Leslie's Journal (7 page)

“I beg your pardon?”

I roll my eyes. And—bang—it’s like the last five minutes never existed.

“Don’t tell me you’re ashamed of your own home,” Mom says.

“Aren’t you?”

Mom kind of slumps. She puts the stool away, folds the fancy wrapping paper and drops the stem ends in the garbage. I feel horrible.

“It’s nothing personal, Mom,” I say. “It’s just, well, Jason’s parents are important, like his dad does big business deals and everything, and they live in this enormous house and everything’s new and expensive.”

She gives me her Mom-on-a-Cross face. “You know, Leslie, it takes more than money to make a home.”

Pass me the barf bag. “I never said a home is only money,” I shoot back. “A home’s also supposed to be a place where people love each other. But I don’t see a lot of that around here either.”

I want Mom to say something. I want her to yell at me, even. But she doesn’t. She just puts her coat on slowly and heads out to work.

Twelve

W
hen I get to school, Jason’s at my locker waiting for me. Leaning on the lockers opposite mine, actually, in his leather jacket and shades. It’s like he’s sunning himself indoors.

“Thanks for the roses,” I say, loud enough for everyone to hear.

He drapes over me, his hands on my bum, and gives me a kiss. I feel self-conscious but also proud: the girls will know we’re together.

“Came to walk you to class. Get your stuff. We’ll be late.”

Everyone’s looking at us, and my head bobs like one of Aunt Betty’s knick-knack china Dutch girls. I can’t help myself. I scramble my books out of my locker with a wink at Katie. Then, without looking where I’m going, I bump right into him.

“Hey, if it isn’t the Leslie doll,” he laughs. “Wind her up, she walks into a wall.” I hear a few titters and just about die, but not for long. In one smooth move, he slides his arm across my shoulder. I put my free hand into his back pocket—up yours, Ashley—and together we float off to class.

We’re together at lunch, too, just us on the bleachers. I tell him about the grilling I got from Mom, and how he’s lucky to have a mother who minds her own business.

Jason cocks his head. “Actually, I think meeting your mom is a good idea.”

“What?”

“It’ll help keep her onside.”

Onside. How did Jason get so smart at psychology?

But he has more surprises. First, he asks if I’d like to see Pigjam next Friday.

“Aren’t they sold out?”

“No sweat, I got contacts. The show’s at eight, I’ll pick you up around seven. That way I can meet your mom and we’ll have an excuse to split quick.”

“You’re brilliant!”

Then the best surprise of all. He reaches into his knapsack and pulls out a box, all gift-wrapped. “For you,” he smiles.

Inside is a brand-new cell phone, just like his. It can take photos and videos, and I can program a different ring depending on who’s calling. Plus it lets me online to text. There’s even a
GPS
chip so if I want to find out how to get someplace, I just type in the address and a map pops up with a route for how to get there. I mean, this cell does everything but homework.

I want it so bad, but I hand it back. “I can’t afford to pay the bills.”

He laughs. “Don’t worry. I’ll look after it.”

“Jason, no. It’s too much.”

“Nothing’s too much for you. Or what I want to do for you.” His eyes go soulful. “See, Leslie, it’s about your mom. I’m sure she’s great and all. But she’s also a wacked-out control freak. You’ve basically said so yourself. With this cell, you can contact whoever you want, whenever you want, without her looking over your shoulder. Take it. Please. It’s not just a cell. It’s freedom.”

I start to hug him like crazy, but there’s this voice calling from across the football field: “Leslie!” It’s Katie. She and the gang are on their way back from Mister Pizza’s. While the rest of the girls go into the school, she runs over with this goofy grin on her face.

I send her these very strong Stay-Away-Katie vibes. But apparently the only messages Katie picks up come from God or something, because she sure doesn’t get mine. She comes right up, like I’m supposed to welcome her into our private conversation. I don’t.

“Yeah?”

“I thought I’d come over and say hi.” She gives a girlie finger wave to Jason. “I’ve seen you around, but we’ve never been actually introduced. You must be Jason.”

“And who must you be?” he says, polite and sarcastic all at once.

“Katie. I’ve heard so much about you.”

“And I’ve heard so much about you.”

“Really?” Katie’s face lights up like she’s in kindergarten and the teacher’s put a big gold star on her forehead.

Wake up, Katie, I think. He’s insulting you. Don’t you get it? Why don’t you leave us alone? But it’s too late. Jason’s getting ready to leave.

“I’d love to stay, shoot the breeze,” he says, “but I’ve got things to do.” I go to follow him, but he holds up his hand. “You stay with your pal Katie here. I’ll catch you later.” He walks off without looking back.

Katie’s all moon-eyed. You’d think she just talked to a movie star or something. But me, I’m heartsick. Jason and I were having such a good time, and she went and scared him away. A wave of anger surges inside me. But just as I’m about to let rip, Katie stammers, “So, are you guys doing it?”

My heart skips. “Who says we’re doing it?”

Katie looks at my face and gasps. “Oh no, you are!”

“I never said that!” I shout. “I asked you, ‘Who says?’”

“Nobody.”

“
Nobody?
”

“Okay. Ashley. She says that’s why Jason’s started to hang around.”

“What a bitch.”

“Well, are you?”

“If Jason and I were doing it, do you think I’d tell you?”

“Yeah. Why not?”

“You can’t keep your mouth shut, that’s why not.”

“Are you still mad I told Ashley you made up boyfriends?”

“Among other things,” I say.

“What other things?”

“Last night you told my mom you were at choir practice. I told her I was at your place. You got me in so much trouble—”

“It’s not my fault you lied to your mother.”

“And it’s not my fault you’re a moron.”

Katie’s eyes fill. “Leslie, why are you yelling at me? What’s the matter? We used to be friends.”

“Used-to-be’s right, isn’t it? And I suppose that’s my fault. All I know is I used to have a friend I could count on, but now she only has time for my worst enemy. Well, I don’t care. I have a boyfriend who loves me and I don’t need to waste my time with a nerdy little baby who needs her mommy’s permission to pee.”

Katie’s face disintegrates. I watch as she turns and runs across the grass, shoulders heaving.

Serves her right. I’ve never let anyone come between us—not parents, not friends, nobody. So how come she’s the one acting hurt? All the same, I feel like a turd.

By the time I get to math class, I’m not mad anymore. While Mr. Kogawa writes math equations on the board, I scribble a note and slip it on Katie’s desk. It says, “I’m so sorry. You’ll always be my best friend, no matter what.” There’s a little pause, and then Katie turns around with a look so serious I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. She whispers, “Me too,” and I know which: I cry.

Thirteen

E
ven after I made up with Katie, I was still worried that she might have wrecked things with Jason. I had this bizarre panic that when he walked away from the bleachers, he wasn’t going to catch me later, that he’d left me with the cell and taken off for good.

One of the awful things about dating guys is, out of the blue, for no reason, they can just stop calling you. One minute you’re their girlfriend, the next minute you’re not. And they won’t even say why. It’s like they’re afraid to face you and have you get mad at them. So there’s always this scary feeling in the back of your mind. At the same time they’re smiling and laughing with you, they may be planning to split. I know I’m talking like a sudden expert and all. But you don’t have to watch a talk show to prove what I’m saying—just ask any girl in my school.

But Jason’s different. Not only did he catch me later, he was at my locker after class.

We went and studied at his place. (Well, okay, we didn’t really study.) And ever since, well, he’s been after me 24/7. I get nonstop texts. Stuff like,
“HOW R U?”
or
“S’UP?”
or
“U WEARING PANTYS 2DAY?”
First time I got the last one, I blushed, but I have to admit it made me feel sexy.

He wants to see me every night, too. Says he’s afraid to let me out of his sight. Romantic or what? He’s meeting me after school today and tomorrow, and then it’s Friday and the Pigjam concert.

As for Mom, Jason’s psychology trick worked great. I told her he wanted to meet her this weekend, and she chilled right out. She said if I wanted to study at his place she’d hold supper for me—“I’m glad you’re finally doing some homework!”—as long as I was back by seven and his mom was home.

“Deal,” I said. “Oh, and before he comes, will you help me tidy the place up?”

As soon as I said that she got this amused grown-up look.

“What’s so funny?”

“If you want to tidy up, he must be very special.”

I hate it when Mom does that. It’s like I’m a baby or something, this cute little pet put on earth to entertain her. It was especially annoying this time, because she was getting even for all the times I’ve been a slob. Last year she kept complaining my room was a pigsty. I told her if it bothered her so much she should stop looking at it, and got my “Keep Out” sign.

But who cares? Mom can have her little joke if it keeps her from asking questions. Let’s face it, if she knew the truth about me and Jason, she’d have a heart attack. Maybe even die.

Just thinking about Mom being dead makes me freak. Dad might as well be worm meat; he’s out of my life these days. If Mom was gone too, I don’t know what I’d do. Sometimes I imagine myself screaming my lungs inside out or throwing myself out a window or stabbing myself to death with scissors.

Seriously, the idea that Mom could die because of something I did drives me crazy. It’s what I’m thinking about when I step into English today. And—speaking of nervous breakdowns and going crazy—guess who’s back? Ms. Graham. She’s smiling like a maniac. If she doesn’t watch out, her cheeks are going to explode.

The class is so shocked we don’t even talk, much less get rowdy. I mean, eyeballs are hanging out of their sockets, and we just sort of drop into our seats and stare at her, as if she’s a mirage or something.

“It’s great to be back,” she says. “I’ve missed you and I’m feeling much better, thanks, and I know the rest of the year is going to be really special.”

They better adjust her medication. Still, the tremor in her hands is mostly gone, and she’s hardly sweating at all. That is, until she asks how many of us filled out our
To Kill a Mockingbird
question and answer sheets. We look at her all innocent, like we haven’t a clue what she’s talking about.

“You mean while I’ve been gone you haven’t done anything? Why, every day you were to read twenty pages and answer a sheet of questions. I left instructions!”

Was she born simple, or does she work at it? The average supply teacher has a hard time figuring out how to turn on a
TV
. You think they can follow instructions? And when it’s a regular teacher supervising, why should they care? They have a million students of their own to worry about.

Ms. Graham starts rummaging around in her filing cabinet, still smiling but definitely getting twitchy. “The handouts were right here. Oh dear.” And now it looks like she’s having a near-death experience because guess what? The Handouts Are Missing! Her eyes do that gerbil thing, and you can see her trying to figure out what’s happened. Did she actually forget to make them? Is her memory of them a hallucination? Or maybe one of the janitors broke in and stole them?

Naturally, the handouts aren’t missing at all. The truth is, aside from a couple of goofs, the supply teachers gave them to us. They just didn’t get done is all. But we never did them when she was here, so why would we start when she was away? Ms. Graham is too good-hearted. She gives our class credit for giving a shit. Has she really forgotten what we’re like?

While she was away, the guys at the back played cards as always, and the rest of us either caught up on our other homework or stared out the window or wrote in our journals. I also read the book, but only because I wanted to. (It would be nice to have a dad like Atticus instead of the loser I got stuck with. I mean, I can’t even imagine Atticus trading his daughter for a skank like Brenda.)

Anyway, things with Ms. Graham are getting really interesting when Cindy Williams puts up her hand. “Are these the handouts, Ms. Graham?” she asks, all dimples and curls. She holds up a binder full of neatly completed question and answer sheets. (Cindy gets straight As, and she writes with big fat letters and signs her name with a little heart over the
i
. She makes me gag.)

“So you did get the handouts!” Ms. Graham exclaims, and she’s back on her spaceship to Planet Happy. “Good, good.” She hops to her desk. “That means you’re all prepared for a little content quiz.”

Before you can say “Boo Radley,” Ms. Graham’s handed out this test full of multiple choices and fill-in-the-blanks. It takes about two minutes, and then she collects them and gives us our journals. We’re supposed to write while she marks.

We don’t write very long before Ms. Graham calls us to attention. It seems only four or five people have bothered to read the book. Most of the content quizzes are either blank or have supposedly funny comments written in where the answers should go. Such as: “Jem reads
porno
to dead gophers.”

That one’s courtesy of Nicky Wicks. Ms. Graham reads it out loud to make him look stupid. But instead, the card players hoot “Aw right!” and Nicky bows as if he’s a hero or something.

Ms. Graham’s losing it. “There are only two of you mature enough to call yourselves grade ten students,” she yells. “Cindy Williams and Leslie Phillips. Because they did their work, they each received a perfect score. I trust the rest of you will learn from their example.”