JULIE



To trust myself in this isn’t clearly going to help. Especially because my mother knows best, like all other mothers, and like that mom on the song on ‘Tangled’ by Disney, with whom Rapunzel lived with for years. And I trust moms, even not in-blood mothers, because they’re just as trustable as anything. But of all the mothers in the world, my mom was the quirkiest, she was the most knowing. And you know how my mother knew best? Because she was a fortune-teller. And it had been worse, living with a zany mom, and people going to your house with their palms out, and staring at that clear crystal ball trying to find hints how she knew how you would be, and unbelievably being paid for it, but the worst—other kids picking on you, saying you’re both freaks.

It wasn’t easy.

Every morning, when I was into school in that old shrieking car, with bright paints like it was from a hippie 70’s movie, it was never easy. My classmates were never that accepting, and I understood. I, too never got mom, whatever she did, even after she died. But there was something she told me about, before her breathing was terribly cut off, before she left me alone, and before those ambulances that were full of sirens came right outside our lawn, and before those neighbors that didn’t really cared, somehow suddenly cared and crammed up outside, mouths cupped and eyes shocked; she told me that I’d marry a beautiful girl. And she knew the name. And I was dubious how, because she wasn’t in her fortune-telling room. Her name was,

JULIE

I didn’t know if I am to believe it. Who would, really? Destiny is manmade, and fortunes told are manmade, too. You wake up, decide to brush or not, decide to stand up or not, decide to take a bath or not, decide to eat or not. It’s all in our minds, what to do and what will do. But somehow, in my mother’s mind, there were other minds she could read. And maybe she knew how I, from there with her sitting up before she died, would end up marrying a Julie after all my crappy decisions. I didn’t even know if it was really ‘Julie’. Maybe it was some name else. Maybe, ‘Billie’, or ‘Silly’, maybe she was saying I would never get a wife because I was ‘Silly’. Yet in my mind, it was so Julie. Julie. Julie. It keeps resonating, and repeating, and poking me.

That was months after her. And the truth, after six years of her death, I am falling in love with somebody beautiful and kind and funny. Mom was right, that I’d be with a girl when I turn twenty, which is so unreal, that it became so real. Mom knew it. But not all of it.

Because the big problem is:

She’s not a JULIE.

She’s a Grace. Grace. Grace. Grace. And she’s the most beautiful girl in the world. She smiles like all the pain in the world could be gone, she laughs like a little girl, her hair smells so good, always, her legs are hot, and she’s perfect.
But there’s the guilt, every single time I had to call her over, call her name, Grace, her not-Julie-name. Grace. I feel guilty and bad for my mom, because it was clear what she told me: “Marry a girl, she’s Julie.”

But it could be something else, right? Like: “Bury Abelle (my cousin), she’s SILLY.”

It wasn’t really that clear, especially if you were to hear that from a dying breath. And mom really wanted to make sure I marry a Julie. Her hands were tight, holding mine, like saying she was serious and if I broke it she’d visit me as a floating ghost, at night when it’s dark and I’m alone. And don’t worry, she hasn’t. But I don’t know, maybe tomorrow or tonight.


I wake up, looking around, then squinting at my girlfriend, and looking at her cute face when she’s asleep. I don’t know what I’m gonna do. I feel that she’s not right anymore, after I remembered last night when we were drinking, watching this film about two different people who love to cook, called, ‘Julie & Julia’. And the whole film, I was thinking of my mom, and my supposed-to-be-girlfriend Julie.

I think. I keep thinking. Will I or won’t I leave Grace, and find the Julie of my life? Will I or won’t I love her? Will I or won’t I marry her before everything’s done? Will I or will I not?

She wakes up and smiles.

“Hey, Clay.”

“Hey.”

“You slept good?”

“Okay. You?”

“Yes. Because I love you.”

Grace. Grace. Grace. And this time, tears flow in my eyes. I’m weeping, so weak, in front of her as the morning rises.

“What’s wrong?”

“I can’t.”

“What?”

“I can’t, Grace. I can’t. I love my mom.”

“What are you talking about?!”

“I can’t do this anymore.”

“What?”

“I can’t see you love me, while I can’t. Forgive me. I can’t.”

She sits up, hugs me and stares at me. Her blue eyes into mine, smiling. She could make her eyes smile.

“You don’t have to. As long as I love you.”

And I hug her back, her warmness and softness. “Grace.”



The next day, I’m alone. Thinking things out, like what she told me. Grace still wants to marry me and I think I still want to also. But I don’t know, maybe if I just looked out, I can find someone. So, I run off the streets, and feel the good morning and its fresh air.

There are a lot of people in the park. Some old couples, others little kids, some joggers, others teens—it’s gagged with people. I walk, and walk, and walk. And then I pass a couple of kids, and then I walk. And I pass a few teen girls, and I walk. And in then I pass the old couple, and I walk.

Walk.

I thought of what Grace told me last week. Something about attention. When you need something, call for it. And it will come. I set myself, sitting on a bench, perfectly in the middle of everybody, and then I shout.

“Julie!”

No one seems to care. Nobody looks. I repeat.

“Julie!”

No one.

“Julie!”

No one.

I breathed. Maybe I am wrong. Maybe I am silly. Maybe what mom really told me was I was really silly. I am silly.

I walk back home, call my cousin Abelle, tell her if she wanted to be buried by me, she weirdly says, “sure?” with that high tone, and I stop the call and sleep.



The next month is worse. I am googling, looking for Julies in the internet. I find one, but she’s too passive. And another, who is too aggressive. And another who is Asian. And another who is German. And another who is Arab that I don’t understand anything she says. I give up.

I get my cellphone and call Grace.

“Grace?”

“Hey, how are you?”

“I’m fine. I just wanna say hi.”

“Are you already okay?”

“I think so.”

“Okay. That’s great. Anyway, I’m doing something for the shop. I’ll call you later. Bye.”

And she doesn’t.


My next year is the worst. My mom actually hasn’t visited me floating, but thinking about the possibility, that it can happen anytime, I haven’t slept well. Or maybe it is too much thoughts about Grace. Or maybe Julie, whoever she is. Or maybe myself, being alone and single, that can be forever.

I walk in the park again. Looking around, sometimes shouting “Julie” loudly, sometimes lowly, sometimes vaguely, and sometimes in that I-give-up tone. No one seems to be a Julie here.

I sit on the bench. I call Grace. First time after six months.

“Hello?”

“Hi? Who’s this?”

“Clay.”

“Oh my god, Clay! How are you?”

“Fine. I’m just chilling out. You?”

“I’m so so fine. I have a good news.”

I flinch. “What?”

“I’m getting married! Next month!”

“Really?” I cry, and I stop the call in an instant. She calls again, I cancel. It hurts so much. It’s all my fault. I run home, trying to wipe tears so they don’t get my view blurred. I lie on my bed, and cry more. And think about the girl I only loved. Grace. And Grace. Grace. Grace. Grace.



The next day, I get a mail. It’s from Grace. It’s her wedding invitation. I don’t read it. I keep it sitting on the table, staring at it for a little, and then making it not too serious. I take a shower. I think about going. I don’t know. She wants me to. She sent me an invitation. I made this, and why won’t I come to the very thing I have caused?



Next month. I wear my button-down. I wear it in front of a mirror, like I am the groom and I’m waiting for the bride to the wedding. And the bride is Grace. And I don’t know, maybe in the invitation it says, “Grace Prescott and Clay Heere Nuptial”, maybe. I still haven’t laid eyes on it, even once. But I put it in my pocket, and leave.

I arrive exactly at the wedding. People saying hi to me, people I used to know. I don’t see Julie, they say she’s in her room, getting dressed. And I see the groom, in black tux. He’s her ex, one of her good exes. I used to hang out with him before Julie and I became something. I wave hi, he waves back and hugs me.

“Hey, Craig. How are you?”

“Clay.”

“Clay! How are you? You fine, dude?”

“Yeah. I suppose.”

“I’m so glad you came.”

“Thanks.”


I sit on the chair, watching everybody smile. In fact, all of them are smiling, and I am the only one pouting. I am angry, yes. I am angry at myself.

The wedding music starts, and people start to walk on the aisle in red carpet, going towards the priest and then breaking away to the sides. I just watch, and wait for Grace. I know she’s going to be beautiful. I know she’s going to be the best bride. I know she could hit those wedding magazines.

She comes up from a white car. She’s so pretty in that dress. But she’s veiled, I can’t see her face. Then, Mr. Prescott unveils her. And she is so beautiful.

She walks with Mr. Prescott in her dress, on the aisle, to the verandah. I keep following her, wanting her to look at me, and she does, with that mysterious Mona Lisa smile she’s used to wearing. Is she sad? Is she nervous? Is she mad? Is she happy? I couldn’t know.

And the groom gets her hand. I forgot his name. I used to know it, it was like starting in an ‘S’. I forgot. I look at my invitation. I find their names. And this is the most impossible thing, but it is true. It is true. And then I realize, destiny is really made. I realize, life is controlled. I realize, I am dumb. I realize, I was so dumb and stupid. I know I loved her, I know I love her still. But she’s there, holding another guy’s hand, smiling. I realize, fortunes are guide. I realize, mom was right. But I made it all wrong. Because the invitation reads:





The
JULIE GRACE PRESCOTT
&
STEPHEN MICHAELS

WEDDING