A Song for Julia

I know exactly what you mean. Sometimes people say mean things about me, too.”
    For just a second, he looked lost when he said that. I don’t know why, but I felt a tug of sudden loneliness, of real sadness, at his words. I sat down on the couch next to him. “So, we’ve got something in common.”
    “I guess we do,” he said, his voice still very loud. “Have people said other mean things about you?”
    Crank was slack-jawed, his eyes darting back and forth between us, shocked.
    “Yes,” I said. “My mother sometimes. People at school. And that horrible woman who wrote the article you read.”
    “Do you want to play? I’ve got another controller, it can do up to four players.”
    I raised an eyebrow and joked. “I don’t know about all that blood.”
    He missed the joking tone. “I can turn the blood off, if it bothers you.”
    “No…no need. Let’s play. Crank? You playing?”
    I froze when I looked up. Crank’s expression was … angry? His eyes were narrowed, nostrils a little bit flared. He took a moment to respond and said, “Sure,” but not in a warm and fuzzy sort of way. He joined us on the couch, and Sean passed out the controllers.
    Crank sat next to me, a frown on his face, his whole body stiff. I don’t know what got him so bent out of shape. Sean seemed like a really nice kid, if a little odd. But you know what? I could deal with odd. So, we got down to it. Or, rather, they did. I’d never played a video game like this before. The first problem was I had no idea how to deal with the controls. They had about thirty-five freaking buttons all over the place, and none of them were labeled so I could see them. The game itself was fast and bloody, and I kept dying. And laughing. And dying some more. Pretty soon, all three of us were laughing, mostly at me, and honestly, it was the best time I’ve had in a very long time.
    It was about three in the morning when I yawned and said, “I should really get back.”
    Sean chimed in, “Can I tell you something? According to the National Highway Traffic Safety Administration, more than 1,500 deaths happen every year from drivers falling asleep at the wheel. That’s out of 100,000 crashes each year from falling asleep and 40,000 injuries. Sleep deprivation for just seventeen hours can affect coordination as much as a blood alcohol level of one percent.”
    I blinked. “I didn’t know that.”
    He seemed to be looking past my shoulder as he spoke. “But, in most of the accidents the drivers are men. So your odds are better.”
    Crank coughed. “Why don’t you crash here? We can fix you up with blankets and stuff on the couch.”
    “I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” I said.
    “You’ve already been in one accident tonight.”
    Oh. Right. I’d actually forgotten. I felt my face heat up.
    “Seriously, Julia. You’re safe here. You look like you’re going to pass out on your feet, I don’t want you getting hurt.”
    I swallowed. What would be the harm?
    “Okay. Thanks.”
    “Sean,” Crank said. “Do me a favor? Can you grab a couple pillows and sheets and blankets from upstairs? For Julia?”
    Sean’s eyes seemed to skate off both of us.
    “Okay,” he said and turned away. A moment later, I heard his footsteps thumping upstairs.
    Crank turned to me, and the change in his voice made me gasp. It was cold and angry. “What the hell are you doing?”
    I opened my mouth, shocked by the sudden attack. “What are you talking about?”
    He grimaced. “Sean has been through hell and back with the kids in school. Not to mention our mother leaving.”
    What the hell? He wasn’t making any sense. I shook my head and said, “I don’t understand. What did I do?”
    “What did you do? Can you even imagine the cruelty kids in school put someone like him through?”
    In a bare instant, I had a series of images of Cindy Blanchard in my mind. The day I forgot to lock my locker in gym, and she snuck in and dipped my bra in the toilet while I was out on the field. Walking down the hall and hearing, “Slut. Slut. Slut. Slut,” whispered from both sides of me as I carried my books to class. The day I opened my locker to discover that dozens of graphic, hideous anti-abortion pamphlets and fliers had been stuffed inside. My mother saying, “I didn’t raise my daughter to be a slut.”
    Rage I didn’t know I even had flared up.
    “I can imagine a lot more than you might think.”
    His mouth turned down into a deeper frown, and he