Leslie's Journal (10 page)

For instance, last year there was this math test that by some miracle Cindy Williams forgot to study for. The minute she saw Mr. Kogawa handing out the questions, she had a panic attack and took off. Mr. Kogawa gave her a zero. But Cindy got all teary, said she’d been sick. He didn’t buy it. So she went whining to her mother, who complained to Beachball that this zero would wreck Cindy’s straight As.

Did Beachball side with Mr. Kogawa? No way. Cindy’s mom is on the Parents’ Council, so Beachball made the zero disappear, and Kogawa ended up looking like a fool. Cindy bragged all over that her mother told Beachball, “Either you deal with Fred Kogawa, or I go to the school board.” Personally, if I was Cindy, I wouldn’t brag about being a suck but, hey, whatever makes you feel important.

Anyway, two weeks later, I missed a geography test because Mom’s alarm clock didn’t go off. I got a zero too. So, I figured, no sweat, I’ll do like Cindy’s mom and talk to Beachball. Surprise, surprise: when I saw her in the hall, she wouldn’t discuss it.

Beachball likes to tell parents that she “addresses individual student needs.” Hah! She just plays favorites. That’s why she can’t stand Mr. Manley. He hands out suspensions no matter who your parents are. He’s sort of an equal opportunity hard-ass. Beachball could care less if kids like me fail or get suspended. But kids whose parents can make trouble, that’s another story.

Since Manley doesn’t care about pushy parents, he makes headaches for Beachball. As a result, she bad-mouths him out loud to teachers in the corridor and tells her little pets they don’t have to show up for his detentions.

Last year when Manley called Mom about my “absences,” I asked how come she listens to him when the principal doesn’t. Mom was shocked when I told her some of the things I’ve heard Beachball say. But she wasn’t shocked at Beachball. No, she was shocked at
me
for telling “lies.” According to her, Ms. Barker would never be so unprofessional. But she is. Ask anybody. She’s a bitch with dimples. Ashley A-hole grown up.

Manley’s a jerk, but he’s a jerk to everyone. You know where you stand. The line is clear. But with Beachball, forget it. Logic and fairness are out the window.

That’s why I’m scared about this meeting. There’s no way to figure out what she’ll do. Beachball might feel sorry for me and pretend nothing’s happened. Or, she might call Mom and try to get me locked up.

Yeah, locked up. Last year, when I entered this “phase” I’m supposedly going through, Beachball invited Mom and me to her office. (Manley’d suspended me after I got nailed for forging Mom’s signature on a school letter.) Beachball gave Mom a coffee and put on this caring routine, but what she really wanted was to get me tranked.

“We’ve found that students with hyperactivity, like Leslie, have benefited from Ritalin,” she announced, as if she’s a psychiatrist or something.

Lucky for me, Mom grew up in a small town. Even talk about drugs scares her. “I’d be a little uncomfortable putting Leslie on medication,” she frowned.

(“Hey, I’m sitting right here,” I wanted to scream. I just love it when you’re the topic of conversation and adults act like you’re not even there.)

“These days medication is quite commonplace,” Beachball soothed her. “To tell you the truth,” and here she gave a little laugh, “half my staff are on anti-depressants.” She meant that as a joke, but it wouldn’t surprise me, the way she runs things.

“Well, it’s something to think about,” Mom said.

So on top of everything else, I’m worried maybe this time Beachball will go for broke and try to get me committed.

Ms. James waltzes into the office. “Leslie? I hope you’re feeling better.”

I shoot her a look.

The head secretary rings Beachball’s private line. A few seconds later: “Go right in. Ms. Barker’s ready to see you.”

Twenty

B
eachball doesn’t get up when we enter her office. She motions for us to sit down, pulls my journal from the piles of paper on her desk and flicks it in front of me.

Silence.

She purses her lips like they’re a pair of sugar tongs. “I must say you have quite a lively prose style.” She makes a kind of grimace. I guess this is one of those jokes you’re not supposed to laugh at. “You have scribbled any number of accusations,” she continues, “allegations that could destroy a young man’s life.”

“No one was supposed to read my journal,” I say, staring at the edge of her desk. “It was supposed to be private.”

“Is that so?” Out of the corner of my eye, I see Beachball shoot a look at Ms. James.

“Please don’t tell my mom.”

“Your journal leaves us no choice but to tell your mother. And the child welfare authorities. And the police.”

“The
police?
”

“They’ll need to make a full criminal investigation. You should know that the McCreadys are unlikely to take these charges lightly. They may well lay charges of their own.”

I flash on Mom collapsing, Jason in jail, me charged with something. “My journal’s a lie! I made it all up!”

“Ah. So it’s a fabrication?”

“Yes.”

“It most certainly is not!” Ms. James interrupts.

“Says who?” I yell at her. “Who made you God?”

“Leslie, if you don’t tell the truth, we can’t help you.”

“According to Leslie, she doesn’t need help,” Beachball purrs. “What she needs is to have her privacy respected.”

Ms. James looks as if she’s been sideswiped by a truck.

Beachball turns to me with a tight smile. “Might I suggest that in future you take more care with what you write. Might I further suggest that if you wish to avoid this fantasy becoming reality, you comport yourself with more discretion.”

Ms. James goes ballistic. “Ms. Barker, surely you aren’t suggesting that it’s
ever
acceptable to be sexually assaulted.”

Beachball’s eyes narrow. “I’m afraid you haven’t heard what I said.”

“Maybe not, but I heard what you meant.”

“I’m sorry you choose to misinterpret. In any case, this matter is no longer your concern.”

It’s like a Ping-Pong game, with me as the ball. I just want out. “So can I please have my journal back?”

Beachball puffs herself up. “You may. And I trust you will know what to do with it. Libel, defamation and slander are serious offences.”

“You can’t mean this is the end of it,” Ms. James gasps.

Beachball pauses. “Close the door on your way out, would you, Leslie? I’d like to have a word with Ms. James.” The last thing I hear before the door shuts is Beachball hissing, “You know, Tracey, in my experience, insubordination is not the best route to a long and happy career.”

I put my journal in my bag and head to my locker. No way I’m going back to class. I slump on the floor. Next thing I know, I’m staring at somebody’s feet. I look up. It’s Ms. James.

“Leslie,” she says, “I want you to know, if you ever need help, I’m here.”

I’m so mad at her for putting me through this. All the same, part of me wants to thank her. But if I did, I’d cry. So instead I just say, “Whatever.”

Twenty-One

A
fter Ms. James leaves, I stay by my locker worrying. How much should I tell Jason about what’s going on? Maybe I should pretend this morning never happened. But there’s always spies around, and I could have been seen in the office by kids going to the washroom, wandering the halls, you name it. Gossip could already be flying. If Jason hears anything, I could say I was taking the homeroom attendance down to the office or signing in late. But if someone saw me going through Beachball’s door, he’ll be on my case big time.

I don’t get why Jason always has to know where I am and what I’m doing. He says I don’t have to get it, it’s just a fact. Since I’m his girl, he has a right to know everything. It’s no use arguing, unless I want to get him mad. A few times, I’ve texted I’m somewhere I’m not. But it’s like he’s inside my head.
“DONT LIE 2 ME!”
he texts back, and I spill. Besides, when he explains why he needs to know, he sounds so sweet. “I love you. I worry about losing you.”

“But if you love me, why can’t you trust me?”

“I do. I don’t trust other guys, that’s all. They want to get into your pants.”

“That’s their problem,” I tell him. “I’m not interested in anyone else.”

“So if you’re not interested, you’ve got nothing to hide. What’s the matter, don’t
you
trust
me?
”

When he puts it like that, I get mixed up. Then he holds me and snuggles me into his chest and kisses my hair and tells me, “I need to protect you. If I don’t know what you’re doing and you get into trouble, how can I look after you? I’d never forgive myself if you got hurt and I wasn’t there.”

“I guess.”

“And, hey, speaking of trust,” he says, “how do you think I feel when you lie about where you are?”

“Right. Sorry.” It’s not exactly what I’m thinking, but I’m too confused to say anything else, and besides, I don’t want another bruise. Jason has no idea how strong he is when he grabs me, which is what he does when he wants to make a point. He’s always making points.

So figuring what to tell him about my meeting with Beachball is really tricky. If I try to hide it, for sure I’ll act paranoid and he’ll know something’s wrong. But if I tell him the truth, he’ll go insane.

In the end, I don’t have to decide. Right before the period ends, he whips around the corner. “Get up. We’re going outside.”

“Sure. Just let me straighten up my locker.”

He slams my locker door shut so hard it bounces back open and a couple of books fall out. “Is that straight enough?” He yanks me to my feet.

“Ow. What’s with you?”

“Shut up.”

I barely have time to grab my bag before he’s hauling me down the hall by my elbow. A teacher sticks his head out of class to see what’s going on. Jason drops my arm, but we keep moving.

“Sorry,” I say to the teacher as we whisk by. “We’re just going to the library.”

Jason’s walking so fast it’s hard to keep up. But I know better than to fall behind. We’re heading towards the south exit at the far end, away from the street, where the school hides its dumpsters. Nobody ever goes down there on account of it’s all storage rooms, and once you step outside the door locks behind you. Basically the area’s deserted except for late-night parties. In the mornings, the janitors have to check the alcove for needles, condoms and smashed beer bottles.

He kicks the door open and pushes me outside. “Okay, bitch, you got something to tell me?”

I try to stall. “What are you talking about?”

“Don’t play games,” he snarls. He bounces me off the wall. “What did you tell her?”

“Who?”

He makes a fist. “Barker. Don’t play games.”

“She called me in for skipping.” I stumble backward towards the dumpsters.

“This is your last chance, bitch. What’d you tell her?” He grabs an old chunk of paving stone.

“No. Stop!” I trip. I scrape my hand on the gravel. I try crawling away on my right arm, shielding my head with my left. “Ms. James read my journal.”

“What journal?”

“The one I’ve been doing in English.”

“You wrote about me?”

“It wasn’t supposed to get read.”

“Answer the question.” He squeezes the stone.

“Yes.”

“Bitch!” He whips it over my head. It clangs off the dumpster.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry!”

Jason rages towards me, his face all twisted. Oh god, help! I scrunch into a ball. He jumps on top, yanks my arms down, pins me.

“Get off me. Ow!”

“What did you write?”

“Just stuff.”

“What stuff?” He knees my ribs.

“Leave me alone!”

“What stuff?”

“Nothing. Just stupid stuff.”

He’s right in my face now, talking hot and low. He’s sweating like mad. “Well, that’s real interesting. Because I had a talk with Barker too.”

“What?”

“She called me in. Said there’d been a complaint. No names, but we all know who, don’t we?”

“I didn’t complain.”

“Said I better be careful how I treat ‘young women,’ how I wouldn’t want to get misinterpreted. What’d she mean by that?” He squeezes his knee in my gut.

“I don’t know. Ow. You’re crushing me. Someone’s gonna see us.”

“Big deal. You fell. I’m helping you up.” He jerks me to my feet. “Last chance. What’d you write?”

Suddenly I don’t care what happens. “I wrote what you do to me.”

For a second, Jason goes calm. He chuckles, shakes his head and turns away. Then, before I know what hit me, he hauls off and smashes my shoulder. I crash back against the dumpster, crack my head, slide down into a heap.

“Where’s your journal now?”

“In Barker’s office,” I lie.

“Get it back. I want it burned.”

“I can’t.”

He boots the dumpster, to the right of my face.

Words spill out of my mouth. “I hate you! You’re a pig! A pig! You’re just like Katie said!”

“And you’re a ho. A cum rag.” He boots the dumpster again, closer.

“Go ahead. Kick me in the head. Kick me where people will see the bruise. Smash my face. Break my jaw. Why don’t you, coward?” I can hardly believe what I’m saying. “You and me, we’re finished.”

“Oh, yeah? We’re finished when I say we’re finished.”

“No. We’re finished when I say. And I say now. It’s over. O.V.E.R.”

I expect him to go crazy, but instead he laughs. “Hey, the bitch can spell. I wonder if she can spell ‘Sex Pix.’”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean the sex shots I took that first night when you were passed out. I think your mother’d like to see the kind of slut she raised. Flexible. I’m surprised you didn’t make cheerleader.”

“Hah!” My cheeks burn. “I checked your cell. There was just a stupid video of me dancing.”

“On the phone, right. I saved the hot stuff to the memory card. I was upstairs hiding it when you came to. You think I want anyone finding out about my hobby?” He leans in, grinning. “Whenever I want, you’re up on the Net, bitch. A spread-eagled porn star.”

“You’re lying.”

“Try me.”

He spits in my face and turns away. As he saunters off, he calls over his shoulder, “I’ll be in the parking lot at three-thirty. Don’t keep me waiting.”