A Song for Julia

myself. I guess I hadn’t really thought about it. I was wearing my Dirty Rotten Imbeciles t-shirt, which I happen to love, though it was faded and worn from wearing it for too many years. And my dungarees, faded and torn, were what I always wore. But my brain clicked into place that Julia was wearing a formal dress.
    I coughed. “Um … I guess I hadn’t thought of it. Where exactly are we going?”
    “Blue Ginger … it’s, um … French Asian restaurant. In Wellesley.”
    Wellesley? Where the hell was that?
    “Um … why?”
    She rolled her eyes. “My father made reservations. Apparently the chef is famous or something, they won a bunch of awards.”
    “All right,” I said, “in that case, we need to go shopping.”
    “What?”
    “Right … Thanksgiving morning. Everything’s going to be closed. Hold on.”
    So I went to Sean. We were about the same size. He loaned me a pair of plain black slacks and a button down black shirt. After I changed, I looked in the mirror. I hardly recognized myself. I took out several of my earrings, left just one in each ear, and dumped the rest in the pocket of my shirt.
    I drew the line at my boots. I wasn’t wearing Sean’s loafers, no matter if her father was the President of the United States. Besides, Sean’s feet were huge.
    I got back downstairs, shirt all tucked in and wearing a belt and everything. So, of course, my dad had to make smart-aleck comments, but I ignored that. We hugged everyone and got out of there. Julia was driving a rental car, and the second we got in, I lit a cigarette and rolled down the window a little to let the smoke out, then asked, “Mind if I smoke?”
    She gave me a wry look and said, “No, go ahead.”
    We were on our way. No sooner had we pulled out of the driveway before I was saying, “So … we haven’t had a chance to talk. What happened with Ron Murray?”
    “Okay,” she said. “Here’s the thing. They’re trying to lock you into a really bad contract. They want to pay two thousand up front, which probably isn’t that bad, but they want a five-year contract. And no guarantee that you’ll get a recording contract for an album.”
    “Damn,” I muttered. “But they want the song?”
    “Yeah, they want to release a single. I told him the deal wasn’t good enough and made a counteroffer, which was far more than you’re going to get. But I wanted to start outrageous and work our way down.”
    What the hell? Didn’t she know they could shut us down? This was the biggest chance we’d had yet, and she was demanding outrageous terms?
    “I wish you’d told me that before you made the counteroffer.”
    “Well, we were on the phone, and I had to say something then. I’m meeting them for lunch on Wednesday. But I’ll be honest with you … I’ve got doubts about Division Records.”
    “What kind of doubts?”
    “You may end up in a five-year contract with a bankrupt company. Murray’s being investigated by the IRS.”
    “Oh, shit,” I said. “Then we should move immediately. Get the single out while we can.”
    She frowned. “You’d be stuck after that. Give me a chance to work this, okay? It might take a few days, but …”
    “But nothing,” I said, starting to get angry. “This is the best chance we’ve ever had, and you’re turning your nose up at it?”
    Her response was quick, and her voice had a hard edge to it. “No. I’m negotiating. Which you and the band asked me to do.”
    “Julia,” I said. “Please don’t—”
    “Stop,” she interrupted. “Either you trust me to do this, or you don’t. What I said to the rest of the band applies to you. If you want me to manage this thing, then let me manage it. You’re not going to control every little step just because we’re … whatever we are.”
    “What’s that supposed to mean?”
    “Exactly what I said, Crank. I’m trying to get you a much better deal than you’d get otherwise. You can’t just jump at the first offer, especially when it’s an insulting one. They think you’re so desperate that you’ll take anything.”
    “We are!”
    “No. We’re not. You’ve got real talent, Crank. You’ve got one hell of a song there. Don’t sell yourself short.”
    I tossed my cigarette out the window and immediately lit another one. She was turning on to the Mass Pike. It would take us twenty minutes or so to get out toward Wellesley from here.
    “Julia, I need you to hear me. This isn’t a game for me. This is my life.”
    “I