Leslie's Journal (18 page)

I don’t have the heart to blackmail her anymore. “They’re history,” I say. “I burned the memory card ages ago.”

There’s a shudder of relief. “Thank you.” A deep breath. “Look, about the trial. I wish I could help, but I can’t. My dad’s real conservative. Mom too. I’m supposed to be perfect. They’d die.”

“Right,” I say.

“Forgive me?”

“I don’t know.” I hang up.

Katie gives me a back rub. We stare out the window. After a while, she gets bored and starts to paint my toenails. I stop her before she puts smiley faces on the big toes with Liquid Paper. She sighs and gets out her sparkle dust instead, like she’s Tinkerbell on happy pills or something.

“Not now!” I say, and yank my foot away. Katie thinks I’m mad. But I’m not. I’m just very, very determined. “Katie,” I say, “I’m having Jason charged.”

“Are you serious? You’ll be all by yourself.”

“I don’t care. I won’t live in fear like Amber. I won’t run away. Not ever again.” I hold her hand. “Without the other girls coming forward, Jason won’t get what he deserves. But, Katie, if I let him get away, the next time he does it, he’ll still be Mister Perfect. At least if I say what he did out loud in court his name will be on the record. There’ll be a trail. A history.”

“What if he tries to get even?”

“He can come after me no matter what I do. But each time he’s gotten away with things, he’s gotten worse. This is my only way to fight back.”

“What if the judge doesn’t believe you?”

“That’s the least of my worries.” I laugh at the truth of it.

Katie gasps like I’ve lost my mind. “You’re either the bravest or the stupidest person I know, maybe both,” she says. “But I’m with you no matter what.”

That night, Mom tells me the same thing, except she leaves out the “stupid” part.

Me, I’d leave out the “brave” part, too. It’s like, after talking to Amber, I realize there’s no choice. Not for me. Not for what I want to be, or what I want to see when I look in the mirror.

Forty-One

W
hen I say I’ll testify, the police lay charges against Jason for rape, stalking, creation of child porn, forcible confinement and uttering death threats. He gets bail, but there’s a bunch of catches. He can’t make contact or be anywhere near me. That means I don’t have to change schools,
he
does. And when he isn’t at school, he has to be at home. To make sure he obeys, his parents have to put up a huge security bond, and he has to wear an electronic ankle bracelet. Talk about the
GPS
chip being on the other foot, eh?

With Jason out of the picture, I go back to school. Instead of running to the bathroom to cry all the time, I feel like I’m ten feet tall—I can take on the world. Who’d ever have guessed that going to school would make me feel so good?

It’s especially fun watching Beachball suck up to me. Every time she sees me, she acts concerned and asks if there’s anything she can do to help. (Like, go flush herself down the toilet?) My teachers give me extra breaks too. Guidance has sent them a memo to take my “difficult situation” into consideration. Even Mr. Manley has laid off.

Ms. James is ecstatic. The first time she saw me in the hall, she tried to give me a high five. Please. I backed off, but left her a note in her staff mailbox saying thanks. The students are something else again. You’d think I was a celebrity. Girls who used to ignore me come up to say I’m amazing and should get an award or something. Right. They’re basically looking for dirt. Meanwhile, guys make a point of steering clear, as if they think I’ll charge them with harassment if they peek at my boobs.

Nicky Wicks was really funny. He came up all sweaty and smelly and said he was sorry he used to look up my skirt. “How interesting,” I said, trying not to laugh. You should have seen him shake.

Forty-Two

A
fter a preliminary hearing, Jason goes to trial. The prosecutor, Mr. Pérez, has lined up the psychiatrist I’ve been seeing, Dr. Seymour; she’ll testify for us as an expert on child abuse. But Jason’s lawyer has a psychiatrist too, who’s apparently going to say I’m a chronic liar. Katie wanted to testify about my bruises, the photos Jason took of us in the park and seeing me burn the memory card. Unfortunately, Mr. Pérez told us, none of that’s evidence, just hearsay: Katie didn’t see me get hurt, those photos are innocent and she never saw what was on the card.

“The case is a toss-up,” Mr. Pérez warns me. “The verdict will all depend on who the court believes: you or Jason.”

“So I’m on trial too.”

“In a way,” he nods. “Good luck.”

When the time comes, I take the stand and swear an oath to tell the truth. Mr. Pérez has me read aloud from my journal. It’s embarrassing, but the pages keep me focused, so I don’t have to look at Jason or his family.

That changes when Jason’s lawyer, Mr. Addison, gets up to cross-examine me. Mr. Addison’s an old guy with a silver mustache. He acts all folksy, but the whole time he’s out to trip me up. I pretend he’s Vice-principal Manley. People are a lot less scary when you’re counting their nose hairs.

All the same, his questions are hard: “Do you agree you have quite an imagination, Leslie?” “How did you feel when Jason left you for Ashley?” “According to your own journal, you have a history of lying. Why should we believe you now?” “Again, according to your journal, you smoked a lot of marijuana. Why should we trust your memory?”

I try to concentrate, but I can’t. I glance over at Jason. He smirks. Behind him, his parents burn holes through me with their eyes, like I’m a psycho liar out to ruin their family.

Against the McCreadys, I feel like trash. I’m about to lose control, then I look at my parents. Dad’s supporting me in the back row with Brenda. But Mom’s right at the front. She sits there, shoulders straight, chin up, so proud of me I can taste it. I won’t let her down. I won’t let myself down either.

I think of the girls on Jason’s files—Melanie especially—and suddenly this power takes root inside me. It grows down to my toes and up to my brain, till every part of my body feels alive. I face Jason. I stare deep into his eyes. Now
he
looks away.

I turn back to Mr. Addison. I answer his questions in a clear, calm voice. I tell the truth. All of it.

Jason takes the stand right after me. He says he can’t apologize for something he hasn’t done, and he can’t understand why I’m doing this; at the time, he thought I’d taken his breaking up with me pretty well. Mr. Pérez goes at him hard, but Jason holds his ground, all earnest and sincere. When he’s finished, he slips me a wink.

But even Jason can’t keep his cool when he gets the verdict: Guilty on all counts.

Forty-Three

I
f I was making a movie, I’d have Jason sentenced to the pen for years, screaming for mercy as he’s hauled away to a prison crawling with rats. I’d put him in a cell with a maniac who tortures him day and night the way he tortured me and the others.

If I was a nicer person, I’d have him getting therapy and leaving prison a whole new guy, seeking forgiveness and never doing another awful thing in his life. To be super cheesy, I’d maybe have him devote the rest of his life to charity.

But this isn’t a story. It’s the truth. And the truth isn’t like that.

Jason’s father doesn’t show up for the sentencing, but his mother’s there, dressed in black and wearing shades. She’s like a zombie. So is Jason. I’d imagined he’d at least be shaking, but he’s so controlled it’s frightening. When the judge asks if he has a statement to make, he says, “Only one thing, Your Honor. I’m innocent.”

The judge adjusts his glasses, and rips into him for what he’s done and his failure to apologize. “I hope you’ll reflect on your actions while in jail, and learn to take responsibility for your life,” he says.

Jason gets two years. Plus, since he’s eighteen, his name goes on a sex offenders registry, and a sample of his
DNA
is put on file. Once released, he’ll have to let police know where he’s living. It’ll be easier to catch and convict him if he ever does anything again.

I watch as he’s hauled away.

Forty-Four

“I
’m still not sure what controls events, destiny or choice. All I know is, ever since I stood up for myself, I’ve felt good.”

I’m talking to Ms. Graham. We bumped into each other by accident in the frozen foods section at the supermarket. I was hoping to pass by unrecognized, but her cart got stuck in the middle of the aisle. Next thing I knew she was staring at me with this funny look. “Leslie Phillips,” she exclaimed. “Three years ago. Middle row, fourth row back.”

It’s weird seeing her outside of school, like she actually has a life. We talk for I don’t know how long. About her early retirement. About Jason’s trial. My life since. And all the things I used to think about in her class.

I tell her how sorry I am for the way we misbehaved.

“Not you,” Ms. Graham says. “You never dropped your books. I remember.”

As she’s about to leave for the canned goods, I hear myself say, “Ms. Graham, I owe you so much. Without you, I wouldn’t have had a journal. That journal was the evidence that convicted him. I want you to know, you made a huge difference in my life.”

For a second, it’s like the sun comes out across her face. “Thank you,” she beams. She tugs at the end of her sweater, grips her cart handle and disappears.

My journal.

I still write in it. Dr. Seymour says it’s therapeutic. I’ve needed that help in the time since Jason’s been out. They tell me he’s gone west. Dr. Seymour says I’ve probably seen the last of him. I’ll never know for sure, but the fact he’s moved away is a good sign. With our history, the registry and his
DNA
, it’d be risky for him to come after me. In the end, Jason’s the world’s biggest coward. And he knows I fight back.

Still, I think of all the other girls out there with a Jason. Girls living in fear and shame. Every so often, I close my eyes and try to send them strength. Katie calls it praying. I call it mental telepathy. Either way, I figure it can’t hurt.

“You were so crazy back then,” Katie says, fiddling with her lip gloss. “I mean, really, you should write a book. Let other girls know they’re not alone. You could do it easy. Just fix up what you wrote. Call it
Leslie’s
Journal
or something.”

I smile. Who knows? Maybe I will.

Thanks

This revised edition of
Leslie’s Journal
is a thorough update of the original, incorporating the latest technology and the theme of cyber bullying.

In reworking the novel, I am particularly indebted to Staff Inspector Elizabeth Byrnes, who heads the Toronto Police Service Sex Crimes Unit, and to her colleagues Detective Constables Janet Sullivan and Marco Ricciardi (child exploitation), Detective Constable Marilyn White (threat assessment) and Detective Staff Sergeant Gordon Whealy (behavioral assessment).

As a Luddite whose computer skills are essentially limited to word processing, I’m also grateful beyond measure for the vetting of techno wizards Stephen Dow, Shelley Johnston, Christine Baldacchino and Alexander Blake-Davies.

I’d also like to thank again those professionals who helped with the original: Dr. Harvey Armstrong of Parents for Youth, counselor Terry Graham, lawyer Christine Milne, Detective Inspector Tony Warr, Detective Constable Tracey Marshall, Detective John Relph and publisher Rick Wilks and editor Barbara Pulling from Annick Press.

Finally, my heartfelt appreciation to friends Victoria Stewart, Louise Baldacchino, Dean Cooke, Jon Pearce, Daniel Legault, Patricia Ocampo, and Dan, Betty and Laura Milne; to former students Yvonne Czerny, Norah Love, Laura Nanni and Suzanne Smith; and to all the Leslies in the world, who humble me with their strength and courage.

© 2008 Allan Stratton (revised text)
© 2000 Allan Stratton (text)

Annick Press Ltd.

All rights reserved. No part of this work covered by the copyrights hereon may be reproduced or used in any form or by any means—graphic, electronic, or mechanical—without prior written permission of the publisher.

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Edited by Barbara Pulling
Copy edited and proofread by Heather Sangster
Cover design by Lisa Hemingway

Cataloguing in Publication

Stratton, Allan
      Leslie’s journal : a novel / by Allan Stratton. — Rev. ed.

Originally published 2000.
ISBN 978-1-55451-149-5 (bound).—ISBN 978-1-55451-148-8 (pbk.)