Leslie's Journal (4 page)

Anyway, Mom is apparently deaf. She stuffs the last of the clothes into the bag and heads towards the door. “Get out of my way.”

“You toss my stuff, next time you’re out I’ll toss your stuff!”

Mom stops in her tracks. She’s so mad I think she’s going to have a stroke. “You are sooo grounded!”

“Go ahead. Ground me.” I glare back. “If I have to stay home, I’ll make your life hell. You up for it?”

For a second, Mom gets this scared look in her eyes. She knows she can’t back down. But she knows I won’t back down either. Stalemate. That’s when I play my ace. I tell her about Katie’s sleepover and how Katie was planning to introduce me to some girls from her church youth group. That cools Mom down, seeing as she thinks Katie is such a good influence. “Will her mother be there?”

“What do you think?”

She checks anyway, calling Mrs. Kincaid that very second. To cut a long story short, I’m no longer grounded and the bag of clothes stayed in my room. I should be a diplomat or something.

Which brings me to how God exists after all.

I’m at my locker this morning when I realize I’m being stared at. I turn around, and it’s Jason. He doesn’t say much. Just smiles and points his finger at me. “I’ll be at Mister Pizza’s at 12:10.” Then he winks, swivels slowly and saunters down the hall.

Katie, Ashley, Kimberly and Sara all stand there dumbstruck, jaws bouncing off the floor. I take off fast so they won’t see I feel the same way.

The rest of the morning I spend in the washroom getting ready for our date. I make sure I’m at Mister Pizza’s early. But no sooner am I getting comfortable than in waltzes the coven. They sit down at the next booth.

“What are you trying to do, scare him off?” I say.

“You don’t own this place,” Ashley smirks.

I want to smack her, but then I see Jason crossing the road, so I let out a major sigh and move to the booth at the far end. In he walks all breezy and confident, gives me a nod, goes up to the counter and orders two slices of double cheese, pepperoni and mushrooms and a couple of Cokes. (He knows what I want without even asking— is he amazing or what?) Then he brings them to the table, passing by my so-called friends like they don’t exist.

After a little small talk, Jason asks if I’m doing anything Saturday night. I tell him I’ll have to check my calendar. He laughs, like he knows there’s nothing to check, and says great, he’ll pick me up at my place around six. We can grab a quick bite and an early flick, then go to a couple of clubs he likes. I tell him I’ll need fake
ID
, but he says not to worry, he knows the guys at the door. Or if it bothers me, we can go to an all-ages club a few blocks over.

Terrific. Only I suddenly remember he can’t pick me up at my place because I’m supposed to be at Katie’s, so I tell him I’ll be hanging out at the Southside Mall all Saturday afternoon. We arrange to meet at Starbucks. Then he knocks back the rest of his Coke, says, “Catch ya later” and heads out the door.

I get up slow, stretch and glide over to the loser booth. “Guess who’s going clubbing with Jason McCready Saturday night?” I gloat.

“But what about my party?” Katie asks.

“Sorry,” I say. “Divine intervention.”

Katie looks like somebody let the air out of her bicycle tires.

“That’s okay,” sniffs Ashley. “I guess we know who your real friends are, don’t we, Katie?”

I glare at her, but before I can say anything Katie whines, “But my mom’s expecting you. What’ll I tell her?”

“Say I got sick.”

“You want me to lie?”

“Not lie exactly, just help me out.”

“I can’t lie to my mother.”

This calls for heavy artillery. “Look, Katie, if you don’t tell your mother I’m sick, I’ll tell her about you-know-what.”

Katie goes white. You’d think she’d killed somebody or something instead of what she really did, which was have a quickie puff on this joint I scored. (She couldn’t even hold it down, just coughed her guts out.) “You promised you’d never tell!”

“Be good and I won’t,” I smile, and I blow them all a kiss, pirouette and sail away.

Outside, I can’t believe what I’ve done. I’ve blackmailed my best friend. And I almost don’t feel guilty!

Eight

T
wo days till Saturday. This is worse than waiting for Christmas. Why does time go by so slowly?

Ms. Graham isn’t looking too good today. Nicky Wicks has been organizing book drops, and it’s getting to her. It all started when Ms. Graham made him sit front-row center where she could “keep an eye on him” because he was always talking. But now everyone can see him, and when her back is turned he gives a signal and the class drop their books on the floor—boom—and watch her jump. She could be in the Olympics. I mean, she jumps so high I’m surprised her head doesn’t go through the ceiling. I can just picture it: Ms. Graham trapped up there with her head stuck in the acoustic tiles, kicking her legs while Nicky looks up her dress.

I don’t do the book drop thing. Maybe I’m turning into a suck. It’s just that even if Ms. Graham is boring, she’s basically okay. At least she’s not mean, and if we aren’t careful she’ll get sick again and who knows who we’ll get for a supply.

It’s
still
two days till Saturday. I’m going crazy sitting here.

I wish I had a cell phone so Jason and I could text each other. It’s not like Ms. Graham would notice. But I don’t. I’m, like, the only person in the whole world without a cell. I had one before my parents split up, but Mom says we can’t afford it anymore. Dad offered to pay, but she said no. She gave some stupid reason, but the real reason is: If Dad pays, she won’t see the bill, or know how often I’m calling and texting him. And she thinks
I’m
selfish and immature.

At least she lets Dad pay for Internet. That’s because she wants it too. I’m only allowed on for half an hour a day, unless I’m doing something for school. “That’s not enough time to check Facebook and e-mails,” I say, which gets me her sermon about the difference between a
real
life and a
virtual
life. Like
she’d
know. I sneak extra time when she’s late getting home, but it’s hard getting around her. The computer’s in the living room so we can share it. I had to go with that or have her in my room all the time.

Hmm. Ms. Graham’s at her desk pretending to mark, but her pen isn’t moving. Neither are her eyes. She’s just staring. I don’t think she’s going to teach today.

Great. Back to Jason and me. The other girls are sooo impressed. Except, of course, for Ashley A-hole, who goes around pretending she’d never date a senior, that only sluts do that. Eat your heart out is all I can say.

I mean, how could anyone
not
go out with Jason? He’s terminally cool. When I see him in the hall he winks, points his finger at me like it’s a gun, grins and mouths “Saturday.” I wink, point my finger and mouth “Saturday” right back. Then we both walk away like we’re spies who’ve just passed a message in some secret code. Did I say
walk?
It’s more like I’m floating.

Weird, eh? I mean, I’ve never been romantic like this before—not even when I was little and playing with dolls. Back in grade four, Katie’s favorite thing was marrying Barbie and Ken and having them go on honeymoons to smoochie places like Niagara Falls or the Bahamas. Except she’d never let them have sex because she said they hadn’t been married long enough. Well, no smoochie getaways for me. When it was my turn to pick a honeymoon, I’d have Barbie and Ken go on adventures. They’d scuba in the bathtub. Or skydive off the balcony with napkins taped to their hands for parachutes.

The last time we played honeymoon, Mrs. Kincaid was out getting her hair done, and I had Barbie and Ken go on an African safari in the oven. Katie screamed when they started to melt. “You murdered them!” she cried, holding the dolls in her mother’s oven mitts.

It was kind of true. Barbie’s eyes were running down her face, and her hair was this goo mixed in with what used to be Ken’s feet. But I wasn’t about to let that spoil a good honeymoon. “If they’re dead, we better give them a funeral,” I said. “You can be the minister and say a prayer.” The idea of being a minister cheered Katie right up. She gave a long speech about Barbie’s good deeds and her tragic love for Ken and then we buried them in the garden. The next week, we dug them up and played Zombie Barbie, but that’s another story.

Anyway, with Jason, I finally get what all the fuss is about. When he kissed me on the football field—well, just thinking about it makes things tingle in a way that’s really amazing. Believe it or not, that was my very first French kiss. The truth is, even though I’m fifteen, the only thing I’m experienced at is making stuff up.

Guys don’t go for me. I scare them. They like to feel they’re in control, but with me, let’s face it, they never know what’s going to come out of my mouth. (News flash: neither do I.)

This scoop would give Mom a heart attack. Every time I come home late or get caught sneaking out after she’s gone to bed, she’s certain it’s to see some guy. I get back and there she is at the kitchen table in her housecoat. Sometimes she’s Volcano Mom (“What have you been up to, young lady?”), but mostly she’s Long-Suffering Mom, wiping away tears with a box of Kleenex, trying to make me feel guilty.

Mom is afraid I’m going to end up pregnant. She’s especially worried when I come home smelling of beer. “What’s his name?” she yells, as if you need a guy to get drunk. All you need is to crash a house party. “Do you know about
AIDS
? Do you know about condoms?” She throws such big production numbers I swear she oughta be in show business. And she’s always leaving magazines around open to stories about the tragedy of teen moms. I think she watches too much
Oprah
.

I want to say, “Look, Mom, stop being so embarrassing.” But if she gets off on worrying, let her. Besides, actually talking to her would be awful. She doesn’t really want to know about my sex life any more than I want to know about hers.

With other girls, it’s trickier. I can’t let them think I don’t have a boyfriend. So when everybody’s talking about their big heartthrob, I invent one. They have names like Jaden and Caleb and Josh and are always mysterious, guys from far away who can be ditched whenever there starts to be too many questions, like when’s he going to drop by the school for a visit. When asked how far I’ve gone, I say, “Wouldn’t you like to know?” or “Guess” and let people think I’m this big make-out expert.

Katie’s crowd used to come to me for advice, because they’ve never gone further than sweaty hand-holding and lip kissing. “Frenching!” Katie made a face. “That’s so gross. I want to brush my teeth just thinking about it.”

But Katie blabbed the truth about me and boys to Ashley last summer, at their stupid youth leadership training camp, and as soon as they got back Ashley ran around and told everybody else. Needless to say, the next time the topic of boys came up and I mentioned I’d met this guy called Ricky at my dad’s apartment building, the girls all gave me these funny looks.

Katie turned red and her eyes popped, and right away I knew what had happened. But I didn’t crack. Instead, I laughed and said in a really loud voice, “Let me guess—Ashley’s pretending to be an expert on my sex life, right?” And then I turned to Ashley and practically shouted. “You are such a pathetic baby, Ashley Walker. Who are you to talk about anybody? You can’t even say the word ‘penis.’ Say it, Ashley!
Penis, penis, penis!”

Seeing as we were hanging around the mall at the time, I got a lot of attention. I also made Ashley cry. Serves her right after how she treats me. Like, she’s lucky I don’t blog about her on Facebook. I mean, I wouldn’t, but she deserves it.

Getting even with Ashley was one thing, but I still worried about what the other girls thought. That’s why Frenching with Jason in broad daylight was extra fantastic.

Jason, you are my dream come true. But now I have something new to worry about: will I be
his
dream come true? He probably thinks I’m experienced, and I’m still wondering how far is too far on a first date.

Worrying about what to do is bad enough. But even worse is worrying about how to do it. Even simple stuff like kissing. That time on the football field doesn’t count, because it happened so fast and out of the blue I didn’t have a chance to tense up. But knowing it’s coming is a different story.

Your reputation can get ruined in one night. Back in grade eight, Rachel Moses didn’t do anything the first time she got kissed, just opened her mouth. Ever since, guys have called her “Slug Tongue.” And then there’s Debby Grace. She bit into Tommy Singh’s lip so bad it bled and swelled up. So now she’s “Cannibal Girl.” How a person kisses can affect their whole life.

Maybe I should stay home from school tomorrow. That way I can practice kissing in front of the bathroom mirror. Also, I can make sure I don’t catch a cold. I mean Saturday has to be perfect, and kissing with a runny nose—well, can you imagine?

Nine

O
h god. It’s Wednesday. Four days after my date. I’m in English. And I’m going out of my mind. Every time people laugh, I think it’s about me. When I cross the cafeteria, I’m sure the world’s staring.

Jason, I have to see you. Did you tell anyone what we did?

I need to know, but he hasn’t been at school this week. I’ve left a zillion messages on his cell—I’ve e-mailed, too—but he hasn’t answered.

Monday morning the girls crowded around me at my locker, all curious. “How was your date with Mister Stud Muffin?”

“Okay,” I said.

“Just okay?” All those grinning faces. Had they heard something?

“It was great. We saw a movie, went dancing at some warehouse, no big deal. Why, are you my mother?”

“What’s with you?”

“Nothing.”

“Well, Katie’s party was the best yet,” Ashley piped up from nowhere. “No losers to wreck things.”

Everyone sucked in their breath, expecting me to punch her or something. I might have, too, only the five-minute bell rang and everyone took off.

Except for me.

I went to my cubicle in the second-floor washroom and thought about my date with Jason, which is all I’ve been doing since it happened. My mind is like this horror movie on automatic replay. I can’t make it stop or go away.