A Song for Julia

want to know, why did you call me?” I snapped.
    Silence at the other end of the line. Finally, she said, “Way to shoot the messenger, sis. Talk to you later.”
    “I’m sorry,” I said, trying to calm myself and speak in a conciliatory tone. “Carrie … thank you for calling me about this. Please, tell me what the blog says?”
    She sighed. “It’s typical Maria Clawson. Talks about you and this Crank guy, how you went back to some hotel with him. Did you really?”
    “I didn’t even stay in a hotel.” Which didn’t answer the question.
    “Oh. And … I’m sorry, Julia. But it … says something about when you were in high school. She says … there was a scandal in high school that broke and kept Dad from getting approved as Ambassador to Russia. That’s not true, is it?”
    I grimaced and rubbed my forehead. “Not exactly.”
    “She said you were pregnant in high school. I can’t believe she’d do that. That woman is horrible.”
    “I don’t want to talk about this on the phone, Carrie. And it was a long time ago.”
    “I’m sorry.”
    I rubbed my forehead again. I could feel a killer of a headache coming on. “How crazy is Mom?” I asked.
    “She’s … gone off the deep end. She’s been crying all morning. And Dad’s locked himself in his office. I called thinking you might want some warning.”
    “I’m so not going back to my room tonight.”
    “She might break down and call your cell.”
    “God, I hope not. I don’t need this.”
    She was silent for a few moments. “So, what’s this guy Crank like? Are you serious about him?”
    I sighed. “I barely know him. He’s … a nice guy. And I’m not seeing him again.”
    “Why not?”
    I couldn’t answer. For one thing, I had no way of getting in touch with him. And because he was so … much. Far better to date safe, boring guys—guys who didn’t make me feel lightheaded. Guy who didn’t kiss in a way that made me want to wrap myself around them. Guys who couldn’t tear me to pieces.
    “Julia?”
    “Carrie, I don’t really … I don’t know, all right?”
    My phone beeped at me. Another call coming. Probably my mother, overcoming her irrational fear of cell phones.
    “I gotta go, Carrie, another call coming in. It’s probably Mom.”
    “Call me, okay?”
    “I will.”
    I pulled the phone away from my ear and looked at it. It was one of my suitemates, Jemi.
    “Hello?”
    “Hey there. So … your mother has been calling.” Jemi, a native of Sierra Leone, spoke in a clipped British accent.
    I closed my eyes. “I had a feeling.”
    “She really, really wants to talk to you.”
    “How many times has she called?”
    “I lost count after eight calls. I was hoping you might call her back … I was trying to take a nap. Which isn’t working out very well.”
    “Oh, God, I’m so sorry.”
    Jemi laughed softly. “No worries. Just tell me all about it later. After I’m awake, okay?”
    “I will.”
    So, that left me with no option. My mom would keep calling until I talked with her. I could hardly blame her. It’s not like I hadn’t ruined everything, not only for my own life, but for my father as well. There was no getting around it, but that didn’t make it any more pleasant.
    I remembered being close to my mom. Very close. All that changed by the time I was in middle school, though, and was broken permanently in China. I’ll be the first to admit it was my fault. My actions that year didn’t just put tension in our lives. It broke their trust in me. It broke my trust in myself. And then, after we came back to the United States, it almost wrecked my father’s career. And there was no way in hell they were ever going to let me forget it.
    All because I lost control. Of who I was. Of who I was meant to be. I lost control of the person my parents had raised me to be. I … fell in love.
    Sometimes it seems like my entire life since then has been lived in regret, serving out a sentence because of my lack of emotional control. Because if I hadn’t fallen in love … if I hadn’t let Harry … ugh. I don’t like to talk about it. I don’t even like to think about it.
    I was only fourteen. But fourteen isn’t too young to ruin your life. It isn’t too young to end someone else’s. And I wasn’t foolish enough to ask anyone—even myself—for forgiveness.
    So, despite the fact that I knew it was going to be ugly, I dialed my mother’s phone number. It rang once, and she picked up.
    “Julia? Where are