Allan Stratton - Leslies Journal

Leslies Journal

Allan Stratton

for my students

Contents

I ts only the first week and already school sucks. Ive got Ms. Graham again for English.

Today she said every class is going to start with fifteen minutes of journal writing, which is what were doing now. This is supposed to train us to reflect freely on our personal experiences. Oh yeah? Its to give her fifteen minutes with nothing to do.

Also, since our journals will be about personal feelings, she says she wont read them. Your journal is just for you. So write, write, write. As with everything in this world, youll get out of it what you put into it. According to her, this is a Life Lesson. What it really is is an excuse for her to get out of marking.

A year of journals! Can I scream yet? Its so boring I keep forgetting to breathe. And each day when its over shes going to collect them and lock them up in her filing cabinet, like were a bunch of babies wholl lose them or something.

But okay. Journals beat having her teach. Last year, she either read aloud to us or we read aloud to her, then shed stop and ask us stupid questions about what wed just heard. This last part was hilarious, because nobody ever gave her an answer. We just stared up at her like we were dead and watched her eyes go funny. No kidding, her eyes were like gerbils. They darted around desperate for a hand to pop in the air till the silence got so bad she couldnt stand it anymore and blurted the answer herself.

Normal teachers would figure if students are passed out, maybe they should do something. LIKE, HELLO, MAYBE STOP ASKING DUMB QUESTIONS! But not Ms. Graham. She went from dumb to dumber. Thered be red patches on her neck and shed be sweating and wiping the sweat from her hands to her dress. It was disgusting.

Thats when shed tell us to read the next chapter silently and answer the questions on handouts shed pass around for homework. Which of course we never did. We pretended we hadnt heard her and the handouts didnt exist. At the end of class, wed crumple them into balls and toss them in the general direction of the wastebasket. Its like, whole rain forests got clear-cut so Ms. Graham could stuff her filing cabinet with handouts that all ended up in the garbage.

Then, pretty soon, we pretended Ms. Graham didnt exist either. Wed come in, put our heads on our desks and go to sleep. Which was fine by her, I guess, because at least if we were sleeping we werent throwing chalk. Or handouts.

It was sooo painful.

Near the end of the year, she went Missing in Action. They said she was away with chronic bronchitis, but we figured she was having a breakdown. Over the summer the story went around that shed knocked over a shelf of light fixtures at Wal-Mart and ended up under a pile of lampshades babbling hysterically while trying to strangle herself with an electric cord till the ambulance came and hauled her off in a straitjacket.

Well, thats the rumor. And even if it isnt true, it should be, because obviously shes back for more and shes nutty as ever. Right now shes floating around with this vague look, smelling kind of stale in a pale gray billowy thing. She looks like a human dustball. Wait. Shes just come to rest in front of the window. Shes looking out. Maybe shes thinking of jumping.

Its kind of sad, really. I mean, if she wasnt a teacher, Id feel sorry for her. Once upon a time she was somebodys baby, playing patty-cakes and having everybody kissing her and saying she was a cutie. Then she grew up. I picture her all alone in some tiny apartment, surrounded by cats and stacks of unmarked assignments, praying that tomorrow will be better. And it never is.

Poor Ms. Graham. Its not like she wants to be boring. Thats why I almost feel guilty when we torture her. Who we should torturereally, really torture, with hot coals and a pair of hedge clippersis Nicky Wicks. He has short greasy hair, cystic acne and a squishy tongue he likes to stick in girls ears for a joke. He also has a dent in his forehead from where somebody hit him with a shovel when he was little. Too bad they didnt hit harder.

Nicky is the grossest pig in the school, and in this school theres a lot of competition. He only has one re-deeming feature. If you want to lose weight, think about making out with him. You wont be able to eat for a week.

Anyway, Nicky Pus-head Wicks worked it so he sits one seat ahead of me in three separate classes. Whats worse, he apparently thinks it is majorly funny to stick a couple of pencils up his nose and pretend to be a walrus. The real reason he does this is to have an excuse to let his pencils fall on the floor so he can bend down to pick them up and look up my skirt while hes at it.

Today I got my revenge. I waited till lunch, when I knew hed be in the cafeteria with lots of people all around. Then I marched up to his table and said in a big loud voice, Hey, Pus-head, you look up my skirt one more time and Ill personally pop your zits with my nail file!

There was this roar of laughter, hooting and foot-stomping. Nicky was so embarrassed, I thought his cysts would explode. As for me, I just snapped my fingers and diva-ed my way to the parking lot for a smoke.

Thats where I met the vice-principal, Mr. Manley, out on a little narc duty. I want to see you in my office, young lady.

Sorry, journal, according to Ms. Graham its time for you to go into the filing cabinet. Tomorrow, Ill tell you what happened with the Nazi.

P.S. Dear Ms. Graham: You promised our journals were going to be private. So in case youre secretly reading this to get some cheap thrills, you are nothing but a crazy perverted liar, and its not my fault if it sends you over the edge.

V ice-principals are basically school cops. They like to act tough and eat donuts. So, all things considered, I guess Mr. Manley is in the right job. Mr. Manley. Right. As in: He is so manly. An elephant in a suit is more like it. They say that once upon a time he used to be a phys ed teacher. Now the only exercise he gets is yelling. His vocal cords are on steroids.

Its pathetic. Mr. Manley walks around all tough and important, like hes the FBI or something, when all he really is is some old guy who gets his kicks busting teenagers. I mean, he spends his whole life sneaking behind cars in the school parking lot to catch smokers, or smelling kids breath for alcohol or pot, or going around with a flashlight at school dances to make sure nobodys having sex on the football field or under the stairwells. What kind of pervert gets off on that?

Last year, in grade nine, Mr. Manley was always hauling me down to his office. I practically lived there. I joked he kept wanting to see me because he had the hots for me, but really it was on account of me being late and skipping all the time. My parents had started this trial separation and I wasnt taking it so well.

Im still not. Especially since it stopped being a trial, and Mom went from Still-Married-Sort-Of to Officially-Designated-Single-Mother. Now when she sees politicians on TV going on about single moms she starts to cry. Then she yells at me. Its like shes afraid if she doesnt crack down Im going to turn into this demon seed from a broken home, end up on some talk show maybe. Youre going to improve your behavior, she yells. Do you hear me, Leslie?

No. Im deaf.

Cut the attitude!

I give her the look. She goes ballistic. Dont give me that look.

Then stop yelling at me. I mean, no wonder Dad left.

Thats when her face goes white and she runs to her room and makes these awful animal sounds. And I want to die. I dont want to hurt her. Really. I just dont want her to yell at me all the time. Why does everything have to be my fault?