Free A Song for Julia by Charles Sheehan-Miles Page B

sounds all sexist and all, but I don’t give a damn how it sounds. It’s the way it is. I decided a long time ago that if anyone was going to do the leaving, it would be me.
    Still.
    It’s not the college thing. I’d been with college girls before, and they’re pretty much the same under the sheets as girls from Southie. There was something about her, though. Sexy as hell, but that wasn’t really it. I looked at her, and it was like she was ready to explode. I’d lived on rage and adrenaline most of the last six years, and when I looked at Julia, I thought I saw someone who understood that.
    She might be all dolled up in a fancy skirt, heels and a sweater, but underneath, I had the feeling there was a lot more. And that … that intrigued me. But the truth was, I didn’t know a damn thing about her.
    So, the next time Serena was out and I wasn’t, I wandered into her room, booted up her computer, and found the article about Julia again.
    It was ugly … a hit piece, and after looking through the site, it was clear this wasn’t the first time. Maria Clawson had been writing crappy stuff about Julia’s family going back to 1999, as far as I could see, and maybe earlier. It was all there: Clawson wrote thinly veiled rumors of “one of Ambassador Thompson’s daughters” being involved in wild sex parties on the campus of International School of Beijing. A secret abortion. Drugs. From her dad’s official bio on the State Department website, it was clear these could only be referring to Julia, because her next eldest sibling would have been something like nine or ten at the time. I wasn’t able to access most of the articles, locked behind a subscription that made my eyes bug out when I saw how much it cost. But the previews were enough to get the general idea.
    Then I came across the picture. It could have been any young girl—her face was blacked out, as were her breasts. It was a very young girl … thirteen? Fourteen? Nearly nude, wearing only panties, and passed out on a couch. Two boys, their faces also blacked out, were touching her.
    Fuck. Seeing that picture made me want to scream in rage, because the boys were obviously a lot older.
    There was a lot more to this story than whatever Clawson had written. That woman should have gone to jail for publishing this.
    Regardless, the damage was done. I found an article in the Washington Post from early 2001, describing how her father’s nomination as Ambassador to Russia had been derailed for two years because of the whispers. The Post, of course, didn’t touch the details of the rumors, but it did point people to Clawson’s website. That was ugly, and I could only imagine what it must have been like to be her. Her parents must have been going insane.
    “You know, if you want to use my computer, all you gotta do is ask,” Serena said behind me.
    Jesus ! My heart stopped. I stayed nonchalant, though, and replied, “Can I use your computer, Serena?”
    She let out a low laugh, then slumped down on the bed a few feet away. She looked relaxed, wearing sweats and a white tank top that set off her tanned skin and hugged her body. Serena always had a rocking body. She was from India, and I had no idea what her real name was. She was smoking hot, though. And off-limits. Dad always used to say it: You don’t shit where you eat.
    “You need to get your own computer, one of these days.”
    “Yeah. Well, rent first.”
    She nodded. “What are you up to, anyway?”
    “Just screwing around.”
    She looked over at the screen, then sat up and leaned forward, giving me a nice view of her boobs, her hair falling over half her face. “Harvard chick?”
    I grimaced.
    “I thought she didn’t want to see you again.”
    “She doesn’t.”
    “Oh, man,” she said, and then let out a low, slow chuckle. “I never thought I’d see the day. Crank Wilson chasing after a girl.”
    “Shut up, Serena.”
    “Why? It’s hilarious. Do you even know this girl’s phone