Jack of Harts

Julie never wore sleeveless shirts when I was young. Or shorts. Even after we started playing together, I never saw her in anything less than neck to ankle coverage with my own eyes. My imagination was another matter, and it ran rampant. So I thought it was my lucky day when she gave me that real serious look and started lifting her shirt. Then I saw something my abundant imagination never prepared me for. Bruises. Burns. More I just won’t write, even here. It was enough to make me cry. She cried with me for a time, the kind of heart-rending sobs that portend the end of worlds. Then we skipped school and I helped her pack before her father got home from work. We were at her aunt’s before he found out she was gone, and her aunt may have had a few things to say when he tried to pick her up. I wanted to have words with him, too. Words and more than words. I would have killed him if she’d asked me to. I almost did anyways. But the police wanted some words with him, and so did some nice ladies from child services, and a very firm judge had some choice words of his own. Some people say we gave Julie a new life that day. They’re wrong. Julie started her own new life that day. So did I.