Part 8 (2/2)

”It's my mom, I gotta talk with her. I promise I'll be there. I mean it.”

The three of them filed out, and I was sure they thought I wouldn't be there.

I intended to keep my promise.

”Okay, Mom, I can talk now. What's going on?”

”Julia, listen to me. In two weeks, the United Nations is sending a special team of diplomats to Iraq. They're to accompany the weapons inspectors and possibly negotiate a settlement. Your father has been asked by the President to be part of the team.”

”Oh, my G.o.d, Mom, that's amazing!”

”It is. Even though he's technically retired-this could be the cap of your father's career Julia. And that's why I'm calling you now.”

I shook my head, confused. ”I don't understand.”

She paused, and spoke in a careful, slow tone. ”I don't know how to say this to my own daughter. But it is ... it is essential that you do absolutely nothing that ...”

My stomach suddenly started turning. How. Dare. She. I felt my fingers start to ache as they tightened on the phone, and she kept talking, kept saying the horrible words I knew were about to come out of her mouth.

”... nothing that will discredit your father. Do you understand me?”

My reply was cold. ”I understand you perfectly. ”

”I don't think you realize just how much your father's career was affected by what happened in Beijing, Julia.”

I squeezed my eyes closed, holding the phone against my head with one arm and the other arm hard across my stomach, trying to contain the sudden physical feeling of pain and revulsion.

After a long pause, she said, ”Are you there?”

I whispered, ”I'm here, Mother. I've always been here. But you ... you never are. When I needed someone to turn to, you ... weren't ... there. So don't expect me to talk this to death now. Goodbye.”

I gently set the phone down. Then I stared at it for almost thirty full seconds before it rang again. Closing my eyes to hold back tears, I yanked the cord out of the wall, slid up the window and threw the phone out onto the Quad.

Screw this. I was going out, and I was going to have some fun tonight. I stomped into the bathroom and looked in the mirror.

Figures. Mascara ran while I was on the phone with my mom. She was a hypocrite of the worst kind. I was done with her. I supposed I'd still go home for the holidays to see my sisters. But I wanted nothing to do with my mother. No more.

I fixed the mascara and put it in my purse, then made sure I had my car keys. I didn't often drive, because pretty much everything I needed was either on campus or in Harvard Square, but it was handy to have the car here. Like everything, my dad paid for the parking, plus the car, and with that money came conditions which I'd had just about enough of. I'd give up my own parking s.p.a.ce in a heartbeat to never have to hear that contempt out of my mother's mouth again.

Whatever. I got in the car, a brand new 2003 Honda Civic Hybrid, and pulled out, headed to Metro. I found myself wondering if there was a way to return the car. It still smelled of new leather and carpet. It smelled of strings and disapproval.

The Metro club is in the heart of Somerville, but by a combination of luck, a healthy bribe and pleading with the parking attendant, I was able to get a spot behind the club. So, it was a short walk back around front to the entrance. The line wasn't that bad yet, so maybe ten minutes later I was inside the club, trying to find my suitemates.

Inside was a ma.s.s of bodies. The show hadn't started yet, so they were playing a mix of early nineties grunge rock. The dance floor in front of the 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 s.h.i.+rt 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 ident.i.ty 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 interns.h.i.+p 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 s.e.xy, singing together into the same microphone, flinging sweat. They were s.e.x 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 wh.o.r.e.”

I swallowed, and my face flushed. Thank G.o.d, 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 pa.s.sionately kissing Crank. ”No, not really,” I said.

”So ... what's different?” she asked. ”I've never seen you so wild! You were really into the music.”

What was different? I didn't know. I thought of my mother, telling me not to do anything that might reflect badly on my father. As if she had any right to say that to me. I thought of the guitarist in Harvard Square, and how for a brief few moments, I felt free. I thought about how music had been the only thing that helped me survive high school.

”I don't know,” I said. ”Maybe it's time for me to live a little.”

She grinned. ”Well, I'm glad you came out with us. You don't get out enough.”

”I agree!”

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