A Song for Julia

crazy.
    Too bad, really. He was kind of fun to be around. But I already knew that when today was over, I’d never see him again. On Monday, I’d be back at school, back to my life. It was going to be bad enough when Maria Clawson wrote whatever she was going to write. And there was no doubt in my mind she’d be writing about this. It was another chance to smear my dad. My fault. Again. I wasn’t angry with him for his outburst. How could I be? Maria Clawson, without even knowing me, had used me to try to ruin my father’s career, and in the process had nearly ruined my life. He could have done a lot worse, and it wouldn’t have bothered me.
    We walked south on 15th Street then veered to the right on Vermont Avenue, headed toward the White House. Crowds of men and women filled the streets, most of them dressed in casual fall clothing. On Monday, they’d all be in suits, commuting to and from work in various government offices, trade associations and lobbyists. For now, this was the domain of tourists and visitors to the city, along with the homeless who crowded this part of town. The sky had turned a brilliant orange as the sun angled in from the west. It would be dark soon.
    We stopped at Pennsylvania Avenue, just on the edge of the crowd still shouting and waving signs at the White House.
    Somehow I had the feeling no one inside was paying the slightest bit of attention.
    “My dad’s in the National Guard,” Crank said out of nowhere.
    I looked at him, startled. “You don’t think he’d get called up for this, do you?”
    He shrugged. “I don’t know. He did for a while after September 11. My brother had to go live with our grandfather for a while. That … didn’t go well. I know I’ve got this don’t give a damn attitude, but I was all for playing at the protest. Doing whatever we can.”
    He had a serious expression on his face as he stared at the White House. The sudden shift to seriousness on Crank’s part was unnerving: up until now, he hadn’t seemed serious about anything. He stared at the White House with his jaw set, anger in the lines of his face.
    “That must have been hard.”
    “Yeah, well, people don’t get that this stuff affects real people’s lives. It’s all sign waving and protesting and policy, but when the rubber meets the road, it’s guys like my dad who will be in harm’s way. That pisses me off.”
    “Are you and your dad close?”
    He shook his head, an amused smirk crossing his face. “Can’t stand each other.”
    I didn’t know how to respond. I knew all about conflict with parents, but I wasn’t discussing that with anybody. Ever.
    “This is way too serious,” he said. “And I haven’t had enough to drink.”
    “You’ve had too much to drink, based on what happened back at Georgia Brown’s.”
    He chuckled. “Forgive me, Julia.”
    I shrugged. “It’s getting my parents to forgive me that will be the trick.” I turned and started walking toward 14th Street. He followed.
    “Seriously? How much harm are we talking?”
    I sighed. “My dad’s nomination for Ambassador to Russia got held up for almost two years … partly because of the stuff that woman was writing.”
    He coughed. “Your father is the Ambassador to Russia?”
    I shook my head. “He was … he retired earlier this year, and the family moved home to San Francisco.”
    “So, you’re like … a society girl. An heiress.”
    “Something like that.”
    “That’s wicked hot.”
    I stumbled, trying hard not to blush, and failed. “What?”
    He let out a loud belly laugh. “Just kidding.”
    A couple years ago, this would have thrown me way off-balance. But I wasn’t eighteen anymore, and it took more than a pretty guy flirting with me to do that. “Seriously. What’s hot? Is it the heiress part or the society part?”
    He smirked and gave me a frankly appreciative look, his eyes sweeping from my feet, all the way up my legs and entire body. I felt a shiver as he did it. Then he said, “I’d say, all your parts.”
    Nice. “In that case, I guess I’ll forgive you.”
    “Man,” he said. “You’re too easy.”
    “Easy? No. Just forgiving.”
    “Sure, whatever. So you like, went to high school in Moscow?”
    “No, three years in Beijing, then I finished out here.”
    “In Washington?”
    “Well, Bethesda-Chevy Chase. It’s just outside DC, in Maryland.”
    He shook his head. “Too much. Way too much. So what do you want to do?”
    “I don’t know. What about