Leslie's Journal - Allan Stratton [40]
“I’m not skipping, I’m sick.”
We fight all through breakfast. I make sure to cough so much my throat hurts for real. As for Mom, she gets a headache. “Leslie, I don’t have time to argue anymore. Get dressed. You’re going to be late.”
“You want me to infect the whole school? Talk about considerate. I hope it’s meningitis. I hope I die, so you can feel guilty. I hope you get it too. That’ll be a laugh, watching you hack away with double pneumonia.”
She puts on her coat. “I’m not writing a note.”
“Great. Get me expelled, why don’t you?”
She leaves.
If you’re going to skip, it’s better to do it with a friend. Being stuck alone gets tired real quick. I flick around the TV. Nothing but news, cartoons and the Shopping Network. I wish I was stoned.
Then the phone rings. Is it him? If Mom weren’t so cheap, we’d have call display. In case it’s the school, I answer with my sick voice. Good move. It’s the attendance secretary checking because I’ve been marked absent first period.
“I’m sick. My mom’ll write a note.”
“And what about yesterday? You left without signing out.”
“I was too busy puking, do you mind? What are you? The CIA?” I hang up.
I turn off the TV. I walk around the apartment a couple dozen times. I make faces in the mirror. I’m so bored I even read the newspaper. The headlines, anyway. When I get this bored at Dad’s, I sometimes watch the porno flick he keeps at the back of his filing cabinet under his old tax returns. I think it was a present from his stag party back when he married Mom. The hairstyles kill me, and the guys all have zits on their bums. I used to find it funny, but since all this stuff started happening with Jason, the thought of it makes me feel like heaving.
The phone rings again. I figure it’s the secretary calling back. Or Mr. Manley. I answer with my sick voice. “I told you, I’m sick.”
But it’s not the school.
“You can’t fool me, angel.” Jason’s voice is very even. “You took something of mine. I want it back. Plus your journal.”
“I don’t think so.”
Pause. “Is your mother home?”
“What’s it to you?”
A long pause. “I know where you live.” Click.
I let myself down onto the couch and try to breathe. Is he coming over?
How can I keep him out? Our building doesn’t have a doorman. The outside door downstairs is locked, but he could get in whenever a tenant comes or goes. I know. I’ve let in lots of strangers and seen others do it too. If they look respectable, you don’t mind. If they don’t, you don’t want to get them mad.
The phone rings. I think it’s him. It rings again. What if it’s the school? Rings again. I’ll say I was sleeping and didn’t hear it. Rings again. And again and again and again, until I can’t stand it anymore. I pick it up.
Silence on the other end of the line.
“Who is it?”
Breathing.
“I said, Who is it?”
Breathing.
I slam the receiver down and dial *69 to find the last number that phoned. I don’t recognize it. I call anyway. It rings and rings and rings. Then someone picks up.
“Is that you, Jason?” I say, trying to keep my voice from shaking.
Silence.
“Listen, asshole, I’m calling the operator. You’re in big trouble.”
I hang up. I report the number. But there’s nothing the operator can do. The call came from a laundromat.
This place is too creepy. I have to get out, go for a donut or something. I have a shower. Get dressed.
Just as I’m doing up my coat, there’s a knock on the door. Help. I don’t make a sound. Another knock. It’s probably not him—but what if? “Who is it?” Silence. I tiptoe to the door. I check through the peephole. I can’t see anyone. I keep the chain on and open it a crack. The elevator door down the hall is closing. The corridor’s empty.
That’s strange.
I take the chain off and open the door wide, ready to head out. And there at my feet is an envelope. My palms start to sweat. I open it. It’s a Get Well card. There’s a personal note inside.
“In sickness and in health,
Yours forever,
Love,
J.”
I lock the door and stay inside for the rest of the day.
Twenty-Seven
That night, Mom and