Leslie's Journal - Allan Stratton [25]
Fifteen
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.”
The good news is, despite all the sex I’m not pregnant.
For the first little while, I kept telling myself that each time was going to be the last. But then we’d get together and one thing always led to another. Finally, this one day, I gave up lying to myself and checked Wikipedia about menstrual cycles.
Talk about scary. I’m pretty good at math, and counting the days since my last period, I started imagining symptoms like crazy. At lunch, I ran out and got one of those tests from the pharmacy. I sat in my bathroom cubicle on the second floor and waited to see if the thingy’d turn color. Was I ever relieved!
That afternoon I told Jason we’d been lucky, but I’m at my peak and maybe he should use a condom.
He acted shocked. “You mean you’re not taking care of that?”
“I can’t go to my doctor. I’m too embarrassed. Anyway, a condom’s good for other things, too. You know, AIDS, STDs.”
“Are you accusing me of something?”
“No.”
“Good. So relax. I’m fine.”
But now I’m curious. “Have you been tested?”
“No.”
“Then how do you know you’re fine?”
“I know.” His fists clenched.
I tried to calm him down. “Look, I believe you. Sorry. But we can’t take chances. I’m only fifteen. If I get pregnant, they’re going to want to know who did it.”
“Who says they’d ever have to know you were pregnant? You’d just have to see somebody. My dad knows people.” I must’ve looked hurt because he got all sulky. “Fine. Be that way,” he said, and fished out a condom, like I was really inconveniencing him or something.
When he’s in one of those moods, I’ve learned not to mouth off. I just look at the floor and whisper, “Using a condom doesn’t make that much difference, does it?”
Then he gets all tender. He strokes my hair, cups my head in his hands and kisses me gently on the forehead. “It’s just that I want