Zoe

The first time Julia caught my eye was on the 23 Monterey bus (a route I will always associate with exhaustion, smelly raincoats, and insecurity) on the way home from school. I was 14 and a newly minted freshman at Lowell High School. My recent decision to chop off my hair, which felt extremely momentous to me, had been unfairly obscured by some planes destroying the World Trade Center. Later I would see Julia at a bake sale to raise money for  firemen injured on 9/11. I didn't give a shit about them though, I just wanted to hang out with people who dropped offhanded references to acid and told me to get a sitar becauseeveryone plays the guitar [hahaha Julia I bet you know who this is].

Now that the scene is set, back to Julia. She was wearing a sushi-printed skirt--actually just a sheet held together with safety pins--that dragged on the ground, she had apparently hacked off her hair too, and the detail that sealed the deal: she was engrossed Giant Robot magazine, the read of choice for nascent hipsters and street style enthusiasts. Now that we're adults and we've moved beyond subcultures it's hard to explain how much these small signifiers of nonconformity meant to me, but we went to a high-pressure public college prep school and spent our days shoving past hordes of Ivy League-sweatshirt clad drones, sitting in dilapidated, mildewed bungalows, and passively absorbing monotone lectures on World War II, again and again, in a class that masqueraded as World History. Thinking of my fellow students as sheep actually felt insightful, that's how bad it was. Julia's weirdness gave me hope for the next four years.

That day on the bus we realized we were almost neighbors, and I started hanging out at Julia's after school. We were friends at school too, but I found her somewhat intimidating in that context--she had older friends and drank vodka and judged people harshly. I was just as judgmental, of course, but in the warmth and comfort of Julia's house I felt protected from such judgment turning against me. I remember her house as a series of cozy nooks filled with interesting knick knacks and souvenirs; almost like a dollhouse. Wrapped in fleece blankets, propped on pillows, snuggling with Willy, Julia's massive black and white cat, I felt safe and accepted. Her house was a sanctuary not only from the swirling tendrils of fog in Holly Park, or the wind roaring through the eucalyptus trees, but also from the tedious, angst-inducing realities of high school. 

Much of this soothing atmosphere was created by Julia's mom. Her presence in my memories is low-key, always amused and encouraging. She sat with us while we made tea, endless bowls of popcorn, and popovers, listening to our complaints and mockeries and offering insightful commentary.