A Song for Julia

together. I stopped crying, got myself in order, and I drove back to Cambridge. Then I dodged the questions from my suitemates and fell into a long, troubled sleep.
    Monday morning, I was a mess. I woke up late and had to rush to class. I couldn’t get my mind off Crank: his hurt, frustrated expression when I’d run out of the warehouse Saturday night. And the words he’d said after dinner at his father’s. You need to know that I’d do anything for you … even kiss you goodbye and watch you go.
    What the hell did that mean? Insanely, even though I knew I couldn’t do this, I couldn’t be in a relationship with him, I couldn’t love him—I still felt lost. And angry. It was this messy, out of control feeling I’d been trying to avoid in the first place. And yet here I was, unable to concentrate, unable to even think, even though I’d done exactly what I needed to do.
    For the first time in my academic career, I got called out by a professor for not paying attention. I’d just been sitting, staring out the window at the grey winter sky, and then Professor Simpson called my name.
    “Miss Thompson, if you aren’t well enough to pay attention, you should consider coming back another day.”
    I looked at her a moment, nodded, then packed my bag and left. Which is something I’d never done before.
    I was in slightly better shape Tuesday. Marginally. But, to be honest, it wasn’t exactly the best day I’d ever had. Finally, Wednesday morning I blew off class completely, packed my bag, including my best dress carefully packed in a garment bag, and left for the airport.
    By five P.M. I was in a cab in Bethesda. I took a deep shuddering breath as I got out of the cab and looked at the building. No matter what happened, I’d never lightly enter this place. I’d never be able to separate it from the nightmare that had been my senior year in high school. I’d grown older and wiser, and I’d gained some distance from the events of that year. But it only took a glance at the scars on my wrist to bring it all back.
    So, I was already tense as I rode the elevator upstairs to my parents’ apartment. I couldn’t think of it as home, any more than I could the townhouse in San Francisco. In short, my attitude left a lot to be desired.
    When I got to the door, I felt odd and uncomfortable simply unlocking it and walking in, but it felt just as strange to knock. What was the appropriate thing? I decided it didn’t really matter. Regardless of how I entered, I was in for a not very pleasant night. Stress always brought out the worst in my mother, and a dinner at the White House? That was stress-inducing.
    So, I set my bag down, unlocked the door, and walked in, dragging the bag behind me.
    It was chaos. My father was nowhere to be seen … probably locked in the study. Sarah, Jessica and Andrea were at the coffee table, playing a game with a young woman about my age, maybe a little younger. She looked stressed and was probably their latest governess.
    Alexandra was in tears, sobbing as my mother fussed at her. She was wearing an exquisite turquoise dress, badly stained by what appeared to be chocolate ice cream, still dripping down the front of the dress.
    “I don’t know how you expect to be able to attend adult functions, Alexandra, when you can’t even keep your dress clean!” Her words were probably fine. But her voice was laced with anger and contempt. I recognized that tone and hearing it used on my sister brought to the forefront all the pain and anger and … and rage, that I felt toward my mother.
    Without even a greeting, I said, “Maybe if the adults hadn’t dressed a little girl in formal clothing hours before the event, it wouldn’t have happened,” I snapped.
    My mother turned on me, her eyes flashing. Behind her, I saw Carrie come into the room, just as Sarah said, “Mom, why can’t I go to the White House? Alexandra’s going! It’s not fair!”
    My mother ignored Sarah and approached me with a look of anger and distaste on her face. “I see you showed up in jeans and a t-shirt. Did you at least bring something to change into? Or do you expect me to provide everything?”
    In a calm and cold voice, I said, “Mother, I stopped expecting anything at all from you when I was fourteen.”
    She looked as if I’d slapped her. I quickly turned to Alexandra. “Come on, Alexandra, let’s see if we can find something else for you to wear.” I reached out my hand, and she took it. Walking toward