Leslie's Journal Read Online Free PDF Page B

the difference between a real life and a virtual life. Like she’d know. I sneak extra time when she’s late getting home, but it’s hard getting around her. The computer’s in the living room so we can share it. I had to go with that or have her in my room all the time.
    Hmm. Ms. Graham’s at her desk pretending to mark, but her pen isn’t moving. Neither are her eyes. She’s just staring. I don’t think she’s going to teach today.
    Great. Back to Jason and me. The other girls are sooo impressed. Except, of course, for Ashley A-hole, who goes around pretending she’d never date a senior, that only sluts do that. Eat your heart out is all I can say.
    I mean, how could anyone not go out with Jason? He’s terminally cool. When I see him in the hall he winks, points his finger at me like it’s a gun, grins and mouths “Saturday.” I wink, point my finger and mouth “Saturday” right back. Then we both walk away like we’re spies who’ve just passed a message in some secret code. Did I say walk? It’s more like I’m floating.
    Weird, eh? I mean, I’ve never been romantic like this before—not even when I was little and playing with dolls. Back in grade four, Katie’s favorite thing was marrying Barbie and Ken and having them go on honeymoons to smoochie places like Niagara Falls or the Bahamas. Except she’d never let them have sex because she said they hadn’t been married long enough. Well, no smoochie getaways for me. When it was my turn to pick a honeymoon, I’d have Barbie and Ken go on adventures. They’d scuba in the bathtub. Or skydive off the balcony with napkins taped to their hands for parachutes.
    The last time we played honeymoon, Mrs. Kincaid was out getting her hair done, and I had Barbie and Ken go on an African safari in the oven. Katie screamed when they started to melt. “You murdered them!” she cried, holding the dolls in her mother’s oven mitts.
    It was kind of true. Barbie’s eyes were running down her face, and her hair was this goo mixed in with what used to be Ken’s feet. But I wasn’t about to let that spoil a good honeymoon. “If they’re dead, we better give them a funeral,” I said. “You can be the minister and say a prayer.” The idea of being a minister cheered Katie right up. She gave a long speech about Barbie’s good deeds and her tragic love for Ken and then we buried them in the garden. The next week, we dug them up and played Zombie Barbie, but that’s another story.
    Anyway, with Jason, I finally get what all the fuss is about. When he kissed me on the football field—well, just thinking about it makes things tingle in a way that’s really amazing. Believe it or not, that was my very first French kiss. The truth is, even though I’m fifteen, the only thing I’m experienced at is making stuff up.
    Guys don’t go for me. I scare them. They like to feel they’re in control, but with me, let’s face it, they never know what’s going to come out of my mouth. (News flash: neither do I.)
    This scoop would give Mom a heart attack. Every time I come home late or get caught sneaking out after she’s gone to bed, she’s certain it’s to see some guy. I get back and there she is at the kitchen table in her housecoat. Sometimes she’s Volcano Mom (“What have you been up to, young lady?”), but mostly she’s Long-Suffering Mom, wiping away tears with a box of Kleenex, trying to make me feel guilty.
    Mom is afraid I’m going to end up pregnant. She’s especially worried when I come home smelling of beer. “What’s his name?” she yells, as if you need a guy to get drunk. All you need is to crash a house party. “Do you know about AIDS ? Do you know about condoms?” She throws such big production numbers I swear she oughta be in show business. And she’s always leaving magazines around open to stories about the tragedy of teen moms. I think she watches too much Oprah .
    I want to say, “Look, Mom, stop being so embarrassing.” But if she