Leslie's Journal - Allan Stratton [55]
Sylvia says I can wait to decide what to do. In the meantime, she hooks Mom and me up with Victim Services. We get deadbolts for our apartment, call display for the phone, plus I’m given a free cell to use if I’m alone and in trouble.
I also get to “see someone” who specializes in abuse. Her name is Dr. Seymour. She’s written a book, which makes me think she must be smarter than the goof I went to for family counseling.
On the school front, Beachball is unsinkable. The cops ask her what she knew and when she knew it. Guess what? According to her, she had no idea there was a problem. Yes, she’d read my journal, and spoken to me immediately, but I told her it was make-believe. Cover your ass, Ms. Barker, it’s big enough.
Beachball says that my missed exams won’t count against me. My term work’s good enough that I’ll either scrape through or get failures bumped to a fifty. That hardly makes up for the fact that Jason gets to stay at the school; without charges there’s no reason to expel him. Beachball says if I’d feel more comfortable somewhere else, she’ll be happy to arrange a transfer. Nice. He tries to kill me, and I’m the one she wants to move.
Thirty-Nine
This morning Mom let me sleep in. Since I’m not back at school yet, I guess she figured there’s no point torturing me. As usual, I stayed inside, deadbolt secured. I’m still too nervous to go out unless I’m with somebody. “Jason won’t come after you while the heat’s on,” Katie says. Probably not, but crazier things have happened.
Anyway, I’m in front of the TV having breakfast—a Coke and a slice of leftover pizza—when the phone rings.
It’s Sylvia. “I’ve got something for you to look at. Do you have some free time?”
“Let me check my date book,” I joke. Sylvia doesn’t laugh. Twenty minutes later, she’s at my kitchen table, pulling a surprise out of her briefcase.
At first I don’t get it. Then it clicks. Sylvia may not have a sense of humor, but she sure is smart. I’m staring at a copy of last year’s yearbook from Port Burdock Central High. Port Burdock—Jason’s old stomping grounds. Jason was at the boys’ academy, but there were girls at the town’s public school.
I flip through the yearbook. Freeze. The girls’ faces are magnets. Amber Bentham, 9C. Melanie Brady, 10B. They smile out at me from their class pictures, but their eyes have secrets. Strange. I thought I was done with crying.
I’m hyper all day till Katie runs over after class. We sit in the bathroom giving each other facials. Katie thought this’d be good for calming me down, seeing as it’s a big sin to move your lips while the mask is drying.
I don’t care. I talk like a bad ventriloquist. “I caaan’t jussst sssit heeere waiiiting. I’vvve gooot tooo caaall theeem.”
Katie shakes her head and writes on a piece of paper: “Let the police do it.”
“Nooo waaay. I caaan’t.”
Katie writes: “Look in the mirror.”
I do and burst out laughing. These aren’t normal facials. They’re Fun Facials, sleepover specials courtesy of Katie’s mom. My face is this bright fluorescent orange; Katie looks like a cherry lollipop with hair.
“Yooour mooom isss meeentaaal!”
Katie giggles. Then she holds up her hand and shushes me while she stares at her watch for three minutes. Every time I go to say something, she kicks me.
“Oookaaay,” she says at last. We wash our faces off, hers in the sink, mine in the bathtub. After we’re done, we go back into the living room and I start up again.
“Leslie, get real,” Katie says. “Calling those girls is the stupidest idea you’ve had in ages.”
“Why? Don’t you think they’d like to know they’re not alone? I bet they don’t even know about each other—and they’re in the same school!”
“Leave it alone.”
“And it’ll all go away?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Katie, please. I’ll only do it if you say it’s okay. Puh-leeaasse? For meeeee?? Puh-llleeeeeaaaaassssse???”
Her eyes bug. “How does your mom put up with you?”
I grab her hand and yank her to the computer in the living room. We go online to the directory, my heart doing loop-de-loops.