Leslie's Journal (11 page)

Twenty-Two

T
he books that fell out of my locker are probably being kicked up the hall by people changing class.

But that’s happening on another planet. I’ve only got one thing to think about besides throwing up, and that’s getting to Jason’s. Now, while he’s out. If there’s a memory card, I’m getting it back.

I leave the school grounds as fast as I can, grab a bus to the subway, take the subway to Sherwood station, then another bus to Jason’s subdivision. Walking up his street, I feel like an alien. I imagine all these rich housewives and nannies watching me out of their living room windows, getting ready to call the cops.

Nobody walks around here. Even if they wanted to, there’s no sidewalks, just curbs. It’s like walking is a crime or something. Like, if you don’t drive, you must be a lowlife casing a job.

Especially if you look like me. My jeans are ripped from the gravel, I’m covered in scrapes, my hair is a mess, and I’ve got a bump on the back of my head that feels like a watermelon. What’ll I say when I see Jason’s mother? “Hello, Mrs. McCready, your son’s a rapist, but hey, who cares, have another drink”?

When I get to his house, her Camry’s not in the driveway. Is she away, or just upstairs comatose, the car in the garage? I check my watch. It’s not quite noon. I can’t believe she’s out already; Jason told me she sometimes sleeps all day.

I ring the doorbell. It’s one of those chimes that are supposed to sound elegant but just sound phony, like the ones at upscale shoe stores. No answer. I ring again. Still nothing. Time for drastic action—I grab the brass door knocker and bang away for all I’m worth.

Silence.

What now? I can’t leave. Not without what I came for. But with all the noise, the whole neighborhood must be watching. If I try to break in, they’ll call the cops for sure.

I get this wild idea. I wave at the empty living room window, like there’s somebody inside, then say in a loud voice, “Oh hi, Mrs. McCready. You want me to meet you in the garage? Okay.”

What, am I crazy? Like that’s supposed to fool anybody?

Relax. If the neighbors are nosy they’ll have seen me around here with Jason. They’ll already be back to watching
TV
.

I take a deep breath. The garage door lock’s been broken since Jason gave it a boot a month ago. I raise the door a bit, slip inside and close it behind me.

I know the hiding place for the house key is under the watering can by the garbage pail. Why do they even have a watering can? As if Mrs. McCready’d be caught dead holding one. As for Jason’s dad, he’s never home long enough to water.

I let myself in. The warning from their security system starts beeping, but that’s okay. Before the alarm goes off, I punch in the code and disarm it. I’ve seen Jason punch it so often, I know it by heart. 8-7-4-2, the last four digits of their phone number. What a stupid code. Like, do they
want
to get robbed?

Okay. I’m inside. The alarm is turned off. So far so good.

All the same, I’m afraid to move. Even though nobody’s around to hear me, I’m terrified of making a sound. It’s as if I think the furniture is alive, listening for intruders. How do guys steal for a living? Aren’t they afraid to give themselves heart attacks?

I have a flash that maybe I’m not alone, that Mrs. McCready really is here, that she didn’t hear me because she’s downstairs working out on her X-Trainer. “Mrs. McCready?” I call out. “It’s me. Leslie.”

Silence. I’m alone.

I don’t have much time. I better move fast.

Jason bragged he hid the memory card upstairs. That means his bedroom. Anyplace else, his folks could find it by accident.

I’m there in a heartbeat. But where do I look? How do I find it? It’s barely the size of a dime.

I take a deep breath. Have to start somewhere.

I drop down, check under his bed, between his box spring and mattress. Throw over his rugs. Empty his desk. Shake out his books, knock over his lamps. Stand on a chair, run my hands above the wings of his ceiling fan. Tear the posters off his wall. No luck.

I turn to his closet. His mom does his clothes, so it’s likely not there. But where else to look? I search the pockets of his pants, jackets. Rip out his drawers, toss socks and underwear everywhere. Reach to the back of his sweater shelves. Nothing.

On the closet floor, there’s a cardboard box to the left, a tackle box to the right, and eight pairs of shoes in between. I shake out the shoes, throw them behind me. I rummage through the cardboard box, pitching the works: A baseball and glove. Ratty jockstraps. Condoms and lube wrapped in a T-shirt from Florida. But no memory card.

I’m down to the tackle box. I snap up the lid. I catch a quick flash of lures and fish hooks. And then—

The phone rings. My heart stops. It rings again. Silence. Either they’ve hung up or the voice mail’s kicked in. I hold my breath as if somehow the person who’s calling can hear me. Am I insane?

I glance around the room. Holy shit. It looks like a crime scene. It
is
a crime scene. No time to put things back. There’ll be cops. I’ll be charged with a
B&E
!

I panic. My legs fly me downstairs. I’m about to bolt out the door when I stop in my tracks.

The tackle box. The one thing I didn’t empty. Jason doesn’t fish. Maybe when he was a kid. But not now. It should’ve been stored away years ago. Unless he needs it for something. A hiding place. A place where a card the size of a dime could get lost in a pile of hooks and lures.

I run back upstairs. Grab the tackle box out of the closet. Spill the contents. Spread everything over the floor. I nick my thumb on a hook. Never mind. I see it. There. Beside a sinker. The memory card. With enamel paint for camouflage.

I race to the computer on Jason’s desk. Stick the card in a card reader. An icon comes up on the screen, untitled. I click. Up come dozens of files with dates and first names. There’s a file named “Leslie.” Click. And there I am, sprawled with my legs open. There’s close-ups, too, and other stuff that makes me sick.

I open the other files. They’re of girls I’ve never seen before. They aren’t in the downstairs rec room. They’re posed someplace else. One of them isn’t even in a house. She’s outside, at what looks like the end of an old woods road with bushes and trees and shadows all around. It’s night, and the light’s coming from in front of her. I’ll bet it’s from the headlights of Jason’s mom’s car.

There’s something familiar about these pictures. The way we look. Our age. Our hair. The way we’re posed.

A sound fills the room, a kind of moan-roar coming from inside me. I start to rock. But I can’t weird out. There’s things to do. Like find out if Jason’s copied our files to his hard drive.

I search “Leslie.” Nothing comes up. Great. The porn’s just on the memory card. I’m not surprised. I remember Jason’s taunt: “You think I want anyone finding out about my hobby?”

I wonder how safe he plays it. I go to his Internet history, but he’s cleared it. Is he hiding something? A blink and I’m at Bookmark Favorites. Not much to see: Yahoo, YouTube, Facebook, some standard game sites and something called “L.P. Peek-a-Boo.”

Major sweat flash. “L.P.” My initials! I click.

At first I don’t understand what I’m seeing. The http address is my cell phone company. The left of the screen is full of ads. The middle is the Google Earth map. It shows Jason’s street, centering over his home, with his house number underneath. Jason’s name is at the top, next to my cell number. My cell phone’s registered in his name, so fine. But why would he want to see a picture of his house? What’s this site about?

I read the grid at the bottom of the screen: “Movements in Last Hour,” “Last Day,” “Last Week,” “Last Month.” I click “Last Hour.” Up comes a pop-up map showing my route from school to here.

Oh god. I get it. The
GPS
chip in my phone has a tracking function. Jason’s house is showing because that’s where I am now. All those times he’s asked where I am, it’s all been a test. He’s already known. He’s stalked me on his computer.

Well, not anymore!

I slip the memory card in my pocket, and pitch the computer out his second-floor window. It smashes on the backyard patio stones, takes two bounces, and cannonballs into his swimming pool. Now that’s what I call a computer crash.

As for my cell—I run to the hall bathroom and flush it down the toilet. Stalk that, you asshole!

Time to go. I’m losing it for real. I stagger down the hall to the top of the stairs.

I can hardly see. But I can hear all right. And what I hear is the front door opening.

Twenty-Three

I
duck into the master bedroom, the nearest room available. Downstairs, the front door closes. Whoever’s there puts something heavy on the floor.

“Jason?” It’s Mrs. McCready. “Jason, are you home?” A pause. “That’s strange.”

What’s she talking about? Of course. There’s no alarm warning. I turned it off. Now what should I do: stay put or come out and hope for the best?

Just as I’m about to give myself up, I hear the sound of cans clattering and Mrs. McCready humming her way to the kitchen. Groceries. If she’s gone to unpack them, she’s not upset; she must figure she forgot to set the alarm when she left.

I hear cans hitting the counter. Good. If I slip downstairs real quiet, maybe I can make it out the front door before she’s finished. After all, it’s a new house with no creaks, carpet everywhere.

I step into the upstairs hall. I see the back of her legs heading into the living room. What a break! She didn’t glance upstairs. I retreat back inside the master bedroom and stand stock-still, listening for clues about what to do next.

From downstairs, I hear someone talking. Mrs. McCready’s listening to her voice mail on the speaker phone. And then ... humming. It’s coming upstairs!

Should I run to the en suite bathroom? But what if she has to pee? I can hide behind the shower curtain. No, there isn’t one; it’s made of glass. At the last minute, I dive under the bed. I can see what’s happening from a crack between the floor and where the eiderdown ends.

Flash. The door to Jason’s room is open. What if she sees the mess?

But she isn’t paying attention. She comes into the room. She walks towards me. She stops, turns and sits on the edge of the bed. She sits very still. I hear a gentle clink of ice cubes. She must be having a “tomato juice.” I hear her set the glass down on the night table and sigh.

All this time, I’m staring at the back of her high heels. My brain’s fried. Like, I’m having palpitations, but all I can think is: She wears high heels shopping? And now she slips them off. She stands up, walks to the closet and unzips her dress. She hangs it up and comes back to the bed in her bra and panties. She crawls under the eiderdown.

Oh no. She’s taking a nap.

What do I do? I can’t very well crawl out. But the longer I lie here, the more I worry about Jason. What’ll happen if he comes home and I’m still here?

Lucky for me, Mrs. McCready can’t sleep. Within minutes she’s rolling over like a dog doing tricks. She lets rip a big ripe fart. I’m so amazed I don’t know whether to gag or laugh.

“Lord,” she mutters and gets up. I watch her put on her bathrobe, walk out of the room and head towards the stairs.

I wait just long enough to make sure she’s really gone, then crawl out of hiding. Peek into the hall. The coast is clear. I tiptoe to the top of the stairs. Listen hard. No sound.

Here goes nothing.

I race down the stairs as fast as I can—and right into Mrs. McCready at the bottom.

She screams. Her left hand’s clutched to her throat. Her right hand’s clutched around another glass of “tomato juice.” “Leslie!”

“Mrs. McCready!”

“What are you doing here?”

“School’s out early. Jason said to come by.”

“He’s here?”

“No. He dropped me off. But he should be back soon. He’s doing an errand.”

She looks fuzzy. “How long have you been here?”

“I’m not sure.”

Then it’s like she sees me for the first time. “My god, Leslie, you’re a mess.”

“Am I?”

“Are you all right?”

I fake a laugh. “Oh, you mean my clothes and stuff. Today, at school, it was Hobo Day.”

“Hobo Day?”

Talk about dumb. But I can’t back out now. “We were supposed to come dressed like tramps. Student Council thought it’d be great for school spirit. We had to bring cans of food, too, for these boxes in the lobby we’re donating to the Food Bank. I brought a can of spaghetti.”

Mrs. McCready considers this. “What a wonderful idea.” Thank god she’s drunk.

“Yeah. It was lots of fun. But I better get going. I just remembered Mom needs me at home to help her clean up. She’s having friends over for bridge.”

“Why don’t you wait till Jason gets back? He can give you a ride.”

“That’s okay. I can take the bus. I don’t want to be a drag.”

“Don’t be silly.”

“No, really. It’s no big deal.”

“Well, suit yourself.” Mrs. McCready passes a hand vaguely across her forehead and stares into the air at a point somewhere behind the middle of my forehead. She’s elegant, even in a yellow chenille bathrobe, all limbs and high cheekbones. But she’s Botoxed to the gills, and her eyebrows are plucked and painted, which makes her look permanently surprised.

I must be hallucinating, because she doesn’t even look like herself anymore. She looks like Ms. Graham. Ms. Graham with all the fat sucked out of her. Ms. Graham if she didn’t have to worry about having a job. Ms. Graham all bewildered and too afraid to think or do anything.

Check please.

I wave like a maniac. “See you later,” I babble, and scramble out the door while I still have a brain.

Twenty-Four

A
ll the way to the bus stop, I’m scared I’ll bump into Jason. It’s barely two o’clock. He should still be at school, but what if he’s skipping? What if he’s gone online to check my cell’s
GPS
site, to see where I am? What if he’s here already, hiding someplace, watching me?

I keep an eye open for escape routes. If worst comes to worst, I figure I can cut across backyards. He wouldn’t be able to follow on his motorcycle. But what if I’m cornered by somebody raking leaves? Or a pit bull?