A Song For Julia Part 16

"And sometimes it's a disaster. Sometimes it can take your whole life and rip it to pieces. I should go. My date ..."

"Screw him."

"That wasn't on the agenda for tonight."

He gave me a wicked grin. "I'm glad."

"I don't want to be one of your conquests. I don't want to be another f.u.c.king girl getting screwed-someone your bandmates say was a horrible scene the next morning."

"I like it when you say 'f.u.c.king.'"

I closed my eyes. "You're impossible."

"That's why you love me."

"I do not love you. I don't even like you."

"You will," he said, his voice low and luscious. I could feel the vibration of that voice from my ears all the way down to my feet.

"Maybe," I whispered. "But not tonight." So I backed away a foot or two, then turned, and stumbled back through the crowd until I found Barrett. I plastered a fake smile on my face. "Sorry about that. We should go."

CHAPTER NINE.

I was trouble (Crank) It was close to two in the afternoon before I got clear of work, drove home and showered, then headed out for Dad's. I was in my new car, an '85 Toyota that ran surprisingly well.

Another of Julia's hidden talents. When I got the final quote for repairing the car, I almost had a heart attack. Five thousand dollars to repair a car I'd paid a thousand for? No chance of that happening. She didn't want to get the insurance company involved, or her parents, I suspect. She met me on Wednesday afternoon after her cla.s.ses were out, and we went car shopping. Which made me wonder just what kind of world she came from, that she could drop a thousand dollars on a car without her parents noticing.

The first one I liked, she'd vetoed, pointing out coolant on the oil dipstick. "Means the head gasket is cracked," she said, matter-of-factly. The second car met a similar fate: rusted and bent frame. It had been in an accident at some point and repaired.

We finally found a car being sold by an old widow in Malden. d.a.m.n near perfect condition, despite being twenty years old. While I stood there, open mouthed, she negotiated the woman down from twelve hundred to an even thousand, and I drove out of there the happy owner of a much better car than I'd started out with.

We stopped at a coffee shop on the edge of Somerville, briefly. "Where did you learn so much about cars?" I asked. I was flabbergasted. She was a diplomat's kid ... not the person you'd expect to know about engines.

"My bodyguard in middle school was a car enthusiast. He used to keep a couple hotrods in the emba.s.sy garage in Brussels."

Her bodyguard in middle school. Yes, she really said that.

"So ... he taught you about cars?"

She shrugged, a rare open smile on her face. "His name was Corporal Lewis ... he was in the Marines. And I was a very lonely kid, so he let me tag along whenever he was working on the cars."

"So, you like, know how to change your own oil?"

Her mouth quirked up on the left side, the same peculiar little smile she'd used the other day when she called me Dougal. "I could rebuild an engine with the right tools."

That was wicked hot.

We didn't discuss my declaration of l.u.s.t last weekend, nor her date. Though I was seriously dying, wanting to know what happened after she left. And not wanting to know. Because if that English p.r.i.c.k touched her, I was going to kill him, and that wouldn't be good at all.

But she cut the coffee short, saying she had to get back and study for a big exam the next morning. I know that, in theory, you have to take lots of exams and stuff in college, but you want to know the truth? I think she was just dodging me.

Whatever. I had awesome wheels, and I was full of crazy energy because I hadn't gotten laid in like ... three weeks? That'll drive you insane. The result being, I was both energetic and crazy as all h.e.l.l on the way to my dad's on Sat.u.r.day. And I'd verified by phone the night before that Julia was going to be there, which was going to make me crazier.

I needed mental help. It was starting to get cold out, like twenty degrees, so I rolled down my power windows to cool off, lit a cigarette, and cranked up Nine Inch Nails' "Closer" on the stereo and sang along at the top of my lungs.

Okay. Time to get serious and figure out just what the h.e.l.l was going on in my head.

Fact: As a rule, an often stated and confirmed rule, I don't chase girls. They chase me.

Fact: I don't get involved. You want a quick lay, well, I'm your guy. But only for the night.

Fact: I've got a brother to watch out for, a band to drive forward to success, a job flipping burgers, and I don't have time to get emotionally tied up in some girl.

Fact: Six nights running, I'd dreamed about Julia, and that hot retro dress she wore Sat.u.r.day night for her date.

Her date with some British guy in an expensive suit.

Oh, s.h.i.t.

Next thing you know, I was going to be turning off the punk, listening to frickin' Barry Manilow and the Carpenters and Aaron Neville. I'd cry my heart out at sob-story movies and send her chocolates and roses and tiny pearl earrings. I was so screwed. Because no matter how much I tried to think about Alicia or Candy or ... whatever that girl's name was with the leopard pumps ... all I could think about was Julia.

This was not healthy, for a number of reasons.

Number one: refer back to the facts above.

Number two: she'd made it very clear that she wasn't interested in me. She was up for me being her tool for one night but only until the sun came up.

And for some reason, with her, that wasn't good enough. I wanted more.

She had, however, left a tiny little door open the other night. Maybe, she said. But not tonight. What the h.e.l.l did that mean?

I wasn't looking forward to her being there for Sean's birthday party. But other than me, the next youngest person who was coming would be like fifty. So having her there meant a lot to him. And to be honest: I'd do anything for Sean. Even stomach the first girl since middle school that I wanted, but who didn't want me back.

Needless to say, I was in just a wonderful mood when I drove up to my dad's house. Looked like I was the first person there, at least. My mother would be there later, of course. I didn't see her often, didn't talk to her often, and that was just as well, because those conversations rarely went well. I'd be on my best behavior today, for Sean. Tony D'Amato, my dad's partner would be there, and Mrs. Doyle, who always got wicked fl.u.s.tered when I flirted with her, which I did incessantly because it annoyed my dad, amused me, and made her happy. And Julia.

Not much of a party, but Sean didn't have friends.

I got out of the car, crushed my cigarette, and headed up the back steps, backpack slung over my shoulder.

When I walked in, things looked normal. Sean was sitting on the couch, curled up with a comic. I walked over to him and leaned over, kissing him on the top of his head. "Hey, bud. You doing all right? Happy birthday."

He ignored me, which I pretty much expected. I started to walk to the kitchen, and Sean said to my back, "Did you bring Julia?"

I looked over my shoulder. Sean was still looking down at his magazine. "She's coming separately. But she said she'd be here."

He didn't answer. It worried me that he'd become attached to her so quickly. Sean didn't need that kind of letdown.

I headed on into the kitchen. Dad was in there, wearing his "World's Best Mom" ap.r.o.n, just taking the cake out of the oven. Gluten-free, corn-free, dairy-free, because Sean was on a special diet. But, believe it or not, it would be pretty good. We'd all learned over the years to work around some things, and making food out of ingredients like tapioca and rice flour had become par for the course.

"Hey, Dad."

"About time you showed up, punk."

"Good to see you, too," I replied, zipping open my backpack. Inside, I had two gifts for Sean, both of them newly released video games. "Cake looks good."

He grumbled, setting it on the counter to cool. "Your mother will be here shortly. I want you on your best behavior."

I took a deep breath. "I promise, Dad," I said in a low voice. "Sean doesn't need any arguments."

"I don't either," he said equally quiet. Sean had uncanny hearing and would bring up conversations he hadn't been in the room for, sometimes days later. "I've had it up to here with all of that. I wish you'd learn to ..."

"To what, Dad? To forgive my mom walking out? Leaving you alone struggling with Sean?"

"Why not? You left at about the same time, kid."

"I couldn't take it any more," I said.

He just stared at me. Which sucked, because about that, he was right. I was in trouble all the time back then. Drinking, partying, s.e.x, drugs. Got picked up by the cops repeatedly, which is pretty embarra.s.sing for your dad when he's one of them.

I looked down at the table and clenched my fist. "I've done a lot of growing up since then, Dad."

"I know you have, Dougal."

"Why don't we change the subject to something more cheerful?"

"What do you have in mind?" he said. "Funerals?"

"War?" I asked.

"Poverty," he replied.

"The Simpsons," I said.

He cracked a smile, and I grinned back. My dad and I didn't always see eye to eye. But he was my hero, all the same.

I heard a knock on the back door.

"I got it," I said.

I stood up, and just as I did so, the back door opened, and I heard Tony's booming voice, "Where's the birthday boy?"

My dad shouted, "Oh, Christ, who the h.e.l.l let a dago in my house?"

Tony shouted back, as he thumped his way down the hall, "Some drunken mick invited me over."

A moment later, Tony entered the kitchen. Tall, with salt and pepper hair, he and my dad had been partners for nearly ten years. During the worst of the storms in my teenage years, there's been more than one time when Tony had provided a refuge for me, letting me crash on the couch in his tiny one bedroom apartment off Broadway. Tony and my dad threw ethnic and other insults at each other like bombs, but they loved each other, no question of that.

"Where's the beer?" Tony asked when he entered the kitchen.

"What, you didn't bring any?" my dad said. "Christ, Italians are so cheap."

Tony chuckled. "I was coming to an Irish household, why the h.e.l.l would I need to bring alcohol?"

I groaned, and my dad cracked up.

"What are you up to, Crank? Still up to no good?"

I shrugged. "Keeping busy with the band. Trying to stay out of trouble."

"Yeah, I'll believe that when you get a brain transplant," he responded.

I grinned, and then my dad had to chime in, "Dougal's girlfriend is coming over for the party."

"Dad," I said. "She's not my girlfriend."

"Holy Moses, you got yourself a girlfriend?" Tony asked. "How did that happen?"

"She's not my girlfriend."

"Then why is she coming to your brother's birthday party?" my dad asked. He grinned.

"Because you asked her to come?"

"Eghhh, only because you wouldn't."

I shook my head. It was going to be a very long afternoon. Tony went rummaging in the fridge for a beer, so I said, "Toss me one, Tony?"

He did, and I sat back in my seat at the table. "What time's Mom getting here?"

"Soon," Dad said.

I nodded.

Let me clarify one thing. Yeah, I've got way too much hostility toward my mom. It's not that she was a bad mom. In fact, in some ways I'd say the opposite. She gave me my love of music and started teaching me piano years before I was able to reach the pedals. I've got a lot of good memories-of going with her to the park when I was a little kid, of her taking me to the museum, having picnics at the park, going out to Revere Beach. I was probably ten or so when Mom and Dad realized there was a problem with Sean, and the rounds of doctor visits started. Two, sometimes three times a week by the time he was six. Speech therapy, physical therapists, vision therapists, allergists. When he was six, we spent all night in the waiting room at Brigham and Women's while he was going through a sleep study to determine if he had sleep apnea.

My mom started to fade. That's the only term I can use. Her temper became shorter over time; she'd lose it over the smallest things. If I left a sock on the floor, that was worth a ten-minute lecture. What kind of example are you setting for your brother? What will your father think? Why can't you be more responsible?

By the time I was thirteen, my daily existence was trying to stay the h.e.l.l out of her way. Her face was set in a permanent frown, she was stressed to the hilt, and the mother who had taken me to Revere Beach, the mother who had laughed with me while making cupcakes as a little kid-she had all but disappeared. And it only got worse. I went from being trouble to being invisible. Everything was tied up in Sean: the endless round of doctor visits, therapies and interventions stole both of my parents.

My eighth grade year I got the lead role in the musical, and my parents didn't show. Sean had a meltdown, and they were tied up dealing with that. I remember standing backstage, peeking through the crack in the curtains, searching and searching for my mom and dad, wondering where they were, wondering why they weren't there, dreading finding out that my brother had somehow caused them to not be there.

Yeah. I'm not proud of myself. When I think about how I reacted to all that...to be honest, it makes me ashamed. But I was a frickin' kid and didn't know any better. When the second act started and my parents still hadn't shown, I got in my position on the stage. I looked out at the crowd, with too long a pause after my cue. Backstage, they thought I'd forgotten my line and stage-whispered it to me, urgently, as if that would help. But I hadn't forgotten. I'd forgotten nothing at all. I thought of my parents, both of them, somewhere else, missing the most important thing that had ever happened to me, and I called out in a clear, loud voice, projecting all the way to the back of the auditorium, the t.i.tle of a Gangsta Rap song I'd been listening to constantly for weeks.