A Song for Julia

what to say. “Thanks, Dad.”
    He looked over at Sean. “Sean, you up for a game? Uno?”
    Sean said yes, and Dad went to go find the cards. I collected the plates and took them to the sink and washed the dishes. The thing was, I knew my dad was right. I was committed to the band. But I didn’t have any illusions, either. We played tiny little shows in tiny little bars in New England, but we didn’t have a huge following, and our EP hadn’t even paid for itself. Not to mention, back when I’d been in school, I enjoyed it. But when the hell was I supposed to go to school? I worked full-time, played in the band, and when I wasn’t doing those, I was watching Sean. And despite what my dad said, moving home wasn’t a serious option. We’d be at war, fighting, just like the old days. And that was bad for Sean. He stressed out at the first sign of conflict. Imagine us living together again and the yelling going on all the time.
    The whole conversation about Julia threw me off balance. I didn’t take relationships seriously, but maybe it was time I started. And where the hell did that thought come from?
    Whatever. For now, I needed to focus on getting through this week.
    I finished the last of the dishes and sat down at the table again. Dad dealt the cards, and we played Uno, then moved into the den to watch a show together.
    As we sat down, Dad asked, “Have you called your mother lately?”
    I closed my eyes. “Dad, please don’t start.”
    He muttered something under his breath, but didn’t say anything else. Lucky. He was always after me to call her, and that just wasn’t going to happen. But we both knew Sean wasn’t at his best tonight, and any fight between dad and me was going to turn into an explosion. Best to keep it all under the surface, simmering like always, but not let it boil over.

    I said it to shut her up (Julia)
    I was sitting in the cafe car of the train, writing a paper on the massive changes in the music industry over the last several years as a result of file sharing and piracy. I was an international business major, and even though they weren’t my plans, the plan was for me to go on to graduate school, either at Fletcher or Georgetown. But three months into my senior year at Harvard, I still hadn’t filled out any graduate school applications. When I thought of it, I just stopped. Paralyzed and angry.
    Whatever. I banished the distracting thoughts and went back to my paper. That’s when my phone rang.
    The man across from me, late twenties, wearing a suit and tie and also working on a laptop, reached for his phone and then realized it wasn’t his. He grinned and shrugged, a little sheepish.
    My concentration broken, I answered the phone as I watched the landscape race by outside the windows. “Hello?”
    “Julia, hey. It’s Carrie.”
    One of my sisters. Carrie was a senior at Abraham Lincoln High School in San Francisco. Tall, willowy and graceful, she could be a model if she wanted. Instead, she’d been accepted early admission to Columbia University, where she was planning on majoring in pre-med.
    “What’s up, Carrie? How are you?”
    “Did Mom call you?”
    “No …” Mom never called my cell phone. I don’t know why … she refused to use them, instead stuck with landlines. It was weird.
    “She must be calling your room then.”
    “Okay,” I said. I didn’t say anything else because I was afraid of what this was about.
    “Um … Maria Clawson … she, um …”
    “Spit it out, Carrie.”
    “You’re the headliner on her blog.”
    “Oh, no.”
    “Yeah. It’s a nice picture, though. Steamy.”
    I sat up straight in my seat, and my voice rising to an unflattering squeak, I said, “What?” She’d run the picture again? My heart started thumping in my chest, and I felt nauseous. That photo had ruined my life. The thought of it being dredged up, where people from school would see it, with my name attached? I felt pain at both my temples and leaned forward, rubbing my forehead.
    “You and the punk rocker? It says his name is…Crank? Really?”
    I gasped. “Yes, really. What about the picture?” I asked, frantic.
    “Well … it looks like it was taken in front of the White House. And you guys are kind of lip locked.”
    “Oh, God,” I said. I sank back into my seat. Okay. This was a problem, but not nearly the problem I thought I had.
    “Yeah.”
    “What did the blog say?”
    “You don’t want to know.”
    My patience was blown. “If I didn’t