Leslie's Journal - Allan Stratton [31]
“We’ve found that students with hyperactivity, like Leslie, have benefited from Ritalin,” she announced, as if she’s a psychiatrist or something.
Lucky for me, Mom grew up in a small town. Even talk about drugs scares her. “I’d be a little uncomfortable putting Leslie on medication,” she frowned.
(“Hey, I’m sitting right here,” I wanted to scream. I just love it when you’re the topic of conversation and adults act like you’re not even there.)
“These days medication is quite commonplace,” Beachball soothed her. “To tell you the truth,” and here she gave a little laugh, “half my staff are on anti-depressants.” She meant that as a joke, but it wouldn’t surprise me, the way she runs things.
“Well, it’s something to think about,” Mom said.
So on top of everything else, I’m worried maybe this time Beachball will go for broke and try to get me committed.
Ms. James waltzes into the office. “Leslie? I hope you’re feeling better.”
I shoot her a look.
The head secretary rings Beachball’s private line. A few seconds later: “Go right in. Ms. Barker’s ready to see you.”
Twenty
Beachball doesn’t get up when we enter her office. She motions for us to sit down, pulls my journal from the piles of paper on her desk and flicks it in front of me.
Silence.
She purses her lips like they’re a pair of sugar tongs. “I must say you have quite a lively prose style.” She makes a kind of grimace. I guess this is one of those jokes you’re not supposed to laugh at. “You have scribbled any number of accusations,” she continues, “allegations that could destroy a young man’s life.”
“No one was supposed to read my journal,” I say, staring at the edge of her desk. “It was supposed to be private.”
“Is that so?” Out of the corner of my eye, I see Beachball shoot a look at Ms. James.
“Please don’t tell my mom.”
“Your journal leaves us no choice but to tell your mother. And the child welfare authorities. And the police.”
“The police?”
“They’ll need to make a full criminal investigation. You should know that the McCreadys are unlikely to take these charges lightly. They may well lay charges of their own.”
I flash on Mom collapsing, Jason in jail, me charged with something. “My journal’s a lie! I made it all up!”
“Ah. So it’s a fabrication?”
“Yes.”
“It most certainly is not!” Ms. James interrupts.
“Says who?” I yell at her. “Who made you God?”
“Leslie, if you don’t tell the truth, we can’t help you.”
“According to Leslie, she doesn’t need help,” Beachball purrs. “What she needs is to have her privacy respected.”
Ms. James looks as if she’s been sideswiped by a truck.
Beachball turns to me with a tight smile. “Might I suggest that in future you take more care with what you write. Might I further suggest that if you wish to avoid this fantasy becoming reality, you comport yourself with more discretion.”
Ms. James goes ballistic. “Ms. Barker, surely you aren’t suggesting that it’s ever acceptable to be sexually assaulted.”
Beachball’s eyes narrow. “I’m afraid you haven’t heard what I said.”
“Maybe not, but I heard what you meant.”
“I’m sorry you choose to misinterpret. In any case, this matter is no longer your concern.”
It’s like a Ping-Pong game, with me as the ball. I just want out. “So can I please have my journal back?”
Beachball puffs herself up. “You may. And I trust you will know what to do with it. Libel, defamation and slander are serious offences.”
“You can’t mean this is the end of it,” Ms. James gasps.
Beachball pauses. “Close the door on your way out, would you, Leslie? I’d like to have a word with Ms. James.” The last thing I hear before the door shuts is Beachball hissing, “You know, Tracey, in my experience, insubordination is not the best route to a long and happy career.”
I put my journal in my