Leslie's Journal - Allan Stratton [50]
I see myself on a porch, banging away, him coming, and the people inside bolting the door. “We don’t want any trouble. Go away!” Is that what they’d really do? I don’t know. But I can’t afford to find out. I’ve got to get away from here now.
I glance over my shoulder, but Jason hasn’t followed. Instead, he’s closed his front door and turned off the lights, except for the fancy lantern by the steps. His house looks like every other house on the street. Even if people around here came to the window, what would they see? Some crazy girl screaming.
A bus pulls up as I hit the shelter. I flash my transit pass, head to the back and slouch down, so if Jason drives by I’ll be hidden.
My mind races. How bad is his cut? Will it need stitches? Can he charge me with assault? Wouldn’t that be a joke. But typical. So far, I don’t even have a bruise. I wish I did. If I looked beat up, maybe somebody’d believe me. Or maybe not. Beachball’d say I did it to myself. She wouldn’t be the only one. Practically the whole world would side with him. After all, the McCreadys are Somebodies. If it’s my word against theirs, guess who wins?
I get to the subway. When I ran from Jason’s house with the memory card, I felt safe underground. Not now. I picture him racing down to the platform, pushing me onto the rails. They’d call it an accident. I imagine the crowd watching as I’m hosed off the tracks, pissed I’ve delayed their ride.
Now things happen like in a dream. I know where I am and I know what I’m doing, but it’s as if I’m somebody else, separate from my body, watching myself do things: getting on the train, going past my stop, transferring to the line that takes me to the commuter station downtown.
Who can I trust? Mom. Katie. Maybe Ms. James. Can they protect me? Don’t make me laugh. He wants me dead. He knows where I live. He’ll get what he wants.
Unless I go someplace he won’t think about. Dad’s.
I get off at the commuter station. The first thing I have to do is call home. Mom will be going wild.
I drop my last change into the pay phone. She picks up on the first ring. “Leslie?”
“Yeah.”
“Where are you? What’s happened?”
“Nothing,” I say. “Everything’s fine.”
“Fine? You leave for the store—”
“Don’t yell at me.”
“Leslie, I want you back here this instant!”
“I can’t. Something’s come up.”
“Leslie, now!”
“I said no. I’m not coming back! Not ever! Know why? Because you always yell at me!” I hang up and walk in circles, slapping my legs. Why is she like this? Then I’m ashamed. I’ve crapped up her life so bad. It’ll be better for her with me gone. She’ll see that once she’s had time to cool down. It’s sort of a silver lining.
I head outside to bum the money to get to Oakville.
These days, there’s so much competition in the panhandling department, it’s hard to make a buck. An old guy, maybe forty, offers to help me out, wink, wink, but I shout in his face, “Does your wife know you’re out screwing kids?” He takes off fast as the space shuttle.
I decide I need a sob story. “I’m a runaway. Please help me go home,” I cry to anyone who’ll listen. The first part is true, and the second part is sort of true, considering that “home” is what Dad and Brenda call Oakville. It goes to show that people can tell the truth and still be liars. Truth is complicated.
At last I meet this middle-aged woman. She’s going a couple of cities farther, but says she’ll buy me a ticket if I’ll sit with her on the train. I figure this condition is to make sure I’m not lying about wanting the money for a ticket.
Well, that’s only half of it. Turns out she’s a Jehovah’s Witness, so all the way to Oakville I’m listening to her talk about being saved.