A Song for Julia

mother used her own, less profane versions of the same accusations. My father hardly spoke with me at all that year, and my then thirteen-year-old younger sister just didn’t understand.
    To make a long story short: I’m twenty-two years old. I go to one of the top schools in America. In theory, I’ve got this fantastic life spread out before me. My family is comfortable, and I don’t have to worry about finances.
    But the one thing I don’t have? I don’t have anyone to trust.
    Sounds pathetic, doesn’t it? Seriously, I live with three other girls. But I don’t know them well. Freshman year at Harvard, I didn’t make any friends at all. Linden, Adriana and Jemi, along with a fourth girl I’ve never met, entered the housing lottery together and were assigned to our suite in Cabot House. Their fourth dropped out that summer, and I was randomly assigned to them. Now, it was our third year together, and I was still an outsider, though that wasn’t their fault.
    They all go out and party together, but I’ve never partied much. Sometimes, they’ll drag me along, but I think it’s more out of a sense of generosity than anything. And maybe curiosity. I’d seen from other relationships that bonding takes place quickly in this environment. But it’s impossible for me.
    I just don’t open up. Because that requires trust. And how can I trust anyone after what Harry did to me? How can I trust anyone after what Lana did to me?
    Lana was my best friend in Beijing.
    Lana was the person I went to when I needed a shoulder to cry on.
    Harry was the person who broke my heart and my innocence, but Lana was the one who broke my trust.
    And above all, how will I ever trust anyone after what my mother did to me?
    But lately—I was feeling restless. For one thing, I’d been in the same country for five years now, which was the longest I’d ever been anywhere in my life. For another, something about last weekend in Washington, and then dancing out there while the street guitarist played made me feel my life was utterly constrained. Maybe just once I didn’t want to wear a false smile and conservative clothes and meet everyone’s expectation of the perfect girl. Maybe, just a little, I was tired of being lonely.
    That’s why Linden looked truly surprised Thursday night when she said, “We’re all going to Metro tomorrow night, wanna come?” and I answered, “Yes, I’d love to!”
    I found myself relaxing more than I ever had with my suitemates and even joking and laughing with them a little.
    Linden urged me to wear something more provocative and showed off her dress, which had maybe two square inches of very thin material, when Adriana said, “Who’s playing there tonight, anyway?”
    Adriana was a southern girl, through and through. She was from a small town in Alabama, where her mother was a waitress. Adriana didn’t go out often, either … not because she didn’t want to, but because she rarely had any money.
    Jemi, our fourth suitemate, was from Sierra Leone. Tall, with skin so dark it was almost blue, rail thin, achingly beautiful, she spoke with a crisp British accent and was typically Linden’s partner-in-crime. She replied, “It’s Morbid Obesity tonight, I think.”
    “Oh, crap,” I muttered. The other three girls stopped and stared.
    “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you curse, honey,” Adriana said. “You don’t like their music? We could go to another club. It’s not that big a deal, and I’m happy you’re coming out with us for a change.”
    I shrugged, suddenly defensive. “Um, it’s okay. I just, uh … stubbed my toe.”
    I was lying, of course. On Sunday night, I’d visited their website … and every night since. The music actually really was good, and I’m a snob when it comes to music. It was original punk-rock but with influences from the Caribbean that gave it a haunting feel. Each member of the band had a page dedicated to them. Crank’s was plastered with pictures of him at shows, drunk, groping a hundred different women. I was so not interested in being added to that list of conquests, if you could even call it that.
    Whatever. I was going out with the girls tonight. That strange, out of character night with Crank Wilson was not going to interfere. Nothing was. I ended up settling on an outfit far more revealing than I normally wore, which barely met Linden’s approval, and was just slipping on my shoes when the phone rang.
    Linden answered it and put the handset