Leslie's Journal (8 page)

Waydego, Ms. Graham. I mean, can I die now?

Then the biggest unfairness of all. She announces she’s going to give everyone a second chance, and she tosses the tests in the recycling bin. Unbelievable. She goes and humiliates me, and the test isn’t even going to count!

To make sure everyone is prepared for the makeup test, she says we’re going to read the book aloud, up and down the aisles, half a page each from start to finish. The only good thing is, because Cindy and I read it, we get to write in our journals instead. So for the next ten years while everyone’s mumbling their way through
To Kill a
Mockingbird
, I get to text Jason, think about after-school “studying” and count the days to Friday, which is what I’m doing now.

Fourteen

F
riday arrived like magic. Jason buzzed up at seven. I let him in and hey, was he ever a knockout: tanned, gelled and manicured, in a black embroidered shirt, brushed cotton pants and shoes to die for.

“Parents love it when the guy’s well dressed and punctual,” he’d told me. Well, not Mom. When things are perfect, she gets suspicious.

I make the introductions.

“Pleased to meet you, Jason,” Mom nods. She acts polite, the sort of polite that’s almost rude.

Jason ignores the attitude. “Pleasure’s mine, Mrs. Phillips,” he says, shaking her hand. He sounds way mature, like he sells imported cars or something.

“Leslie tells me you’re going to the Pigjam concert. What kind of a band is Pigjam?” Translation: “There better not be drugs.”

But Jason’s a mind reader. “Pretty mainstream,” he replies. “I don’t go for rap or hip hop.”

“Good. That sounds like fun, then.”

“I hope so. The tickets are a fortune. Luckily, Dad managed to get us comps through a client of his.”

Is Mom impressed? No way. “That’s nice,” she says, like it’s no big deal. What’s up her butt now?

Jason looks at me, still smiling. “Is that all you’re wearing?”

I’m not dressed slutty or anything, but I’ve only put on enough to pass inspection. I wonder what he’s up to, and then it clicks: he’s out to impress Mom. I laugh and come back in these designer jeans and a fancy-knit sweater. “We gotta go, Mom, or we’ll be late.”

Jason opens the door for me. “There’s no need to wait up, Mrs. Phillips. Your daughter’s in good hands.”

“Actually, Jason,” Mom says tightly, “Leslie’s well-being is in my hands.”

“Absolutely,” Jason agrees without missing a beat. Can he keep his cool or what. He shakes her hand again, and we’re out the door.

Jason’s got his mom’s Camry. We get to the stadium’s underground garage and back into a parking space against the far wall between two empty cars. I get out and head for the elevator, but Jason’s fiddling with something.

“Hurry up, we’ll be late.”

“Relax. The opening act’ll take an hour.”

And now I see what he’s doing. He’s folded out one of those cardboard sunscreens and put it across the front windshield. He opens the door to the backseat.

“Jason! Not here!”

“No, something else, dummy,” he says. “I’ve got something for you.”

“Can’t you give it to me out here?”

But I get in the backseat anyway and Jason pulls out a joint. “Grade A. No kidding. I got it off a special friend.”

“What if we get busted?”

“Nobody checks third-basement parking. Besides, we’re at the end, cars on either side, a screen up. Come on, you’re acting like that Katie geek.”

We have the joint, but I don’t get the giggles. I’m too paranoid. Especially when he puts his hand up my sweater. I knew this was going to happen.

“Jason, you said we wouldn’t. I mean, we’re in public!”

“It’ll be exciting. Trust me.”

As if.

Jason has me back home at five minutes before twelve. He doesn’t come in.

As usual Mom’s waiting up, only instead of sitting at the kitchen table, she’s in the living room with her back to me, watching some old movie.

It’s creepy. She doesn’t say a word. There’s just this low sound of voices coming from the
TV
and her sitting absolutely still.

For a minute, I think maybe she’s fallen asleep. That’d be perfect. Because I don’t want to get close to her before having a shower.

But just as I reach the door of the bathroom, she says in a loud voice, “How was the concert?”

“Fine,” I say. I’m trying to sound cheerful, but my throat is tight. Before she has a chance to say anything else, I scoot inside and close the door.

Mom’s still waiting for me when I come out wrapped in a towel. She’s turned the
TV
off and is sitting at the table. “Leslie, could I speak to you for a minute?” She’s not mad. She sounds strange, like I better say yes or there’s really going to be trouble.

“Okay,” I say. “Just let me put something on.”

I come back in track pants and a top.

Mom sits quietly for a minute and then says: “Leslie, how old is Jason?”

“Eighteen.”

“Don’t you think it would be better if you dated someone more your own age?”

“What, I’m a baby or something? Or he’s this old-man-pervert child molester?”

“No.”

“Then what?”

Mom looks at me very seriously. “Honey, I don’t know how to put this ...”

“Don’t bother. I knew you wouldn’t like him. I mean, if God asked me for a date you’d find something to complain about. Jason’s here on time, he’s dressed up, he opens the door for me, he has a nice family and I’m back before twelve. What more do you want?”

“It’s only that—”

“Never mind. You don’t want me to be happy!”

“No. No. Of course I want you to be happy. It’s just ... I don’t want you to get hurt.”

I want to say something smart. But I don’t. Instead, before I can stop myself, I give her a big hug. She holds me tight. I feel like a baby, but all of a sudden I don’t care.

Fifteen

I
’ve been skipping Ms. Graham’s class big time. For the last couple of weeks I’ve shown up for attendance, then asked to go to the bathroom and haven’t come back. Jason has a spare last period, so we’ve been taking off to his place to “study.”

Today, though, I got narced out by Mr. Manley in the parking lot. He made me get off Jason’s motorcycle and marched me back to class. “This isn’t the first time you’ve roared off early, is it?” he demanded.

“Oh no? Prove it.”

Since Ms. Graham always has me marked present, he can’t do anything. But to make sure I don’t leave early again, he wants me to report to the office at the end of the day for the next two weeks. Otherwise, he’s calling home.

Normally, I wouldn’t care. But Mom’s not stupid. It used to be she’d grill me about boys that didn’t exist, but that was because she wanted to be reassured. Lately, she hasn’t been asking much of anything. It’s as if she suspects what we’re up to but is too afraid to know. All the same, if she hears I’m cutting class with Jason, for sure she’ll want a “talk” and after that she won’t be able to pretend anymore. Poor Mom. I can’t imagine it. If she finds out I’m having sex
officially
I’ll die.

Not that Jason would care.

No, forget I said that. That’s Katie talking. Jason does care; I know he does. He loves me. I mean, he writes me poems, texts me kisses, and everything. And he’s always giving me presents, little surprises like this pinkie ring and a charm bracelet with a big silver J on it. He says the J is a symbol that he’s my lucky charm. Sweet or what? Katie should shut her mouth. What does she know about guys anyway?

Still, I wish Jason didn’t make such a big deal about sex. He brings it up all the time. Like, he tells me to keep my cell on hum, so he can vibrate in my pants. And when we’re together—why do we
always
have to do it? If I tell him I don’t want to, he gets all mad. “What’s the matter? You frigid? A lesbian, maybe?”

“No,” I say. “It’s just—couldn’t we see a movie instead? This once?” Then he says how I don’t love him, and how much he loves me, and how much he needs me, and he keeps going on and on until finally I say, “Okay, I’m sorry. Forget I said anything.”

The good news is, despite all the sex I’m not pregnant.

For the first little while, I kept telling myself that each time was going to be the last. But then we’d get together and one thing always led to another. Finally, this one day, I gave up lying to myself and checked Wikipedia about menstrual cycles.

Talk about scary. I’m pretty good at math, and counting the days since my last period, I started imagining symptoms like crazy. At lunch, I ran out and got one of those tests from the pharmacy. I sat in my bathroom cubicle on the second floor and waited to see if the thingy’d turn color. Was I ever relieved!

That afternoon I told Jason we’d been lucky, but I’m at my peak and maybe he should use a condom.

He acted shocked. “You mean you’re not taking care of that?”

“I can’t go to my doctor. I’m too embarrassed. Anyway, a condom’s good for other things, too. You know,
AIDS
,
STD
s.”

“Are you accusing me of something?”

“No.”

“Good. So relax. I’m fine.”

But now I’m curious. “Have you been tested?”

“No.”

“Then how do you know you’re fine?”

“I know.” His fists clenched.

I tried to calm him down. “Look, I believe you. Sorry. But we can’t take chances. I’m only fifteen. If I get pregnant, they’re going to want to know who did it.”

“Who says they’d ever have to know you were pregnant? You’d just have to see somebody. My dad knows people.” I must’ve looked hurt because he got all sulky. “Fine. Be that way,” he said, and fished out a condom, like I was really inconveniencing him or something.

When he’s in one of those moods, I’ve learned not to mouth off. I just look at the floor and whisper, “Using a condom doesn’t make that much difference, does it?”

Then he gets all tender. He strokes my hair, cups my head in his hands and kisses me gently on the forehead. “It’s just that I want to be closer to you.”

I feel so guilty. “Me too,” I say and kiss him back. “I’ll figure something out.”

What I figure out is, I can steal pills from Mom for a couple of months. Sneaking them won’t be a problem. Mom had almost a year’s supply when Dad left and she hasn’t used them since. They’re at the back of a drawer beside the sink in the bathroom. She’s probably forgotten about them, for all I know. For sure she won’t remember how many she had. So that’s what I’ve been doing.

Taking the pill makes me less paranoid, but I’m still uncomfortable with the sex bit.

At the beginning, I worried his mom would catch us. I’d be like, “Jason, Jason please don’t,” and he’d be laughing, “Please don’t what? Please don’t stop?” As it turns out, though, he was right about her. She goes through so much “tomato juice” I hardly think she’d notice if she waltzed right in and sat down beside us.

What gets me is actually “doing it.” The kissing part is fine, but that only lasts a minute, and then he’s on top of me and I can’t even move. I can hardly breathe. A few times I tried to stop him, but I ended up with bruises, and once my blouse got ripped, which took a lot of explaining to Mom.

“I was climbing over a fence at school and it got caught.”

“What were you doing climbing over a fence?”

“What do you care?”

“Answer the question.”

“Okay, I wasn’t climbing over a fence.” I rolled my eyes, all sarcastic. “Jason wanted to have sex and he ripped my clothes off. Happy?”

“That isn’t funny,” Mom said and dropped the subject. It’s amazing, but sometimes if you tell the truth, people will act as though it’s a lie.

I guess it’s not that bad. At least it’s quick. I’m like, “Ow ow ow ow ow,” and then Jason groans like he’s constipated and says, “That was great,” and I go, “Yeah,” to keep him happy.

One time I guess I wasn’t enthusiastic enough. “All you can say is ‘Yeah’?”

That pissed me off. Before I could stop myself, I went, “What do you want? You want me to turn into the school marching band? Do a production number? Light up some fireworks, maybe? Blow the roof off?”

He slapped me.

“What was that for?”

“Watch your lip.”

That’s why I like it better when we get stoned first. Getting stoned doesn’t make me paranoid anymore. It lets me zone out. I can stare at a point on the ceiling, or the roof of the car, and pretend I’m not there till it’s over.

Why am I always complaining? Why am I such a bitch? Jason loves me, I know it, he says so. Why am I always so negative? I should think of the good stuff— riding on his motorcycle, my charm bracelet.

The other girls tell me how lucky I am. Except for Ashley. Last week, as per usual, she said juniors who date seniors are sex toys, like I’m a slut or something.

“You’d go out with Jason in a flash,” I said. “Except he’d never ask you.”

“Oh please,” she sniffed. “I’m not boy-crazy like you.”

“Bullshit,” I snapped. “The only reason you’re a virgin is because you’ve never had a date.”

“Well, the only reason you’re not pregnant is because you’re lucky.”

“Liar.”

“Skank.”

I pushed her.

“Girls.” It was Mr. Manley. “Is there a problem?”

“No, sir,” Ashley said.

“Then get to class. Leslie, I’d like a word with you in my office.”

What else is new? I glanced at Katie. She was looking at the floor; you’d think someone had died. My insides heaved.

Why does everything go wrong? Why am I such a failure?

Right now I’m looking at Ms. Graham. I’ll bet she asks the same things. I wonder if she’s ever been in love. I wonder if she’s lonely. I wonder if maybe being lonely is better. All I know is, since falling in love with Jason I’ve been the loneliest of all.

Sixteen

M
s. Graham’s gone berserk, and it’s only the end of October. Nicky Wicks is lucky he’s alive. Mr. Manley is supervising us right now, and for the first time in history, this room is quiet as a morgue.

The class started out pretty ordinary—a lot of bad readers and paper airplanes. We were at the part in the book where Tom is about to get lynched and Scout has the guts to stand up in front of the whole mob—and she’s way younger than me!