Read Online A Song for Julia by Charles Sheehan-Miles - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Charles Sheehan-Miles
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hotel. And I don’t see how this is any of your business, anyway. Any of you.” As I said the last words, I leveled my gaze at Serena. She knew better. She knew better . I’d made it clear more than once we weren’t going there, ever.
She stood up. “Anything that affects the band is my business.”
“Serena, you’re being ridiculous. We didn’t even exchange frickin’ phone numbers. And it’s not like I’m not out screwing girls all the time. You ought to know that.”
She flinched. I’d said the words to hurt, and she knew it. But she held her ground.
“I don’t give a crap about that, Crank. But don’t tell me it doesn’t touch the band … you heard that song you wrote! Tell me you don’t feel something for that girl.”
“So what if I do?”
“If you do, that’s good. But be honest with us.”
Mark and Pathin were watching, both of them quiet for a change. And it was no wonder. Serena stared at me with eyes that could kill.
I walked up to her and nose-to-nose said, “I met the girl. We had fun for one night. We talked. We kissed. We said good night. The end. All right? Now can you leave me alone?”
She gave a slight snort, her lips turned up in scorn, and very slightly shook her head. “Whatever, Crank.”
Party-Girl (Julia)
Okay. It could have been worse. For example, Maria Clawson could have posted that picture. The one someone took my freshman year in high school. The one that my former best friend emailed to the entire junior class the week before we left Beijing. The one that gave credence to the vicious rumors about me.
No, I got lucky this time. She didn’t post it, though I’m sure it was buried somewhere on her website. She’d edited that picture, the old one, to block out my face and anything that could get her jailed. But, it was clear enough.
Maria used to write for the Washington Post Society Page, before the Post ditched the Society page. Since then, she set up her own hideous little blog, which, while it doesn’t have the kind of traffic huge websites have, she did have subscribers who paid through the nose for her little tidbits of gossip and sleaze and slander. The subscribers were almost exclusively wealthy, powerful members of society themselves. No one else could afford the exorbitant prices Maria charged for full access to her website. And nothing delighted them more than to see one of their peers, or one of their peers’ children, involved in some sort of hideous scandal. Maria had covered it all: drunkenness, infidelity, secret abortions, divorce, suicide …
On Sunday morning, she posted, front and center, a photo of me in Crank’s arms, kissing. In front of the White House. Which meant she’d followed us out of the restaurant, looking for dirt, and found it. And then made up a story to go along with it, a story which dredged just enough of my past into it to paint me as a complete slut.
Are wedding bells in the air? Or rock guitars clashing? That may be the case for Julia Thompson, the eldest daughter of Ambassador Richard Thompson, who retired to San Francisco after a mere one year as Ambassador to Russia. Longtime readers of Maria’s Meanderings will remember that Ambassador Thompson’s appointment to Russia dragged on for more than two years when Senator Rainsley of Texas questioned his fitness for the post.
Young Ms. Thompson was found in the passionate embrace of Crank Wilson on Saturday evening in front of the White House. Wilson is the lead singer-guitarist of a mildly successful alternative punk-rock band, which plays the local circuit in Boston and Providence. He has a rap-sheet nearly as long as Ms. Thompson’s transcripts. After tourists and observers objected that the young couple’s public display of affection was unseemly, they moved on to a quieter location. Could it have been Wilson’s room at the 1-star Hotel Riviera in Arlington? Readers will forgive me if they do not recognize the Riviera: home to prostitutes, drug addicts and
She stood up. “Anything that affects the band is my business.”
“Serena, you’re being ridiculous. We didn’t even exchange frickin’ phone numbers. And it’s not like I’m not out screwing girls all the time. You ought to know that.”
She flinched. I’d said the words to hurt, and she knew it. But she held her ground.
“I don’t give a crap about that, Crank. But don’t tell me it doesn’t touch the band … you heard that song you wrote! Tell me you don’t feel something for that girl.”
“So what if I do?”
“If you do, that’s good. But be honest with us.”
Mark and Pathin were watching, both of them quiet for a change. And it was no wonder. Serena stared at me with eyes that could kill.
I walked up to her and nose-to-nose said, “I met the girl. We had fun for one night. We talked. We kissed. We said good night. The end. All right? Now can you leave me alone?”
She gave a slight snort, her lips turned up in scorn, and very slightly shook her head. “Whatever, Crank.”
Party-Girl (Julia)
Okay. It could have been worse. For example, Maria Clawson could have posted that picture. The one someone took my freshman year in high school. The one that my former best friend emailed to the entire junior class the week before we left Beijing. The one that gave credence to the vicious rumors about me.
No, I got lucky this time. She didn’t post it, though I’m sure it was buried somewhere on her website. She’d edited that picture, the old one, to block out my face and anything that could get her jailed. But, it was clear enough.
Maria used to write for the Washington Post Society Page, before the Post ditched the Society page. Since then, she set up her own hideous little blog, which, while it doesn’t have the kind of traffic huge websites have, she did have subscribers who paid through the nose for her little tidbits of gossip and sleaze and slander. The subscribers were almost exclusively wealthy, powerful members of society themselves. No one else could afford the exorbitant prices Maria charged for full access to her website. And nothing delighted them more than to see one of their peers, or one of their peers’ children, involved in some sort of hideous scandal. Maria had covered it all: drunkenness, infidelity, secret abortions, divorce, suicide …
On Sunday morning, she posted, front and center, a photo of me in Crank’s arms, kissing. In front of the White House. Which meant she’d followed us out of the restaurant, looking for dirt, and found it. And then made up a story to go along with it, a story which dredged just enough of my past into it to paint me as a complete slut.
Are wedding bells in the air? Or rock guitars clashing? That may be the case for Julia Thompson, the eldest daughter of Ambassador Richard Thompson, who retired to San Francisco after a mere one year as Ambassador to Russia. Longtime readers of Maria’s Meanderings will remember that Ambassador Thompson’s appointment to Russia dragged on for more than two years when Senator Rainsley of Texas questioned his fitness for the post.
Young Ms. Thompson was found in the passionate embrace of Crank Wilson on Saturday evening in front of the White House. Wilson is the lead singer-guitarist of a mildly successful alternative punk-rock band, which plays the local circuit in Boston and Providence. He has a rap-sheet nearly as long as Ms. Thompson’s transcripts. After tourists and observers objected that the young couple’s public display of affection was unseemly, they moved on to a quieter location. Could it have been Wilson’s room at the 1-star Hotel Riviera in Arlington? Readers will forgive me if they do not recognize the Riviera: home to prostitutes, drug addicts and
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