A Song for Julia

Moving just slightly, her lips were parted in a way that caught my breath. Pouty lips. Kissable lips. I had to laugh at myself a bit. So not my type. Well, except that she was female and kind of hot. Still, not my type.
    Back in high school, some freak accident of the Boston Public School system sent a group of rich kids from Back Bay to South Boston High. That was a laugh. It only lasted a year, though I don’t know if that’s because they got the zoning reversed, or the parents just yanked their kids from the public schools. This girl reminded me of some of those kids. Imperious. Superior. Some of them looked at the rats like me as if we were future criminals.
    I wonder if that’s why she was turning me on so much?
    It made me want to tease her a little, so when I launched into the second verse, I sang right to her, and her alone. I was on the second verse when she met my eyes. I held them. Her eyes, so distant and blue, were arresting. She noticed I was singing to her and froze in place, a deer caught in the headlights. I love it when girls react that way. Showed she was human. If we’d been back home in Boston, I’d have grabbed her and pulled her on the stage, but that wouldn’t go over with this audience.
    After a second though, she met my eyes and gave a sly grin, as if to say ‘ I know what you’re up to .’ I grinned back, belting out the lyrics. The bass and drums in this song were powerful and demanded that the body dance. I broke off eye contact and took off across the stage, threw myself into the solo, screaming out the lyrics at the crescendo, and then I brought the song to a crashing halt.
    Despite the shock of the soccer moms and lobbyists in the crowd, the college kids loved it and screamed for more. Suburban Princess applauded, a mysterious grin on her face. I wanted to know her a lot better.
    That wasn’t going to happen. This was an anti-war protest, not a meet and greet. As soon as the song finished, we started breaking down the stage and golden girl jumped up to the microphone and shouted, “Give it up for Morbid Obesity and their hit “Fuck the War”!” I paused what I was doing to check her out while she was at the microphone.
    The crowd went nuts again, which was nice. Hearing the name of my song on those lips was even nicer. But five seconds later, she was introducing the next round of speakers, a bunch of broken down Vietnam and Gulf War vets who had been dredged up by the organizers of this parade to give it some credibility.
    Mark and I dragged most of the equipment off the stage, while Pathin broke down the drums, and Serena pulled the extra monitors and wiring apart. As I stepped off the stage for the last time, the suburban princess met me at the bottom of the stairs. I stumbled down the last step and ended up less than six inches away from her, looking down into those fantastic eyes.
    “You guys were pretty good,” she said, her head tilted back, eyes on mine. “Thanks for doing this.”
    I shrugged and grinned. “It was fun.” Pretty good? That’s it? Jesus, she was close. I could smell her perfume, a faint, pretty smell.
    “So …” she said, looking me in the eyes.
    Awkward.
    “How long is this thing gonna go?” I asked.
    “Half a dozen more speakers, then they march around the White House. Maybe another hour.”
    Mark walked up just as she was answering the question. Our bass player, Mark, is a big guy, who might have been a football player in an alternate universe where football players smoked too much pot and hung out with the bugs in the Pit in Harvard Square. His eyes widened when I opened my stupid mouth again.
    “So, after it’s over, want to grab some lunch?”
    For just a second her smile faltered, and she looked … almost angry. I know I’m not exactly wearing frickin’ tweed, but I’m not a bad guy, no need to be offended.
    “Come on,” I said, “it’s just lunch. I won’t do anything too offensive.”
    Mark spoke in a sarcastic tone, “I don’t think she’s your type, Crank.”
    She closed her mouth, eyes darting to Mark. Her eyes narrowed, and her lips set in a thin line. It looked like she wanted to hit him. This girl was volatile. I liked that. “Sure,” she said. “Where?”
    I shrugged. “Um … I don’t know the area.”
    She looked thoughtful for just a second. “Georgia Brown’s at 15th and K Street. They’ve got outdoor seating. See you there … four o’clock?”
    Yes! Was it me, or had she moved closer to