Leslie's Journal - Allan Stratton [45]
Later, Katie tried to reassure me. “I doubt if it’s from Jason. You’re lucky you haven’t had mice before, with all those old sandwiches squashed under your gym bag. Besides, he doesn’t have your combination, does he?”
“I don’t think so.”
But I change my lock all the same.
Meanwhile my marks have been going to hell. I can’t concentrate to study, and as for doing homework, please. Apart from math, which I can do in my sleep, my only decent mark is English.
Katie’s marks are down too. Her mom says it’s my bad influence and it’s got to stop, especially now that exams are coming. That means Katie and I can’t spend time together after school; she has to study.
At least she still walks me home, right up to my apartment. And she waits till I’ve checked the closets and under the beds, too. She says if Jason comes by and starts pounding on the door before Mom gets back from work to call her right away. As if Katie could do anything over the phone.
The worst part of being home alone is having time to think. I think about horrible stuff. Like how last winter there was this teenager out west who got stabbed to death and dumped in the bushes. It took months before they found his body; and when they did, it turned out practically all the kids from the local high school knew he was there, they just hadn’t told anyone. The adults on TV acted shocked about how the kids could have kept this awful secret. Adults can be pretty stupid.
If I get murdered, I hope Mom won’t be mad at me. It’s not as if meeting Jason was my fault, exactly. I don’t know what it was. Bad luck? Fate? Or maybe God answers prayers after all, to teach people a lesson. I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. Nothing does.
Katie says it’s sick to talk about this, but if Jason kills me, I want to be cremated. I can’t stand the idea of being stuck in a box forever. It makes me claustrophobic. I’d like my ashes to be kept in the stone jar we got from Granny P. on her last visit before she died. Mom could keep it on the kitchen counter by the window, next to the African violets. Or, if seeing me there all the time would make her sad, I guess she could store them in a closet. Whatever. I just don’t want to get buried or scattered.
If you ever read this journal, Mom, I hope you can forget all the awful things I said to you. I didn’t mean them. I’m sorry I was a disappointment.
Thirty-Two
In slasher flicks, when a babysitter’s alone and hears a strange noise coming from the attic, she always checks it out—even when she knows there’s a psycho prowling the neighborhood who goes after babysitters in attics. If Katie and I are watching the movie together, I always elbow her as the babysitter climbs the creaky stairs and her flashlight goes out. “Here comes the chainsaw.”
“Tell me when I can look,” she squeals, peeking through her fingers.
Part of me thinks those babysitters deserve to die for being so stupid. But the other part of me knows why they do it. It’s because the door at the top of the stairs is alive with this overwhelming question: What’s on the other side? That question pulls them to their deaths like they’re zombies.
I’m in my room cramming for Friday’s geography exam when the phone rings. Nothing bad’s happened for two days, and I’m getting calm enough to memorize all about semi-arid continental climates.
Mom answers. “Hello? Oh hello, Jason. I’m sorry, but she doesn’t want to speak to you.”
I perk up. Jason? He identified himself?
“I’ll give her the message.” Mom sticks her head in. “That was Jason.”
I twirl my hair with my pencil and keep staring at my textbook like I couldn’t care less. “What did he want?”
“Not much. He called to say goodbye. He says he’s been thinking it over, and he’s taking your advice.”
“Oh,” I say absently, but chills run up my spine. My only advice to Jason was to kill himself. He’s doing it? He’s called to say goodbye?
“Is he changing schools?” Mom asks.
“I guess so,” I yawn.
“Well, that’s good. An odd time, though, right before exams.”
“An odd time for an odd guy.”
Mom laughs. “I’m glad you have