A Song For Julia Part 8

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 amba.s.sador. Sometimes becoming an amba.s.sador 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 Amba.s.sador to Russia, I spent my final year of high school at Bethesda Chevy-Chase high school just outside Washington.

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 cla.s.smates 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 cla.s.s 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 cla.s.s 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.

s.l.u.t.

Wh.o.r.e.

Baby-killer.

I'm sure there were other kids in my senior cla.s.s 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 a.s.signed to our suite in Cabot House. Their fourth dropped out that summer, and I was randomly a.s.signed 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, c.r.a.p," 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 sn.o.b 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. "h.e.l.lo?"

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 G.o.d, 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 s.p.a.ce 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 ma.s.s 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 ident.i.ty in high school, I was busy trying to stay as invisible as possible.

"Julia!" I heard someone call. I scanned around, and there was Linden, packed in at a table with Adriana and Jemi and three guys I didn't recognize.

I pushed my way to the table and slid in next to Jemi.

"I didn't think you were going to come," she shouted, trying to be heard over the music, giving me a casual hug with one arm.

"Maybe I need to get out more," I replied. Adriana tried to introduce the three guys, but I couldn't hear her. They were from Tufts, blonde, blonder and blondest. All three were cute, and I guess smart, but I wasn't interested.

Especially when the music stopped.

A balding, fifty-year-old guy stood at the stage and shouted into the microphone, "It's time for the real music to start. Everybody give a shout out to Morbid Obesity!"

The crowd roared, and the lights went black. Thirty seconds later they came back up, and the spotlight was centered on Crank and a beautiful Indian woman, Serena. I'd seen her briefly when the band played at the protest, and, of course, I'd seen her pictures on the band's website. She had a fantastic voice-rich and filled with beautiful, deep tones. As she and Crank started playing their guitars simultaneously, and the drums joined in, I felt myself tense. The music was intense, inspired. I'd spent the previous summer as an intern at Division records, mostly doing filing and taking phone calls, but I'd snuck down to the studios often enough to listen to the bands recording down there. Morbid Obesity was an order of magnitude better than the vast majority of them. Of course, when my parents found out what my summer internship was, they'd gone ballistic, but I'd persuaded my father that the job would involve learning about international trade, and eventually got them to stop complaining about it.

From what I read about the band, Crank wrote nearly all of it, though occasionally Serena contributed lyrics. As he sang, he was transported, energetic. Sweat poured off of him, his energy level focused and intent on playing the crowd as much as his instrument. Their duets were magical, harmonic. The dynamic between Crank and Serena was scary. Both of them incredibly s.e.xy, singing together into the same microphone, flinging sweat. They were s.e.x personified.

The crowd was going insane, and I got out on the dance floor and threw myself into the music. Jemi joined me, and I found myself dancing with an abandon I hadn't felt in years. I felt sweat running down my forehead, my arms, my back; the crowd pulsating around me like a single living thing. The music was raucous, haunting, driving. Unusually for a punk band, the lyrics were clear and understandable, and it was clear that Crank was as gifted a lyricist as songwriter. He sang of alienation, isolation, grief, loss and rage, and at one point I almost felt myself in tears.

I was soaking wet when the band took a fifteen-minute break, so I made my way to the bathroom with Jemi following me. A long line snaked out of the bathroom, so I stood at the end and waited. The band members disappeared to a room in the back. I watched as Crank headed that way, his arm casually thrown across Serena's shoulders.

Jemi followed my eyes and gave me a conspiratorial grin. "He's hot, isn't he?"

I snorted. "Sure, but every girl in here wants a piece of that."

She laughed. "I bet most of them have had it too. He's a bit of a wh.o.r.e."

I swallowed, and my face flushed. Thank G.o.d, it was so dark in here she probably didn't see. "I'm sure," I said.

"Speaking of guys," she said, "whatever happened with that guy you were dating? William?"

"Willard," I corrected. I shrugged. "We broke up last spring."

"Bad one?"

I shook my head. "Not really. It just...wasn't right."

"Ahh," she said. "Any new prospects?"

For just a second, I was back in front of the White House pa.s.sionately kissing Crank. "No, not really," I said.

"So ... what's different?" she asked. "I've never seen you so wild! You were really into the music."

What was different? I didn't know. I thought of my mother, telling me not to do anything that might reflect badly on my father. As if she had any right to say that to me. I thought of the guitarist in Harvard Square, and how for a brief few moments, I felt free. I thought about how music had been the only thing that helped me survive high school.

"I don't know," I said. "Maybe it's time for me to live a little."

She grinned. "Well, I'm glad you came out with us. You don't get out enough."

"I agree!"