A Song for Julia

what’s a nice girl like you doing mixed up in all this anti-war weirdness?” he asked.
    “Anti-war weirdness?” I asked. “It’s not weird at all. Going into Afghanistan after September 11 was one thing. Invading Iraq … that’s something else entirely, and there’s no good reason for it. A lot of people are going to die. So, yeah, I got involved.”
    He shrugged. “In principle, I agree. But to be honest, I don’t see what good all this marching around in Washington’s going to do.”
    I sighed. “I’ve got my doubts about that, too. But I felt like I had to do something.”
    He listened, but didn’t reply.
    I leaned forward. “What about you? You guys agreed to play at the demonstration for free.”
    “Well,” he said. “That’s all Serena. She’s the other singer and guitar player. She’s also very political.”
    “And you’re not?”
    “Not a big fan of politics. Though I gotta admit, it’s wicked playing to a crowd that size. Usually we do clubs.”
    “Around DC?”
    “No, mostly Boston and Providence.”
    I took a breath. “Boston?” I asked, quietly.
    “Yeah,” he said. “That’s where I live. What about you?”
    Okay, this is so not a good idea. I should lie and tell him I live in Siberia, or Alaska, or Alabama. “I live in Boston, too, at Harvard?” My voice rose a little at the end of the sentence, like a question mark, like I wasn’t sure of where I lived. I was irritated with myself for the uncertainty.
    He smirked. “I should have realized. Harvard.”
    “What’s that supposed to mean?”
    “Well, you’re not the kind of girl I usually hang out with.”
    I didn’t like where this conversation was going, but I couldn’t seem to control my mouth. “And what sort of girl is that?”
    He gave me a long look. “Groupies. Tarts. Girls who hang out in the bars in Southie. Not your type.”
    I bit my lower lip. I didn’t think much of a guy who talked about women that way. “So why did you ask me to lunch?”
    He shrugged. “Sometimes you gotta shake things up. Isn’t that what you’re doing?”
    “I guess so. You’re not the type of guy I usually hang out with, either.”
    “What sort of guys do you hang out with, Julia?”
    He asked the question in a half-teasing, formal way. I looked at him and answered truthfully, “I don’t hang out with guys. But I guess the times I do, it’s guys with ambition. Law or finance. Guys who wear suits. Guys who will end up in the Senate or as a CEO. Umm … guys my father would approve of.”
    Crank leered at me and leaned forward suddenly. “You’re saying your father wouldn’t approve of me?”
    I looked in his eyes and took a deep breath. They were blue and clear, very clear, and his bleached white hair made them stand out in a way that made me want to look into them all day. He stared at me as if he was trying to see inside. I swallowed, my throat dry. “My father would definitely not approve of you.”
    He smiled, a crooked, boyish grin that made my heart beat a little faster, and for the first time I noticed that one of his bottom teeth was slightly crooked. It was cute.
    “When do you go back to Boston, Julia?”
    I swallowed and took a deep breath. “I’m taking the train back in the morning.”
    He winked. “You know the city? I’ve never been here before. Show me Washington? We’ll have a good time.”
    “I don’t know if that’s a good idea.” I knew it wasn’t a good idea. I’ve got a pretty hard and fast rule. I stay the hell away from guys I’m attracted to.
    His grin, which was turning insufferable, got even bigger. “I know it’s not a good idea. That’s why we should do it.”
    I narrowed my eyes at him. “And what exactly are we going to do during this time?”
    “We’ll start with margaritas and see where those lead.”
    I couldn’t help it, I laughed. Then I laughed more when he pumped a fist and said, “Score!”
    “You’re not very subtle, are you?”
    He shrugged, a motion that somehow involved his entire upper body. “Do I look subtle?”
    “Appearances don’t mean everything.”
    He looked at me through half-lowered eyelids. “Okay. Let’s find out how much they mean. We don’t know anything about each other. So let’s guess … about each other.”
    I suppressed a laugh. That’s when the waitress came back, and he ordered us both margaritas, and I ordered a salad.
    “All right. But you go first.”
    He grinned. “Okay. Let’s see—I know you go to Harvard.