Leslie's Journal (16 page)

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. I want to tell her to take a hike. But me listening is making her day, so I just sit tight and chalk it up as a good deed.

As we pull into Oakville she gives me money for a cab to Dad’s and a copy of the
Watchtower
, which she pulls from a small pile in her bag. I say thanks, and how someday I’ll drop by the Kingdom Hall and get more information. Then I run.

Thirty-Five

I
don’t know what I expect from Dad. After the Brenda blowout, I told him that since he didn’t have time for me Saturdays, I didn’t have time for him Sundays. I only planned to make that punishment last a few weeks, but by then I was up to my ears in Jason.

Dad took me to lunch a couple of times. I ate fast, then said I had to go get ready for a date. He acted all smarmy, said he was happy I had a boyfriend and he’d leave it to me to let him know when I had time for a visit. By the time Jason and I broke up, I wasn’t seeing him much.

I’ve called, but it’s usually Brenda who’s answered. Lately, Dad hasn’t been home. “He’s working late.”

Like when he was working late with you? I want to laugh. Well, boo hoo. What you did to Mom, someone’s doing to you. But that’s not what I say. Instead, I go super sympathetic. “Gee, Brenda, I’m verrry, verrry sorry. You must be devastated.” (That’s way better—mean but polite, and points for vocab.) Then I hang up and picture her crying, all alone in what should have been Mom’s and my apartment.

But this is the problem of doing-unto-others—drop a turd on somebody’s plate and tomorrow you’ll be eating their leftovers. That’s what I’m thinking as I buzz Dad’s apartment. Because now I’m the one with the problem and she’s the one who gets to turn the screws.

“Who is it?” She’s even Cute and Perky over the intercom.

“It’s me. Is Dad there?”

“Dave, it’s Leslie.” Good, he’s home for once. Bzzz.

I open the door and go to the elevator. The lobby doesn’t smell so new anymore. But unlike at our place, the carpets aren’t crusty, the windows are clean and there are real plants, not just green plastic dust magnets.

Dad and Brenda are waiting by the elevator door when it opens. He scoops me out and hugs me. “Leslie. Your mother called. You had us worried sick.” He’s so embarrassing when he tries to act like a father. I want to say, “Chill out.” Instead, I hold on and cry. I don’t care who sees.

We go to their apartment. Dad gets me settled in the kitchen and asks Brenda to make some hot chocolate while he phones Mom to say I’ve been found.

“I wasn’t lost. And don’t call Mom.”

He kneels in front of my chair and holds my hands. “Leslie, we have to.”

“Why can’t I just stay here and nobody know?”

Dad looks at Brenda to see what to say, but for once she’s smart and keeps her mouth shut. For once he’s smart too. Instead of talking, he asks a question. “Leslie ... What’s going on?”

The air chokes up my nose. “Nothing.” An awful silence. He watches me sniffle. “It’s just ... we always fight. She always yells. I don’t want to be there. I want to be here with you.”

Another awful silence.

“Leslie ... What’s really going on?”

“Why? Don’t you want me?”

“Of course we do. But right now, we need you to tell us the truth.”

“You won’t believe me.”

“Trust us.”

I gulp and give Brenda a look. She gets the message and leaves, giving Dad’s shoulder a little rub as she passes. I look into his eyes. My lip trembles. I hear myself say, “A guy wants to kill me.”

“What guy?”

In the background, I hear Brenda calling Mom. I don’t care anymore.

“The guy I was going out with. Jason McCready. He knows where I live.”

Dad takes this in. “Leslie,” he says carefully, “sometimes people say things they don’t mean.”

“He’s tried!”

“Leslie?” He gives me a questioning look.

“I knew you wouldn’t believe me.”

“I do.” He doesn’t. “Why don’t we call his parents? Get to the bottom of this.”

What a dork. I pull my hands away, cross my arms and start to rock.

“We can call the police, too,” he adds fast. “Would that make you feel better? Maybe they can drop by, talk to him, straighten this out.”

“No! Talking won’t help.”

Dad closes his eyes for a second, like I’m being difficult. Then he says, all gentle and earnest, “Leslie, what else can we do?”

“Nothing!” I look right at him. “Nothing! That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you! It’s why I’m here! It’s why you have to protect me!”

“Of course I’ll protect you.”

“You won’t. You’ll send me back to Mom!”

“Okay, okay.” He clicks his tongue. “For tonight, how ‘bout you sleep here in your room?” My room—that’s what he calls the spare room when I’m around. “You get a good night’s sleep and tomorrow we’ll see what we can do.”

Brenda shows up in the doorway. “I talked to Linda. She’ll be here in half an hour,” she says to Dad in this stage whisper, like maybe I’m deaf or something.

My eyes go wide.

“I’ll call her right back,” Dad reassures me, squeezing my hand. “Don’t you worry. You’re staying here.”

“Dave?”

He shoots Brenda a glance. “Just deal with the hot chocolate, will you?” He picks up the phone on the wall by the fridge and punches in the number. “Linda, it’s Dave.” He must have got her just before she left.

Listening to one side of their conversation is hard. I keep wanting to add things, important things, but he keeps waving me down like he can handle it. Which he can’t.

“Apparently, there’s this young man ... Jason, right ... He’s made a threat. She’s scared sick ... I told her that ... Yes, I told her that ... Yes, I told her that too ... All right then. We’ll see you in half an hour.” He hangs up.

“You said I could stay here.”

“You can. Your mother’s just coming out. We all need to talk.”

“She’ll make me go back. She will. You’ll let her.”

“I won’t.”

“You will! And he’ll kill me!”

“Leslie—”

“You liar! Coward!” And I bolt from the room and out the door.

Dad chases me down the hall. “Come back!”

Forget the elevator, stairs are faster. I fly like a bat out of hell. I hit the lobby and I’m gone.

Thirty-Six

I
t’s cold this time of year, and I don’t know where to go. I think of a bus shelter, to get out of the wind, but that’s too obvious. Mom and Dad’ll be driving around looking for me, with Brenda stuck “holding the fort.” They’ll have cops after me, too. In the city, big deal. There’s lots of street kids, and hostels where I could give a fake name. But in places like this, the nomads stand out.

I end up hiding behind these evergreen bushes along the side of a school a couple of blocks away. They won’t think to look for me here—it’s too close. As a bonus, there’s some heat coming from the building, and I can see the lights up in Dad’s apartment.

I don’t really sleep. My ears are so cold I think they’re going to fall off, but when I pull my jacket up over my head my bum freezes. Around two in the morning, I think I see Mom’s car drive by. Then around four I see the lights in Dad’s apartment go out. I wonder if she’s in the spare room.

By seven, it’s getting light. I could hang around here and pretend to be a student, but not even browners get to school this early. If I don’t head out soon I’ll be spotted by a janitor come to turn on the boiler.

I crawl out from under the bushes. I’m stiff, I’m hungry, and my nose is running. I try hopping up and down to warm up. Some people think kids run away because it’s cool, like we’re all monkey-see-monkey-do. Right, we really want to get sick and dirty and starve to death because we saw somebody do it on
TV
.

A car pulls into the parking lot. A janitor. I take off.

I walk around for maybe an hour. Traffic starts up, people driving to work in the city. I wonder what Jason’s doing, if he’s back home waiting outside my apartment. And then I see this donut shop.

I go inside. At first I’m self-conscious, what with all the suits there to pick up a coffee and muffin. But soon I relax, on account of the grungies. There’s this table of guys with hat hair who look like they’re sobering up from an all-nighter. And a woman with so much makeup she’s either a hooker or a beautician. And next to the door, this guy with shakes and tattoos who’s tapping his feet like he’s waiting for his dealer—and his dealer’s really really late. Around these guys, I don’t smell at all.

I take a seat, rub my hands together and think. What do I do for food? For money? Last night at the train station was a wakeup. Whenever I begged before, it was for fun, to see if I could do it, and I had way better luck. Usually enough for a movie within half an hour. It’s weird, but wanting something so bad it hurts makes it harder to get.

Right now I need to eat. As soon as I’m warm I’ll set up shop outside the front door and guilt the suits leaving for work. Then, in the afternoon, I can find a strip mall, beg outside an electronics store. That way I can watch the
TV
s through the window if I’m bored.

Someone’s staring at me.

I look up in panic and see what passes for the manager—this twenty-something guy in a red-and-white striped shirt and a clip-on bow tie. His hair’s all slicked back and he has a big Adam’s apple. He points to a sign with block letters and announces in this official voice, “Tables for customers only.”

“Thanks a lot,” I go, all sarcastic, “but I can read, Dale.”

He looks surprised, like he’s thinking, How does she know my name?

I point at his name tag: “Hi, My Name Is Dale.”

“I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

I pull out my wallet. “As a matter of fact, I’m here to order two dozen donuts for my dad. So you better apologize or he’ll drop by later and talk to your boss.”

Dale’s face goes blotchy. “Sorry.”

I give him a smirk and join the lineup. I’m glad it’s long. I don’t have any money and this way I have a while longer to warm up. Also to breathe in the cigarettes. There’s so much smoke in here it’s like puffing a pack.

“How may I help you?” I look up. It’s “Hi, My Name Is Shirley.”

I’m at the front of the line. How did that happen? I hear myself say, “I’ll have six honey glazed, six walnut crullers, six chocolate glazed and six blueberry jelly, please.”

All of a sudden, there’s a box with two dozen donuts in front of me. I think about saying, These donuts are stale! and taking off. But they look so good and I’m so hungry I just grab the box and run.

Next thing I know, Shirley’s yelling, suits are blocking the door, I’m being held by drunks and Dale’s on the phone to the cops.

Thirty-Seven

O
fficer Maloney is fat with a notepad. He looks like the kind of guy who gets drunk and makes toasts at dinner parties. Officer Brant is his partner. She’d be okay if it weren’t for the coffee breath. They’re standing on either side of me out by the cruiser.

I’m too scared to look at their faces. Instead, I look at the windows of the donut shop. It seems we’re quite the topic of conversation, everyone nodding at each other and pointing. As for Dale, he’s strutting around like he’ll be getting a medal from Crimestoppers or something.

Officer Brant does the talking. “Could you show us some
ID
?” She looks like a kickboxer.

“Don’t have any.” I shove my hands into my pockets and move from side to side. It’s so cold.

“Do you have a name?”

“Uh, Melissa Johnson,” I say.

“Well, ‘Uh, Melissa Johnson,’ could you give us your real name?” Officer Brant doesn’t crack a smile, but I know she thinks she’s funny. So does Officer Maloney.

“My name’s Melissa Johnson,” I repeat, more confident this time.

“Where do you live?”

“At 162 Cranberry Street.”

“Never heard of it.”

“Well, that’s where I live.” I feel the cold come up through my sneakers.

Officer Brant gets in my face. The reek of Maxwell House makes me gag. “It looks to me like you’re underage.”

“No way. I’m eighteen.”

“When were you born?”

I get the year wrong. And I’m supposed to be good at math.

Now it’s Officer Maloney’s turn. “Look, ‘Melissa,’ either you tell us the truth or we arrest you for theft, vagrancy and interfering with a police investigation.”

“Over two dozen donuts?”

Maloney flips his notepad shut and goes to the car radio. Officer Brant stands there, arms folded, and watches me cry.

“Please. They got them back. What more do you want? Just let me go.”

Of course they don’t. There’s a Missing Persons bulletin matching my description. Talk about putting a move on. I heard somewhere cops normally wait a day after a person goes missing in case they’re just sulking or something. It doesn’t take much to figure Mom or Dad must have mentioned Jason and the death threat stuff.

They drive me to the station and put me in this room to wait for my parents. They also bring me some chicken noodle soup. It comes in a paper cup out of a machine, so it’s pretty gross, but I don’t care. Right now it tastes good.

Officers Maloney and Brant sit around and keep me company. Once they found out they’d got a missing person, they started acting different.