“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
Even 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.”
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
Friday 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.
Fift
een
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.”
Leslie's Journal Page 6