A Song for Julia (8 page)

A few feet away, Mitch Roark was also listening. He nodded to me, a gentle smile on his face. Mitch and I dated a few times sophomore year, but I’d quickly backed off. He was a great guy from a very unconventional background, and we’d clicked from the start. His dad, Allen Roark, was one of the most successful alternative rock stars out there. Mitch had grown up on the road, home schooling, and finally attending an exclusive New England prep school for his last three years of high school. We had too much in common: not someone I could date.

The song ended all too soon. The guitarist eyed me and then said, “Hope you liked it, Miss. I got another for ya.” Then he started to strum, and within two chords I recognized the music and smiled—“Ghost Riders in the Sky”. I’d always been partial to The Outlaws version, but this … hearing a raw edged song about cowboys and the Old West here in Harvard Square? It was sublime. 

I closed my eyes, swaying to the music, swinging around in circles. For just a fraction of a second, I could imagine the freedom the old cowboys felt, what it must have been like to see the horizon, to know and understand the boundaries of your life, to be able to get up in the morning and breathe clean air and not face a thousand stated and unstated expectations.

When the music ended, I stopped and opened my eyes. And flushed furiously, because a small crowd of Harvard undergraduates was watching. And clapping. Including Willard, who stood there, very slowly clapping in a half-contemptuous manner. As always, he wore Dockers, a polo shirt and a nice pair of brown leather shoes.

Mitch threw a couple dollars in the open guitar case, gave me a wave, and said, “See you around, Julia.”

Whatever. I reached in my purse, took out two twenty-dollar bills and dropped them in the guitar case. As I leaned close to drop the money in, I whispered, “Thank you.”

As I stood and turned around, Willard approached, and his eyes bugged out when he saw how much money I’d put in the guitar case. “Julia. That was some performance.” As he finished his sentence, the corner of his mouth lifted into a smirk. 

Willard never, ever hesitated to be condescending, to anyone. I felt myself tense, straining not to snap at him. “You know me, I love music.”

He shrugged. He’d never been that interested in what I loved. “Didn’t see you around this weekend.”

“I was out of town.”

“Oh?”

I didn’t volunteer any more information. The peaceful, beautiful mood the song had put me in was withering away. Willard never inspired much emotion of any kind, but at the moment he’d managed annoyance. Score for him.

He tried to engage me again. “It’s been a while since we’ve hung out. Have you had dinner? Care to join me?”

Not really, I thought. I hadn’t expected that. “Willard, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Hey … relax, Julia. We can be friends, you know. Just a friendly dinner, I’m not asking you out on a date.”

Why did he have to be reasonable? If I said no now, then I was being a bitch. I set in place my mechanical smile and did what I always did … not what I wanted, but what was expected. “Well, all right. As friends.”

Willard, as always, led the way to where he wanted to eat: in this case, across Mass Ave to a pizza place. The food here wasn’t so bad, so I guess I was okay with it. The place was about half full when we walked in, a low murmur of conversation layered over music from the jukebox, “Where is the Love?” The music in here tended to stay Top 40 most of the time. I didn’t hate it. Willard led me to a booth in the back, of course, and sat with his back to the wall, of course, which left me unable to see anything but him. This was all in character.

“So … how have you been?” he asked.

I kept my smile plastered across my face. “I’ve been good. Still trying to decide about grad school, but otherwise, things are going well.”

“I still think you should consider Stanford,” he said. Willard was planning on attending there.

“I don’t know. That’s a little too close to my parents for my comfort.”

He shook his head. “Are they all that bad? They seemed nice enough to me when we met.”

Of course they did. That’s because he was just like them. 

“They’re not that bad,” I said. “But that doesn’t mean I want to live next door to them either.”

“Seriously? It’s like an hour drive.”

I blinked. Why was he pushing this so hard? “I’ll settle for a five day drive and stay on the East Coast, thanks. Why are you pushing so hard on this, anyway?”

He looked away from me a moment, then back, meeting my eyes. “I was hoping maybe you’d forgiven me.”

Forgiven him? There was nothing to forgive—I was the one who broke up with him. “You’ve done nothing wrong, Willard. There’s nothing to forgive you for.”

“Except asking you to marry me.”

I sighed. “That wasn’t wrong. It just … clarified things.”

“Clarified what things? I still don’t understand. One day everything’s fine, we’re in love. The next, I ask you to marry me. And then … you break up with me.”

Oh, God. He was going to make me do this to him. 

“I knew this was a bad idea,” I muttered.

“Why? Because you’d have to tell me how you feel?”

Yes. Exactly.

I was going to have to cut to the chase. There was no easing him down, no making him feel better. I won’t lie … I felt awful about it. But at this point? Not much choice.

“How I feel … is that I don’t love you. We were
never
in love, Willard. Maybe you were in love with the idea of who you think I am … I don’t know. But there is no
we
. There never will be.”

He froze. Actually, his eyes bulged out a little, and it immediately brought to mind some of those very unpleasant moments of sex with him. Which was never much fun for me. Honestly, it felt like a chore, which should have been my first clue that this was the wrong relationship. But what do I know about right relationship? Nothing. Nothing at all. I just knew this was an unfortunate reminder of him huffing and puffing on top of me, and me feeling … like a blow-up doll. Like I wasn’t really expected to participate, other than to just lie there. And that made me feel ill, just thinking about it. I looked away, because for a second I couldn’t stand to see his face. Last fall, he accused me of being frigid. I don’t know … maybe I am. Maybe Harry ruined that for me too, like he did everything else.

“It wasn’t all that bad, was it?” he asked, his tone desperate.

Come on, Jules. You know you want to.
Harry’s voice.

I shuddered at the voice in my mind and tried to stay in the present.

“Of course not,” I said. “We had a lot of fun together, Will. Please … let this go. Let me go.”

I’m not ready
, I’d said to him.

Of course you’re ready. You love me, don’t you?

Yes
.

“I have to go,” I said, fighting to clear my head. I paused and looked at Willard. His face was downcast, eyes looking everywhere but at me. “Willard … you’ll find someone. You’re a good guy, and you’ll find someone a lot better for you than me.”

I slid out of the booth, and he stopped me with his next words. 

“What if I don’t want anyone but you?”

I took a breath and looked him in the eye. “Then I guess you’ll be alone.”

And then I walked away.

I don’t do relationships (Crank)

All right, I’ll admit I was curious.

Julia made it clear on the Saturday night we met that she wanted nothing to do with me. Maybe she was lonely, or needed … something. I don’t know. But it wasn’t me.

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.