A Song for Julia

with her in an animated tone, her hands waving. My mother’s eyes darted to me. I’d spent twenty-two years knuckling under whenever she spoke. I’d spent a lifetime listening to her tell me that my behavior, my dress, my choices, my very life, were unacceptable. I’d had it. I wasn’t taking any more.
    I glanced around the room, momentarily alone, except for the Secret Service agent who eyed me closely. It was hard to tell if he thought I was a possible assassin or if he was merely undressing me with his eyes, but the effect was the same. I felt uncomfortable under his scrutiny, and the skin on the back of my neck started to flush.
    Why was I here? This wasn’t the life I wanted. This wasn’t the life I asked for. I’m sure plenty of people would have killed for a chance to dine here in this company. I wasn’t one of them. What I really wanted was to get back to Boston, back to the band. I wanted to find myself a nice, safe place. A place that was all mine, where I could live without moving for the next thirty years. I wanted some stability in my life. Despite the problems they’d had in their lives, I wanted what Jack and Margot had worked to give their kids: a stable, decent life.
    Two more Secret Service agents entered the room, taking up their position on either side of the door. A moment later, the President and the First Lady entered.
    The President walked with a bit of a bounce, a sideways grin on his face, as he approached my father and Ambassador Easton. Like both ambassadors, he wore the required Washington uniform, a dark suit and white shirt with a bold, striped tie. My father and President Bush both wore the obligatory American flag pin on their lapels, something I’d noticed on the news since September 11th, but which hadn’t been part of the uniform prior to that.
    The men shook hands, and then Ambassador Easton and my father introduced their families. I was called over and shook hands with the President and Mrs. Bush.
    “My eldest daughter, Julia,” my father said. “She’s in her senior year at Harvard.”
    The President grinned and said in his soft Texas accent, “Well, you should have considered New Haven, but I guess you can’t have everything.”
    “It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir,” I said. I wanted to say to my mother, See, I can be polite , but that would have been … impolite. Instead, I grinned at the President, throwing his reference to Yale right back at him. “You should have considered going to college in Cambridge, Mr. President. It’s never too late to go back.”
    He chuckled and suddenly I warmed to him, even if I did despise his politics.
    My dad looked stressed. I felt buzzed. President Bush looked amused.
    My dad said, “Julia’s planning on graduate school next year, then following me into the Foreign Service.”
    “Oh, isn’t that nice?” Mrs. Bush said.
    “Actually, I’m going into the music industry,” I said. “I manage a punk rock band.”
    The President raised his eyebrows, and my father, an edge in his tone, said, “Right now might not be the best time to discuss this, Julia.”
    “Sure, okay, Dad. You brought it up.”
    Now the President really did laugh, and then he leaned close to me. “I know how it feels to be pushed into a career. My dad wanted me to be President.”
    Everybody laughed politely. My mother looked like she was going to faint.
    “I don’t know about y’all,” the President said, “but I could eat a horse. Let’s have dinner.”
    So, we all moved into the dining room next door.
    At official functions, protocol requires everyone to sit according to rank. Consequently, my father and Ambassador Easton were seated across from each other next to the President. My mother and Mrs. Easton were at the foot of the table with Mrs. Bush, and in between, Alexandra and Carrie sat across from each other, while I was stuck across from Harry.
    As we all sat, waiters brought out wine. I took a healthy sip of mine as Harry leaned forward. “Barrett Randall called me a few weeks ago and mentioned he’d run into you on the train, and the two of you were planning on dinner. You’re at Harvard now? That’s a long way from when we met, isn’t it?”
    I ignored him. I had no intentions of speaking with Harry. My mother shot me a look, her eyebrows drawn together.
    Harry leaned closer, and his voice dropped. “I don’t understand why you won’t speak with me.”
    I really didn’t want to make a scene or cause a diplomatic