. They began cracking down on what they saw as asocial behavior, especially in women. I couldn’t risk being seen with her. I’d just gotten my scholarship back. At least that was my excuse.

By then I’d moved in with my boyfriend. We’d been together so long I thought we might go the distance. Turned out it was just long enough for him to get his degree and move back to the heartland with barely a kiss goodbye. I heard he was married six months later with a kid on the way. Bullet dodged. But I now suspect Nicole had seen that coming a couple years before.

The last time I saw her was at graduation. Unlike our first names that day in middle school, our last names were far enough apart that we were rows away at the ceremony. I only knew she was there when the dean called her name. In the press afterwards, I slipped in front her before she could get away.

“We finally made it through intact,” I said, smiling.

“Yeah,” she responded hesitantly. “I guess we did.”

Then neither of us spoke, each waiting for the other to say something, anything. About the time the silence between us became awkward, her parents found her and spirited her away.

Over the next year, I thought about Nicole but still thought I didn’t need her. I had my own job and worked my way through a couple quick boyfriends. Neither of them worked out. Not horrible, just not really good. Kind of average, like high school all over again, only older this time.

Then came Bruce, and finally Andrew. Both would have been yes-nos. Really no-nos if I had learned anything at all. Both I met at work. Bruce I worked with, Andrew I worked for. Both tried to use my job to get me to do things I didn’t want to do. If Bruce was a catastrofuck, Andrew was even worse. At least with Bruce, I gave as good as I got before I walked out on him. And Andrew? Well, Andrew landed me here.

When he shielded me from Bruce at work, I made the mistake of trusting him. Andrew was subtle and romantic. He was a good listener. I thought we had a future. One night, I told him about Nicole and the game. One of those conversations thousands of couples have in the dark after a glass or two of wine. I told him how our friendship had ended. I whispered what she was, or at least what I suspected.

A month later, the Principlists consolidated power to virtual one party rule. Only too late did I learn that Andrew was one of them and always had been. He wanted to know more about Nicole. He called her perverted, an abomination. Just the kind of person the Principlists had been elected to protect us from.

“Protect who, again?” I asked.

“You,” he said. When I didn’t reply, he added, “Women. Just like I did with Bruce.”

“I don’t need your protection,” I informed him, my anger seeping through.

“You need it more than you think, princess,” he replied. “At least if you want a job.”

I told him what he could do with his job and slammed the door behind me. He fired me the next day. But I didn’t tell him any more about Nicole.

It didn’t matter. Andrew submitted both our names to the Principlists as sexual deviants. Their code word for lesbians. By then, the Guard had begun to round people up for re-education camps. Conversion therapy. They scooped me up before I could run for a sanctuary state. I never heard they found Nicole. The camps are remote but the grapevine between them functions as best it can. Information is power.

The escape committee came to me. The papers are forged, the replacement clothing sewn, the routes through the wilderness well-planned. They just need to distract one guard to create a hole in perimeter so they can finish the tunnels. To do that, they want me to establish a long-term relationship. Picking the right man is critical. The timetable of the operation is delicate. And Principlists can be as mean as snakes even unprovoked. The committee’s head of security had heard about my reputation though she wouldn’t say exactly where.

I wonder if it came from Nicole. I hope not. But right now, I could really use her advice.

© 2018 Edward P. Morgan III