Leslie's Journal

by Allan Stratton

  Katie’s idea of a Divine Plan is what English teachers like Ms. Graham call Destiny. Or Fate. It’s why young lovers get together at the end of a story, unless they’re in Romeo and Juliet, in which case they die.

  Mom and Katie are lucky. They really believe there’s a reason for everything, and that sooner or later you’ll be happy if you just work or pray hard enough. I want to be like them, but lately I’ve been overcome by this fear. I just start sweating and I think—what if there isn’t a plan? What if Destiny is just a fancy word for luck? I mean, what if things just happen because they happen? For no reason at all?

  For example, maybe you want to get some chips from the store across the street. But the second you step off the curb you’re hit by a truck. For no reason! It just happens!

  If things just happen because they happen, then you have no control. You’re helpless. We all are. Even parents. There’s no one—nothing—to protect us. Not ever.

  I don’t want that. I want a world that makes sense. Where things have meaning. That’s why even though I think Mom and Katie are crazy, I really hope they’re right. Because then I can stop worrying. Like, if my dream of Jason and me being together is part of some Divine Plan—if it’s destined or something—then it’ll just happen. Or if dreams need a little work, I can keep checking his locker. Or if prayer helps ... Well, okay, not that I believe in it or anything, but just in case, Dear God: If Jason comes up and asks me for a date, I promise to believe in You.

  Am I ever glad no one’s reading this.

  Seven

  God exists! I’ve been rescued from hell! Okay. First the hell part. Yesterday Katie invited me to another of her Saturday night all-girl sleepovers. I was kind of glad to be asked, because if I hadn’t been, I’d be suicidal. But I’m also thinking, hey, we’re in grade ten now—aren’t we a bit old for this shit? I mean, couldn’t we have a house party? But no, at Katie’s place there’s rules about no cigarettes or booze or boys. Once, as a joke, I asked Katie if I could bring some homemade hash brownies to liven things up. You should have seen her face. It was like I’d invited her to join a Satanic cult.

  At Katie’s parties, we all sit around in the rec room in our nighties. (Except for me. I usually sleep in my underwear, so Mrs. Kincaid makes me wear an old pair of Katie’s pajamas, plastered with kittens or ballerinas. I basically look like a dork, but that’s okay so long as nobody takes pictures.) We eat popcorn and chips and play stupid games and gossip. Then Mrs. Kincaid comes down with more so-called treats, like Rice Krispies squares and Jell-O fruit cups, and also stuff she makes from recipes on the backs of packages, like multicolored mini-marshmallows and canned mandarin orange slices in sour cream. I swear: Eat that crap, you’ll be puking rainbows.

  Anyway, Mrs. Kincaid’s got her ear to the air vent the whole night, because the second we bring up the subject of boys she’s down again to interrupt with the nutty idea we might like to dye our hair. She hands out these Krazy Kolors that wash out—Krazy Kolors, crazy if you’re a clown, maybe—and, bingo, we’re all dyeing our hair and giving each other facials and rolling around in hysterics. Ha ha, remind me to laugh. Oh, and did I mention the fashion show? The thrills never stop.

  It’s not that I don’t like facials and fashion shows. Katie and me used to have them all the time. But it was just the two of us. It’s different when you do stuff with people who’re just putting up with you.

  Hearing the hilarity, Mrs. Kincaid comes back and whispers loud in Katie’s ear, “Your father’s trying to get some work done. How be you girls settle down and watch a movie?” Katie always acts as if this is a great idea and puts on some sucky piece of junk they taped off the Family Channel.

  After gagging for five minutes, I suggest we turn down the sound and make up fake dialogue. At which point, Ashley either goes, “Leslie, we’re enjoying this. If you aren’t, why don’t you go home?” or “Come on, Leslie, you’re looking for an excuse to say something gross and spoil everything.” When I turn to Katie for support she just flaps her hands and looks helpless. I know she doesn’t want to choose sides, but her silence sure feels like a choice to me.

  I go off in a corner and pretend to read whatever’s on the coffee table. I sigh a lot and moan and generally bug everybody till they start throwing cushions at me. Then finally it’s midnight, and Mrs. Kincaid comes back down and turns the lights out.

  “Sleep tight.”

  It is always the same and it is always torture!

  So when Katie invites me this time I say, “Sure, great,” but I’m seriously thinking up excuses to cancel. Until I get home, that is, and find Mom rummaging around my room in Amazon Warrior mode. It seems Mr. Manley has called about my “continued inappropriate dress,” and Mom’s discovered I’m not wearing what I leave the house in. In fact, I’m wearing clothes she didn’t even know I had.

  “You’re quite a piece of work, Leslie,” she fumes, pointing at my secret wardrobe. She’s started to dig clothes out of supposedly empty drawers under my bed, and she’s throwing them onto a big pile in the middle of the room. “What’s the meaning of this?”

  How do I answer that? I don’t even try. Instead, I point at the “Leslie’s Room: Keep Out” sign on the door. “Can’t you read?” I yell. “Like, whatever happened to trust?”

  Mom shoves the pile into a green garbage bag. “These are going out with the trash.”

  “Who the hell do you think you are?”

  She ignores me, holding up a black bustier. “Where did you get this filth?”

  “For your information, that filth just so happens to be a present from Dad.” This is partly true, because I bought most of this stuff with money he gave me for Christmas and my birthday. Also with money I borrowed from his wallet. (I don’t call it stealing, I call it getting even. He says he gives me money instead of gifts so I can get something I’ll really like. Bullshit. He’d rather spend time with precious Brenda than shop for his daughter.)

  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 t
wo 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

  Two 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 b
oyfriend. 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.