A Song for Julia

  Still, I was fascinated, and it was starting to bother me that I didn’t know why.

  Let me be clear. I don’t get hung up on girls. They get hung up on me. I know that sounds all sexist and all, but I don’t give a damn how it sounds. It’s the way it is. I decided a long time ago that if anyone was going to do the leaving, it would be me.

  Still.

  It’s not the college thing. I’d been with college girls before, and they’re pretty much the same under the sheets as girls from Southie. There was something about her, though. Sexy as hell, but that wasn’t really it. I looked at her, and it was like she was ready to explode. I’d lived on rage and adrenaline most of the last six years, and when I looked at Julia, I thought I saw someone who understood that.

  She might be all dolled up in a fancy skirt, heels and a sweater, but underneath, I had the feeling there was a lot more. And that … that intrigued me. But the truth was, I didn’t know a damn thing about her.

  So, the next time Serena was out and I wasn’t, I wandered into her room, booted up her computer, and found the article about Julia again.

  It was ugly … a hit piece, and after looking through the site, it was clear this wasn’t the first time. Maria Clawson had been writing crappy stuff about Julia’s family going back to 1999, as far as I could see, and maybe earlier. It was all there: Clawson wrote thinly veiled rumors of “one of Ambassador Thompson’s daughters” being involved in wild sex parties on the campus of International School of Beijing. A secret abortion. Drugs. From her dad’s official bio on the State Department website, it was clear these could only be referring to Julia, because her next eldest sibling would have been something like nine or ten at the time. I wasn’t able to access most of the articles, locked behind a subscription that made my eyes bug out when I saw how much it cost. But the previews were enough to get the general idea.

  Then I came across the picture. It could have been any young girl—her face was blacked out, as were her breasts. It was a very young girl … thirteen? Fourteen? Nearly nude, wearing only panties, and passed out on a couch. Two boys, their faces also blacked out, were touching her.

  Fuck. Seeing that picture made me want to scream in rage, because the boys were obviously a lot older.

  There was a lot more to this story than whatever Clawson had written. That woman should have gone to jail for publishing this.

  Regardless, the damage was done. I found an article in the Washington Post from early 2001, describing how her father’s nomination as Ambassador to Russia had been derailed for two years because of the whispers. The Post, of course, didn’t touch the details of the rumors, but it did point people to Clawson’s website. That was ugly, and I could only imagine what it must have been like to be her. Her parents must have been going insane.

  “You know, if you want to use my computer, all you gotta do is ask,” Serena said behind me.

  Jesus! My heart stopped. I stayed nonchalant, though, and replied, “Can I use your computer, Serena?”

  She let out a low laugh, then slumped down on the bed a few feet away. She looked relaxed, wearing sweats and a white tank top that set off her tanned skin and hugged her body. Serena always had a rocking body. She was from India, and I had no idea what her real name was. She was smoking hot, though. And off-limits. Dad always used to say it: You don’t shit where you eat.

  “You need to get your own computer, one of these days.”

  “Yeah. Well, rent first.”

  She nodded. “What are you up to, anyway?”

  “Just screwing around.”

  She looked over at the screen, then sat up and leaned forward, giving me a nice view of her boobs, her hair falling over half her face. “Harvard chick?”

  I grimaced.

  “I thought she didn’t want to see you again.”

  “She doesn’t.”

  “Oh, man,” she said, and then let out a low, slow chuckle. “I never thought I’d see the day. Crank Wilson chasing after a girl.”

  “Shut up, Serena.”

  “Why? It’s hilarious. Do you even know this girl’s phone number?”

  I shook my head.

  “Are you going to try to find out? It’s not like she’s anonymous.”

  “I don’t know.”

  She sighed, leaned back on her bed and muttered, “I don’t believe I’m saying this. Look—just call the school. Tell them you’re her long lost cousin or something.”

  “It’s not that easy. And I can’t believe you’re saying it, either.”

  “Okay, look, Crank. Yeah, I’ve got a thing for you. Me and every other girl that comes to one of our shows. But I get it. It’s one-sided. It’s kinda fun that way. If you ever responded, I’d kick your ass. But if you like this girl … you should go after her.”

  “I wouldn’t even know where to start.”

  She gave me a sideways, half-amused look. “Okay. Where are the aliens that kidnapped my friend? You don’t know how to start going after a girl? Seriously?”

  I chuckled. “My usual method is to just grab. Works great at shows.”

  She looked at me, puzzled. “True. You know, you’re normally such a pig. I can’t figure this out.”

  “That’s the sweetest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

  She grinned. “It’s true and you know it.”

  I shrugged. “I’ve never pretended to be anything I’m not, Serena. I don’t do relationships.”

  “So, what’s different now?”

  I shook my head and laughed. It was a hollow laugh. Because the fact was, lately I’d felt lonely, even when I had a pretty girl in my bed. “Maybe it’s because I can’t have her.”

  “Ooooh,” she said. “That sucks.”

  “Yeah, whatever.” Time to change the subject. “Oh! Did you see my new wheels?”

  She said, “Changing the subject?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are your wheels the broken down old Toyota out front?”

  I nodded.

  “Fancy,” she said. “Ten years old?”

  “Fifteen, almost. But it’s mine. And paid for.”

  She stood up. “So your car’s settled? Then let’s round up the guys and go practice. We’ve got a show Friday night. And I want your new song to be perfect.”

  I sighed. “Let’s go.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Julia, where did you go? (Julia)

  When you’ve moved around every couple of years of your life, sometimes making friends becomes a routine. I don’t suppose diplobrats, as we’re sometimes called, are much different from military kids in that way. You make friends quickly, but they are often superficial friendships. I remember my one year in public school outside Washington and envying the girls who had best friends—people they could care about and trust. I had that briefly, I thought, with Lana, who had befriended me in Beijing. But Lana was erratic, often irrational, and when we fought not long before my departure, she’d betrayed that trust. After that, I gave up on the idea of having friends. That was the price of my father being a diplomat, as well as the price of my own stupid mistakes.

  My dad’s career was unusual for an ambassador. Sometimes becoming an ambassador is a political plum, given to favored donors or others who have somehow done a favor to the President. But my dad was career Foreign Service. First Harvard, then the Walsh School of Foreign Service at Georgetown, and then into the State Department. I grew up hearing that mantra because it was expected I’d follow the same route. He met my mom in Spain when he was posted there as a junior diplomat, and I was born in Brussels. Two elementary schools, two middle schools, and two high schools. Each time, I left behind friends and quickly had to make new ones. Since most of the kids I went to school with were also the children of diplomats, it wasn’t so bad. We all knew the deal—at least until my senior year in high school. Stranded in Washington because of a Senate hold on my dad’s nomination as Ambassador to Russia, I spent my final year of high school at Bethesda Chevy-Chase high school just outside Wash
ington.

  As public high schools go, BCC is one of the best. In truth, it wasn’t that different from the private schools I’d attended all over the world. My classmates overseas were mostly the children of diplomats or the wealthy and privileged. In Bethesda, there were few Foreign Service kids, but plenty of wealthy ones.

  It didn’t help, however, that the most popular girl in the senior class was also slated to be valedictorian, and when I arrived, I edged her out by a tiny fraction of a point. She made it her mission in life to make me miserable, and most of the senior class fell into line behind her. When the rumors broke from China, thanks to Lana? That’s all it took. I spent my last year of high school as a social pariah. Not invisible … no, I prayed to make myself invisible. No one was listening to those prayers. I became a target.

  Every day, walking the hall, I’d hear the whispers.

  Slut.

  Whore.

  Baby-killer.

  I’m sure there were other kids in my senior class who were targeted and bullied. I don’t know, because I was too wrapped up in just trying to survive. And worse, I couldn’t go home and talk about it because my mother used her own, less profane versions of the same accusations. My father hardly spoke with me at all that year, and my then thirteen-year-old younger sister just didn’t understand.

  To make a long story short: I’m twenty-two years old. I go to one of the top schools in America. In theory, I’ve got this fantastic life spread out before me. My family is comfortable, and I don’t have to worry about finances.

  But the one thing I don’t have? I don’t have anyone to trust.

  Sounds pathetic, doesn’t it? Seriously, I live with three other girls. But I don’t know them well. Freshman year at Harvard, I didn’t make any friends at all. Linden, Adriana and Jemi, along with a fourth girl I’ve never met, entered the housing lottery together and were assigned to our suite in Cabot House. Their fourth dropped out that summer, and I was randomly assigned to them. Now, it was our third year together, and I was still an outsider, though that wasn’t their fault.

  They all go out and party together, but I’ve never partied much. Sometimes, they’ll drag me along, but I think it’s more out of a sense of generosity than anything. And maybe curiosity. I’d seen from other relationships that bonding takes place quickly in this environment. But it’s impossible for me.

  I just don’t open up. Because that requires trust. And how can I trust anyone after what Harry did to me? How can I trust anyone after what Lana did to me?

  Lana was my best friend in Beijing.

  Lana was the person I went to when I needed a shoulder to cry on.

  Harry was the person who broke my heart and my innocence, but Lana was the one who broke my trust.

  And above all, how will I ever trust anyone after what my mother did to me?

  But lately—I was feeling restless. For one thing, I’d been in the same country for five years now, which was the longest I’d ever been anywhere in my life. For another, something about last weekend in Washington, and then dancing out there while the street guitarist played made me feel my life was utterly constrained. Maybe just once I didn’t want to wear a false smile and conservative clothes and meet everyone’s expectation of the perfect girl. Maybe, just a little, I was tired of being lonely.

  That’s why Linden looked truly surprised Thursday night when she said, “We’re all going to Metro tomorrow night, wanna come?” and I answered, “Yes, I’d love to!”

  I found myself relaxing more than I ever had with my suitemates and even joking and laughing with them a little.

  Linden urged me to wear something more provocative and showed off her dress, which had maybe two square inches of very thin material, when Adriana said, “Who’s playing there tonight, anyway?”

  Adriana was a southern girl, through and through. She was from a small town in Alabama, where her mother was a waitress. Adriana didn’t go out often, either … not because she didn’t want to, but because she rarely had any money.

  Jemi, our fourth suitemate, was from Sierra Leone. Tall, with skin so dark it was almost blue, rail thin, achingly beautiful, she spoke with a crisp British accent and was typically Linden’s partner-in-crime. She replied, “It’s Morbid Obesity tonight, I think.”

  “Oh, crap,” I muttered. The other three girls stopped and stared.

  “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you curse, honey,” Adriana said. “You don’t like their music? We could go to another club. It’s not that big a deal, and I’m happy you’re coming out with us for a change.”

  I shrugged, suddenly defensive. “Um, it’s okay. I just, uh … stubbed my toe.”

  I was lying, of course. On Sunday night, I’d visited their website … and every night since. The music actually really was good, and I’m a snob when it comes to music. It was original punk-rock but with influences from the Caribbean that gave it a haunting feel. Each member of the band had a page dedicated to them. Crank’s was plastered with pictures of him at shows, drunk, groping a hundred different women. I was so not interested in being added to that list of conquests, if you could even call it that.

  Whatever. I was going out with the girls tonight. That strange, out of character night with Crank Wilson was not going to interfere. Nothing was. I ended up settling on an outfit far more revealing than I normally wore, which barely met Linden’s approval, and was just slipping on my shoes when the phone rang.

  Linden answered it and put the handset down on the table. “It’s for you, Julia.”

  They all looked at me because they all knew who it was. No one called me on the room phone. Except my mother.

  I sighed and picked up the phone. “Hello?”

  The girls stood there, awkwardly waiting.

  “Julia, we have to talk.”

  “Mother, I’m on my way out at the moment. Can I call you in the morning?”

  “No. You cannot call me in the morning. We need to talk right now.”

  “What is it, Mom?”

  “Your father just received a call from the White House.”

  What did that have to do with me? I sighed. I couldn’t hang up on this conversation. I covered the handset and looked at my three suitemates, feeling helpless. “I’m sorry. Why don’t you guys go ahead, and I’ll catch up.”

  Linden tilted her head, a sad look on her face. “You promised! Come on.”

  “It’s my mom, I gotta talk with her. I promise I’ll be there. I mean it.”

  The three of them filed out, and I was sure they thought I wouldn’t be there.

  I intended to keep my promise.

  “Okay, Mom, I can talk now. What’s going on?”

  “Julia, listen to me. In two weeks, the United Nations is sending a special team of diplomats to Iraq. They’re to accompany the weapons inspectors and possibly negotiate a settlement. Your father has been asked by the President to be part of the team.”

  “Oh, my God, Mom, that’s amazing!”

  “It is. Even though he’s technically retired—this could be the cap of your father’s career Julia. And that’s why I’m calling you now.”

  I shook my head, confused. “I don’t understand.”

  She paused, and spoke in a careful, slow tone. “I don’t know how to say this to my own daughter. But it is … it is essential that you do absolutely nothing that …”

  My stomach suddenly started turning. How. Dare. She. I felt my fingers start to ache as they tightened on the phone, and she kept talking, kept saying the horrible words I knew were about to come out of her mouth.

  “… nothing that will discredit your father. Do you understand me?”

  My reply was cold. “I understand you perfectly. ”

  “I don’t think you realize just how much your father’s career was affected by what happened in Beijing, Julia.”

  I squeezed my eyes closed, holding the phone against my head with one arm and the other arm hard across my stomach, trying to contain the sudden physical feeling of pain and
revulsion.

  After a long pause, she said, “Are you there?”

  I whispered, “I’m here, Mother. I’ve always been here. But you … you never are. When I needed someone to turn to, you … weren’t … there. So don’t expect me to talk this to death now. Goodbye.”

  I gently set the phone down. Then I stared at it for almost thirty full seconds before it rang again. Closing my eyes to hold back tears, I yanked the cord out of the wall, slid up the window and threw the phone out onto the Quad.

  Screw this. I was going out, and I was going to have some fun tonight. I stomped into the bathroom and looked in the mirror.

  Figures. Mascara ran while I was on the phone with my mom. She was a hypocrite of the worst kind. I was done with her. I supposed I’d still go home for the holidays to see my sisters. But I wanted nothing to do with my mother. No more.

  I fixed the mascara and put it in my purse, then made sure I had my car keys. I didn’t often drive, because pretty much everything I needed was either on campus or in Harvard Square, but it was handy to have the car here. Like everything, my dad paid for the parking, plus the car, and with that money came conditions which I’d had just about enough of. I’d give up my own parking space in a heartbeat to never have to hear that contempt out of my mother’s mouth again.

  Whatever. I got in the car, a brand new 2003 Honda Civic Hybrid, and pulled out, headed to Metro. I found myself wondering if there was a way to return the car. It still smelled of new leather and carpet. It smelled of strings and disapproval.

  The Metro club is in the heart of Somerville, but by a combination of luck, a healthy bribe and pleading with the parking attendant, I was able to get a spot behind the club. So, it was a short walk back around front to the entrance. The line wasn’t that bad yet, so maybe ten minutes later I was inside the club, trying to find my suitemates.

  Inside was a mass of bodies. The show hadn’t started yet, so they were playing a mix of early nineties grunge rock. The dance floor in front of the stage was packed in twenty deep, and the tables surrounding the floor were equally crowded. I waved to a couple of people I knew, but honestly I’m not sure they even recognized me in this outfit. I was wearing a black sleeveless shirt so tight I had difficulty breathing, black jeans and boots. I felt different. Maybe that’s because while my peers were busy experimenting with their identity in high school, I was busy trying to stay as invisible as possible.