A Song for Julia

then.”
    At his word, my stomach clenched up. “Technically, I was the child, Harry. You were eighteen.”
    “We were kids.”
    Seeing Harry now, it brought back everything.
    What I remember: Harry grabbing my arm, hard enough to leave bruises because I’d spoken with Clint Lawson in the cafeteria.
    Harry telling me he wouldn’t love me anymore if I wouldn’t go down on him.
    Losing my virginity backstage in the theater, my face and chest jammed up against the wall, his hot breath in my ear, shame and grief flooding through me as he pawed at me like an animal.
    I remember Harry insisting I have another drink, another, and another, until I couldn’t see or think straight, until I couldn’t walk, then his naked body on top of me in the dark as I fought to hold in the liquor and not spew it all over the floor.
    I remember blood. Blood running down between my legs as I fought not to sob that night in the theater. He’d said, “There, that wasn’t so bad now, was it?” and I whispered, “No,” while struggling not to cry and he said, “Tell me you enjoyed it, I know you did,” and I gave him a false smile even as I thought I was dying inside. I remember being shamed, because I didn’t say no, because I didn’t tell him I wasn’t ready, because I thought it was my fault that I didn’t enjoy it.
    I remember the shame and horror when my best friend in the world emailed a photo of me, drunk, nude, to the outgoing junior class, telling a story of drinking and drugs and sex and abortion that was all lies.
    I remembered the blood running out of my veins, slowly spreading out in the water of a bathtub. It formed little patterns, each heavy drop spreading out as it hit the water. I remembered the sharp, exquisite pain of the blade as I sliced into my arm, promising relief, promising that I’d finally not have to feel the pain inside me.
    “Stay away from me, Harry. Or I swear to God, I’ll—”
    He reached out and grabbed my arm, hard. Just like he did when I was fourteen. He squeezed. “You’ll what? You’ll report me? I saw the stories about you, Julia. You’re nothing but a little slut. No one would ever believe you.”
    Rage flooded through me, and I screamed, “Don’t you ever call me that! Get your hands off of me!”
    The music abruptly stopped, and the crowd started yelling. I tried to pull my arm away, and he wouldn’t let go, so I swung with my other hand, hitting him in the throat. He let go at that, grabbing for his throat.
    Then Crank was standing in front of me, his back to me, facing Harry.
    “Keep your fucking hands off her, asshole,” Crank said. Someone in the crowd shouted, “Get back up on the stage, Crank!” and there was laughter.
    “Stay out of it,” Harry responded. “This isn’t your business.”
    Crank moved suddenly, throwing a fist, then another, and Harry fell back. Someone yelled, and Crank threw another punch, catching Harry in the eye. Then Harry was up against the wall, and Crank hit him again, and Harry doubled over. The crowd went insane, some yelling, some laughing and pointing.
    George appeared out of nowhere and pulled Crank off. Crank struggled, shouting, “I’ll kill that motherfucker!”
    Crank is a big guy. But George outweighed him by a hundred pounds, easily, and pushed him back from Harry as easily as a father pushing a twelve-year-old. I threw my arms around Crank. “Stop. Please.”
    He froze. “Who is this guy?”
    “Just wait,” I said. Then I stepped forward. “Harry, get out of here. If I ever see you again … ever … my next call will be the police and then the media. You’re right. Maybe no one will believe me. But I guarantee it’s enough to ruin your career and reputation. I can do that much. I can ruin your life just as much as you did mine. And I will if I ever see you again.”
    Harry looked at me then spit a mouthful of blood on the floor.
    “Get out,” I said.
    George put his big, meaty hands on Harry’s arms. “You heard the lady. Get the hell out of this bar, now! Don’t ever come back.” He grabbed Harry by the back of his jacket and pushed him toward the door. A glass flew through the air, thrown by an overenthusiastic fan, and bounced off Harry’s back. Then the crowd was chanting, “Get the fuck OUT!”
    I saw Barrett shake himself loose from the crowd. He gave me a smile, almost a smirk, then turned and followed George and Harry to the door. Asshole.
    I turned and threw my arms around Crank, desperate for