My childhood best friend, Julia, could put movie stars to shame. The line of guys trying to win her over could probably stretch from our front door all the way to Paris. One day, I asked her if I could cut in line. She shot me a withering glare and told me I was nuts. “Fine,” I said, a grin spreading across my face. “If I’m nuts, then I’ll be a maniac. From now on, Julia, I’m making it my mission to destroy every chance you have at romance.” 1 From that day forward, whenever a new suitor tried to confess his undying love for Julia, I’d be there to run interference. I’d cup my hands around my mouth and shout, “You know she barely showers, right? Maybe once every ten days! And the athlete’s foot? It’s a full-on fungal jungle down there. The second she takes off her shoes, it’s a biohazard. The smell could knock a buzzard off a garbage truck!” Every time, without fail, Julia would erupt. “Leo, you are so dead!” Julia and I were the textbook definition of childhood sweethearts, practically joined at the hip since birth. She was the kid all the other parents compared theirs to—not just beautiful, but brilliant, too. The line of guys after her was endless. The first thing she did every morning when she got to class was to clean out her desk, tossing the mountain of breakfast offerings from her admirers my way. Thanks to Julia’s popularity, I saved a fortune on breakfast, money I happily spent on my comic book collection. Of course, it wasn’t a one-way street. I earned my keep. I’d often do her chores at home so she could study in peace. Sometimes, I even took her beatings. Her father was an alcoholic with a bitter resentment for not having a son. Her mother, frail and worn down, had only managed to give him one child—a daughter. Having the son he so desperately wanted was an impossibility, a fact he never let them forget. He’d use any excuse to lash out, drunk or sober. The phrase I heard most often was how he’d drawn the worst lot in life, saddled with a useless wife who couldn't produce an heir and a daughter who was nothing but a drain on his wallet, a source of endless shame. But Julia had a stubborn streak a mile wide. Every time he said it, she’d fire right back. She’d tell him her mom was the best mother in the world, and she wasn’t a "drain on his wallet." The real failure, the most pathetic man on earth, was the one standing right in front of her, hitting his wife and child. Her defiance always earned her a beating. Her mother would just plead with her to endure it. “Once the liquor wears off, he’ll be fine,” she’d whisper. Julia refused to yield. “You’ve endured it for years, Mom,” she’d sob, wiping tears from her swollen face. “Has he ever stopped? Has he ever gotten better?” One time, her dad pulled off his leather belt and came at her. Without thinking, I lunged forward, wrapping my arms around his legs. “Run, Julia, run!” I screamed. But she just stood there, rooted to the spot. “I’m not running,” she said, her voice trembling with rage. “If you have the guts, then just kill me.” Her dad roared at me to let go or he’d beat me too. But I clung on for dear life. In my world, Julia was someone I had to protect, no matter what. And so, the belt came down, again and again, biting into my back. The leather cracked against my skin, and I howled in pain. It was my parents, bursting in, who finally stopped him. Later, as my mom was dabbing antiseptic on my wounds, she sighed. “You silly boy. When someone’s coming at you with a belt, you’re supposed to run.” “I couldn’t,” I mumbled. “If I ran, what would happen to Julia?” My mom’s expression softened. “You little idiot, I know you like her. Why didn’t you just grab her and run together?” My face flushed crimson. “I don’t like her like that! I just… I couldn’t stand to see her get hurt.” She didn’t scold me for taking a beating for Julia. Instead, her heart ached for her. Whenever Julia came over to study or just hang out, my mom would see the fresh bruises on her arms and legs. “Oh, sweetie,” she’d say, her voice thick with sorrow. “Does it hurt?” Julia would always put on a brave face. “Not at all, Mrs. Gable.” My mom would gently apply ointment to the welts, her own eyes filling with tears. But in the late 90s, in our small town, what could a woman do? The word “divorce” was a sin, a brand of shame no one wanted to bear. 2 Julia had once begged her mom to leave him. Her mother had slapped her for it, the first and only time she ever raised a hand to her daughter. She’d accused Julia of trying to turn her into a shameless, ruined woman. Julia had endured countless beatings from that man without shedding a tear. But that one slap from her mother broke her. After that, she never mentioned divorce again. She never spoke of how pitiful her mother’s life was, or how unlucky she’d been. By the time we got to college, Julia had essentially cut off all contact with her family. She put herself through school with scholarships and part-time jobs, rarely going home even for holidays. My mom, her heart still aching for the girl next door, would always slip me extra cash. “Take care of Julia for me,” she’d say. College changed Julia. The walls she built around herself grew higher, her aura turning cool and distant. Her gaze held a frosty beauty that kept everyone at arm’s length. She was tall and slender, with delicate features that could silence a room. She didn’t have to do anything; her mere presence made everything else fade into the background. On the campus message boards, in the annual poll for "Campus Queen," she won by a landslide. The number of guys trying to win her over was astronomical. I could have funded my lunch for a week selling her love letters for scrap paper. Everyone knew we were close, and they knew we weren’t a couple, so they all tried to use me to get to her. Until that one day, when I asked her, “Can I cut in line?” She gave me a long, serious look. And then she told me I was nuts. So I went to war. Anyone who asked for her number got the same story: Julia had a nasty case of athlete’s foot and a deep-seated aversion to showering. A real biohazard. Incurable. Whoever ended up with her was in for a lifetime of misery. The campaign was surprisingly effective. The number of suitors dropped dramatically. Julia seemed to enjoy the peace and quiet. But then, a new post appeared on the campus forum. It was a detailed, sob-story account of Julia’s tragic childhood—the alcoholic, abusive father, the constant fighting, the misery. It painted her as a brave, struggling girl putting herself through school against all odds. The post went viral, shooting to the top of the forum’s hot list. My carefully crafted rumors about her hygiene were instantly forgotten. A wave of misguided chivalry swept the campus. The floodgates opened, and the number of guys pursuing her was greater than ever before. They weren’t just admirers now; they were would-be saviors. Her dorm hallway became a permanent staging ground for guys wanting to fetch her water, save her a seat in the library, or just straight up offer her money. Overwhelmed and furious, Julia put a price on my head. She was convinced I had leaked her secrets, and she swore she would make me pay. Julia had always been the queen bee of our neighborhood, the undisputed leader who would ruthlessly crush anyone who crossed her. 3 My entire life had been lived under her reign of terror. So when I heard she had issued a campus-wide manhunt for me, my first instinct was to hide. But I had severely underestimated her influence. I thought I’d be safe in the men’s dorm, but her legion of admirers, eager to curry favor, formed a posse. They dragged me from my room and presented me to her like a captured fugitive, all of them clamoring for credit. She dismissed her followers and grabbed me by the ear, parading me across the campus green. She dragged me to a secluded spot behind the library and ordered me to kneel and confess. “Julia, I swear on my life, you’ve got it wrong,” I pleaded. “I didn’t post that.” She stared at me, her eyes like chips of ice. “And you expect me to believe you, Leo? In this entire university, so far from home, who else knows about my family? It was you. Who else could it be?” “It really wasn’t me.” How could I even begin to explain? She was right. Here, hundreds of miles from our hometown, I was the only one who knew her story. I’d followed her here, secretly applying to the same northern university when I found out where she was going. I remembered my mom’s teasing words before I left. “You’re not fooling anyone, you little idiot. You think you’d move to a frozen wasteland like this if you weren’t crazy about that girl?” “Who else could it be?” Julia pressed. “Did you tell someone else my story?” It was her deepest, most private pain. People had asked, but I had never, ever told a soul. “No, Julia, I swear. I didn't post it. I’ve never told anyone.” Her expression shifted, a flicker of something old and painful in her eyes. “You think I’d believe you? When we were kids, you’d sell me out for a piece of candy. Why wouldn’t you sell my secrets now for a little attention or a few bucks?” Her words hit me like a punch to the gut. She was talking about hide-and-seek. Julia was a master at it, always finding the most impossible hiding spots. But I knew her habits, and I could always find her. One time, another kid offered me a caramel—her absolute favorite kind—if I revealed her location. She’d been found, lost the game, and fumed at me for half a day, vowing never to speak to me again. What she never knew was that the caramel was for her. I’d saved it, waiting for her anger to cool. I gave it to her later that week, a peace offering. It was a bright, sunny afternoon. We were sitting on a thick branch of an old oak tree. She ate the caramel, her face breaking into a radiant smile. She carefully folded the waxy wrapper and handed it to me. “Here,” she’d said. “You keep this for me.” I had treasured that little piece of paper. Seeing her happy made me happier than any candy could. And now, for her to throw that memory in my face… it hurt more than I could say. “Julia, you really don’t believe me?” I asked, looking up at her. Her eyes suddenly reddened. “Leo, you know how much I hate this. I don’t need anyone’s pity. I never have, and I never will. You’ve really crossed a line this time, Leo.”
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