Leslie's Journal (3 page)

To cut it short, Dad picks me up Sunday about two o’clock and tells me today is going to be special—there’s a surprise at his apartment. As we drive out to Oakville, I’m thinking, Great, he’s finally fixed his old
DVD
player so we can watch movies instead of being stuck staring at each other over buckets of cold Chinese takeout.

Well, the
DVD
player isn’t the surprise. When he opens the door, I see a couple of empty packing boxes in the hallway, and there’s this strange smell of air freshener. Then Dad calls out, “We’re home,” and all of a sudden she bounces in from the bedroom looking like a Colgate commercial.

Her name is Brenda. I know that without anyone saying, because Mom and Dad used to fight about her all the time before they split up. And now I get to see her, all cute and perky, this overgrown cheerleader out to make a good impression. “Hi,” she says, and out comes her hand like she actually expects me to shake it.

“This is the surprise?” I glare at Dad.

Brenda ignores what I think is a pretty obvious signal. “You must be Leslie,” she beams.

“And you must be the Bitch,” I reply.

Brenda looks like someone just slapped her—if only!—and Dad’s ears go red. As per usual, he knows he should say something but can’t figure out what, so he just sputters, “Leslie ...”

“No, Dave, it’s all right.” Brenda pats his arm. “I understand.”

Dad settles down and tries his fatherly bit. “Leslie, Brenda’s accepted my invitation to move in.”

I look at the boxes. I sniff the air. “No kidding.”

Now Dad puts his arm around her. My stomach’s dissolving.

As for Brenda, she’s from another planet. “I’d like to be your friend,” she bubbles.

I want to explode, but I don’t. Instead, I pin her with my eyes, smile and say in a sweet little voice: “Is that so? Well, if you’d like to be my friend, perhaps you could tell me why you broke up my family and ruined my life?”

“Leslie! You will apologize!” Dad shouts.

“Eat shit!”

Dad looks at Brenda like a deer caught in the headlights. “I’m sorry. I should have told her in the car.” The car? He should have told me in the car? Is this my father?

“Take me home! Now!”

I look out the window the whole way back. I don’t say a word. All those Saturdays he was so busy with “overtime.” What a joke.

Dad stops outside my apartment building. As I open the car door, he clears his throat. Here it comes.

“I’m very disappointed in you, Leslie.”

“Is that a fact.”

“You embarrassed me. And you embarrassed yourself.”

“Whatever.” I get out and head up the walk.

“Come back here, young lady! I’m not finished!”

“Oh yes, you are,” I think, and I run as fast as I can. I get to the elevator, shoot upstairs. No way he’ll follow me. He doesn’t have the guts.

“Back so early?” Mom asks. She tries to act casual, but I know she’s happy. She’s always happy when I come back early. It means I’m mad at Dad. Well, I’m mad at her too. I slam my door, hurl myself on the bed and sob.

There’s a little knock. “Honey?”

“Go away.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“That crying doesn’t sound like nothing.”

“Just leave me alone.”

Leave me alone. That’s not asking too much, is it? But does she? No! She opens the door! She starts to come in!

“Honey—”

“I ... SAID ... LEAVE ... ME ... ALONE!!!” And I throw my hairbrush at her. Why does she have to make everything so hard?

I hate this life.

And then I think of Jason. Beautiful, beautiful Jason with his deep blue eyes and curly brown hair. I picture us gunning down some deserted highway on his motorcycle, me holding on tight around his waist.

Who am I kidding? I’m in love with some guy who probably doesn’t even remember I exist.

Six

I
t’s only been a week since we started doing journals, but already a lot of the class have stopped writing. They say they wrote down everything about their life on day one. “But every day is a new adventure!” Ms. Graham exclaimed. Hello? Has she checked the mirror lately?

Anyway, for people with no ideas, she’s agreed to post a daily “Topic for Reflection.” Today’s topic is “What Makes Dreams Come True?” General groan, cuz guess what? They don’t. And when they do, you wish they hadn’t. Take Ms. Graham. If she ever dreamed of being a teacher, I’ll bet she’s been kicking herself all the way to her shrink’s ever since. And if she dreamed of being anything else, well, I rest my case.

All the same, lame or not, I’m going to write about it, just to stop thinking about You-Know-Who for two seconds. I mean my whole life is thinking about him, which is totally stupid and driving me crazy, but I can’t help it. I pretend he’s moved to Australia, only right away I imagine him in tight shorts and a cowboy hat hopping around on a kangaroo. Or I pretend he’s dead, only I imagine him in his coffin, all beautiful like he’s sleeping, and smelling of lilies. I picture myself kissing a rose and putting it over his heart, so that a little part of me will be with him forever. Sick or what?

Back to the topic. I only know three people who believe in dreams coming true: Mom, Katie and Walt Disney.

Mom says dreams have a catch, though. She says they only come true if you plan ahead and work hard to make them happen. This is why I’m supposed to buckle down and study, so that later on, when “opportunity knocks,” I’ll be able to answer the door. Not that planning ahead and working hard has done anything for her, other than getting her a divorce, a lousy apartment and temp work.

When I remind her of this, she tells me to stop being negative. She says I’m too young to be cynical. I say she’s too old not to be.

“But, honey, these are the best years of your life.”

“Then shoot me.”

This gets her all teary. “Leslie, when you say things like that, I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.”

So now I’m supposed to feel guilty? No way. “If you’re thinking of crying, don’t.”

Mom apparently believes in the Magical Land of Happy Teenagers where nobody worries about pregnancy,
AIDS
, gangs or the future, and the most serious thing is a zit before the prom. In the Magical Land of Happy Teenagers there’s no
STD
s or overdoses, and everyone’s polite and helpful and smiles like an idiot.

Mom should be committed.

Katie also believes in dreams coming true. According to her, you don’t have to work for your dreams, you just have to pray for them. According to her, God answers her prayers all the time.

“Oh yeah?” I say. “Well, He didn’t give you that A you wanted in geography.”

“Only because I didn’t pray hard enough. But He gave me a C, and if I hadn’t prayed at all I would have failed.”

Katie also believes in God answering prayers because of her teeth. Since forever, she’d been praying for Him to fix her overbite. Finally, at the end of grade eight, her parents took her to an orthodontist, who gave her braces. She showed me this miracle the next morning before school.

“Katie,” I said, “are you trying to tell me God is a dentist?”

That made her really mad. She said if God was going to answer her prayers, it was mean for me to get picky about how He did it. In fact, it was a sin. I went to say something smart, but she put her hands over her ears and started to hum some hymn.

“Look, Katie, I believe in God,” I yelled, since it was the only thing I figured would shut her up. “I just think He’s got more on His mind than your stupid braces. Making sure the planets don’t collide, for one thing.”

And suddenly, there in my grade school playground, I had a flash of God as this Cosmic Juggler, and us as billions and trillions of balls He’s got in the air. Some of us stay up and some of us fall down. And who stays up and who falls down—well, it all depends on whether He loses His concentration.

Katie liked my theory, except she said God never loses His concentration because He’s perfect. She says everything has a reason, and God has a Divine Plan for each and every ball. If a ball falls, either it didn’t go where it was supposed to go or God planned for it to fall all along.

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

G
od 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.)