A Song for Julia

stage was packed in twenty deep, and the tables surrounding the floor were equally crowded. I waved to a couple of people I knew, but honestly I’m not sure they even recognized me in this outfit. I was wearing a black sleeveless shirt so tight I had difficulty breathing, black jeans and boots. I felt different. Maybe that’s because while my peers were busy experimenting with their identity in high school, I was busy trying to stay as invisible as possible.
    “Julia!” I heard someone call. I scanned around, and there was Linden, packed in at a table with Adriana and Jemi and three guys I didn’t recognize.
    I pushed my way to the table and slid in next to Jemi.
    “I didn’t think you were going to come,” she shouted, trying to be heard over the music, giving me a casual hug with one arm.
    “Maybe I need to get out more,” I replied. Adriana tried to introduce the three guys, but I couldn’t hear her. They were from Tufts, blonde, blonder and blondest. All three were cute, and I guess smart, but I wasn’t interested.
    Especially when the music stopped.
    A balding, fifty-year-old guy stood at the stage and shouted into the microphone, “It’s time for the real music to start. Everybody give a shout out to Morbid Obesity!”
    The crowd roared, and the lights went black. Thirty seconds later they came back up, and the spotlight was centered on Crank and a beautiful Indian woman, Serena. I’d seen her briefly when the band played at the protest, and, of course, I’d seen her pictures on the band’s website. She had a fantastic voice—rich and filled with beautiful, deep tones. As she and Crank started playing their guitars simultaneously, and the drums joined in, I felt myself tense. The music was intense, inspired. I’d spent the previous summer as an intern at Division records, mostly doing filing and taking phone calls, but I’d snuck down to the studios often enough to listen to the bands recording down there. Morbid Obesity was an order of magnitude better than the vast majority of them. Of course, when my parents found out what my summer internship was, they’d gone ballistic, but I’d persuaded my father that the job would involve learning about international trade, and eventually got them to stop complaining about it.
    From what I read about the band, Crank wrote nearly all of it, though occasionally Serena contributed lyrics. As he sang, he was transported, energetic. Sweat poured off of him, his energy level focused and intent on playing the crowd as much as his instrument. Their duets were magical, harmonic. The dynamic between Crank and Serena was scary. Both of them incredibly sexy, singing together into the same microphone, flinging sweat. They were sex personified.
    The crowd was going insane, and I got out on the dance floor and threw myself into the music. Jemi joined me, and I found myself dancing with an abandon I hadn’t felt in years. I felt sweat running down my forehead, my arms, my back; the crowd pulsating around me like a single living thing. The music was raucous, haunting, driving. Unusually for a punk band, the lyrics were clear and understandable, and it was clear that Crank was as gifted a lyricist as songwriter. He sang of alienation, isolation, grief, loss and rage, and at one point I almost felt myself in tears.
    I was soaking wet when the band took a fifteen-minute break, so I made my way to the bathroom with Jemi following me. A long line snaked out of the bathroom, so I stood at the end and waited. The band members disappeared to a room in the back. I watched as Crank headed that way, his arm casually thrown across Serena’s shoulders.
    Jemi followed my eyes and gave me a conspiratorial grin. “He’s hot, isn’t he?”
    I snorted. “Sure, but every girl in here wants a piece of that.”
    She laughed. “I bet most of them have had it too. He’s a bit of a whore.”
    I swallowed, and my face flushed. Thank God, it was so dark in here she probably didn’t see. “I’m sure,” I said.
    “Speaking of guys,” she said, “whatever happened with that guy you were dating? William?”
    “Willard,” I corrected. I shrugged. “We broke up last spring.”
    “Bad one?”
    I shook my head. “Not really. It just…wasn’t right.”
    “Ahh,” she said. “Any new prospects?”
    For just a second, I was back in front of the White House passionately kissing Crank. “No, not really,” I said.
    “So … what’s different?” she asked. “I’ve never seen