Leslie's Journal - Allan Stratton [19]
“What if she comes down?”
“She won’t. She doesn’t like surprises.” I’m still not sure about things, but I melt when he looks in my eyes and whispers, “I love you, you know.”
Somehow we end up on the sofa, and then, well, things go so fast I hardly know it’s happened, except I hurt. We’re even still dressed, except for my panties are around my knees and my sweater’s pulled up. All of a sudden I want to get out of there. How can I be so in love and feel like shit?
“I should go. My mom’ll be expecting me.”
“Sure.” He nods, as if he’s secretly happy. “I’ll drive you back.”
Mrs. McCready is posed at the picture window in the living room, dressed in something out of Vogue. She’s still holding her tomato juice. “Finished your project?”
“Yeah.”
“You must be a good influence on him,” she says to me. Her eyelid twitches.
It’s six-thirty by the time I get home. There’s salad and a plate of cold macaroni and cheese waiting for me on the kitchen table. My mom is waiting too.
“Where were you?” she asks.
“Over at Katie’s.”
“Is that so.”
From the tone of her voice, I’m not sticking around to chat. I head down the hall to my room, calling back, “Yeah. We were working on a project for school tomorrow. You have a problem with that?”
Mom follows me. “Yes, I have a problem with that,” she fires back. “If you were at Katie’s, perhaps you’d like to explain why she called from choir practice asking you to phone her about a card you received.”
“It’s none of your business.”
“As long as you live here, everything is my business.”
“Yeah, right.” And I slam the door in her face.
Eleven
One of Mom’s favorite expressions is “Let sleeping dogs lie.” She says this all the time when I ask her about Dad and other women: “Leslie, just let sleeping dogs lie.”
I joke, “Does that mean I should let Dad lie, on account of he’s a sleeping dog?”
She gives me a dirty look. “I mean, don’t bring up unpleasantness from the past. Okay?”
Fine, so Mom doesn’t have a sense of humor. But at least you’d think she’d practice what she preaches. Isn’t it her job to set an example? I figured a good night’s sleep and she’d drop the whole cop routine about where I was last night. But no. Seven o’clock her alarm goes off, and she’s still on my case.
Well, if she’s going to be a busybody, I’m going to be a bitch.
“For the last time, Leslie, where were you?”
“Wherever will make you happy.”
Pretty soon it’s eight, and she’s so wired from her coffee and my crap she’s running in circles like a hamster on speed. I’m eating bran flakes while she screams at me from the bathroom—brushing her teeth with one hand, spraying deodorant with the other—when somebody buzzes from the lobby.
“Will you see who it is?”
“I’m having breakfast.”
“Leslie, I’m late enough for work as it is.”
Whoever’s in the lobby buzzes again. Mom runs out of the bathroom, toothpaste drooling off her chin. “Yes?” she hollers into the intercom. She mouths at me: “You’re grounded.”
“Annabelle Florists,” says this voice.
Mom looks surprised. So do I. “Come on up.”
The delivery guy arrives in no time. He hands her a bundle done up in fancy wrapping paper. Inside, there’s a dozen long-stemmed red roses and a note. Mom reads: “Leslie. Thanks for a great geography lesson. J.”
She passes me the roses. I’m in another world. I cradle the bouquet like it’s a baby.
Mom’s not impressed. “I take it he’s where you were last night.”
“Somebody’s just sent me roses for the first time in my life. Can’t you be happy?”
“Does ‘somebody’ have a name?” She wipes the toothpaste off her mouth.
“Why do you always have to spoil everything?” Instead of fighting, I want to cry. I sink into my chair and bury my head so she won’t see.
“Pooky Bear ...”
“Don’t call me that.”
“I’m sorry.”
I feel her hand on my shoulder and shake it off.
“Look, I’m happy for you. I just don’t like you sneaking around behind my back.”
I wait till I’m sure my voice won’t break. “His name is Jason McCready.”
“Have you been seeing