Leslie's Journal

Two

Vice-principles are basically school cops. They like to act tonight and eat donuts. So, all things considered, i guess Mr. Carrouthers is in the right job. They say that once upon a time he used to be a phys. ed. teacher. Now the only thing he gets to exercise is his voice. As a result, he's turned into this elephant in a suit.

It's pathetic, really. He walks around all tough and important, like he's the FBI or something, when all he really is is some old high-school teacher who gets his kicks yelling at 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 nobody's having sex on the football field or under the stairwells. What kind of sickie would get off on that?

last year, in grade nine, Mr. Carrouthers was always hauling me down his office. I practically lived there. I used to joke he kept wanting to see me because he had the hots for me (yuck, gross), but really it was on account of me being late and skipping all the time. My parents had just started what they called a "trial separation" and I wasn't taking it so well.

I'm still not. Especially since Mom went from being still-married-sort-of to being an officially designated Single Mother. Now whenever she sees politicians on TV going on about single moms she starts to cry. Then she yells at me. It's like she's afraid if she doesn't crack down I'm going to turn into this demon seed from a broken home, end up on some talk show maybe. "Your're going to improve your behavior," she yells. "Do you hear me, Leslie?"

"No. I'm deaf."

"Cut the attitude!"

I give her the look. She goes ballistic. "Don't give me that look."

"Then stop yelling at me. It's not my fault Dad found someone better. Keep it up and I'll leave too."

That's when her face goes white and she rocks on her feet like I punched her or something. Then she runs to her rooom and closes the door and makes these strange animal sounds. And I want to die. I don't want to hurt her. Really. I just don't want her to yell at me all the time. Why does everything have to be my fault?

Last year after Dad left was pretty bad. I couldn't be around anybody. Sometimes I took off to the mall to see how many movies I could sneak into at the cineplex, or to watch music videos on the wall of big-screen TVs at Laserama Electronics, or to panhandle beside the bank machine to see if i could make a living if I ever had to run away from home. Bust mostly, I just hung out in the far cubicle of the girls' washroom on the second floor east wing and cried.

Needless to say, whenever I did show up for class there was a note telling me to report to the vice-principal. In fact, me getting hauled down to the office turned into what my drama teacher would call a "Ritual."

At first Mr. Carrouthers tried to smarten me up by giving me after-school detentions. No way for that. So guess what he'd do when I'd skip detention? Give me two-day suspensions. Is that funny or what? I skip school and my punishment is that I get to skip more school. Mr. Carrouthers is a genius in the Stupid Department.

Which brings me back to getting caught in the parking lot. It turns out Brainiac hadn't seen my cigarette after all. Instead, he wanted to talk to me about my "inappropriate dress."

"It's not inappropriate," I say when we're in his office. "It's retro." What it really is is a black vinyl micro-mini with fishnets, platforms and crop top. Since last May I'm happy to say I haven't needed padding.

"You know what I'm getting at," Mr. Carrouthers snaps back, all eyebrows.

"I'm afraid I don't," I smile sweetly. "Perhaps you'd like to explain it to me." (Teachers hate that smile, because they know exactly what i'm thinkning but they can't do anything.)

Mr. Carrouthers decides to put me in my place. He gives me his famous silent routine. It's deadly. He stares down at a person without any expression, like they're a bug or something, and he just keeps staring. Finally the person goes crazy and starts to twitch. That's when he has them.

Well, he doesn't have me. Last year, maybe, when I was just a niner who thought getting sent to his office meant something. But i've been called down so muchby now I'm inoculated. Instead of getting scared, I look him straight in the eye. "Mr. Carrouthers," I ask, "are you saying I look like a slut?"

"That's not what I said," He chokes.

"But it's what you meant, isn't it? Unfortunately, I'm only a junior. I don't know anything about sluts, Perhaps you could tell me about them. For instance, how exactly do sluts dress?" (And here I give him an even sweeter smile.) "In your experience."

We stare at each other, hard, him really trying to break me down, me keeping cool by counting his nose hairs. Mr. Carrouthers has hair growing out of his nose and his ears and all over the back of his hands and fingers. For a second I picture him naked. I nearly barf.

Suddenly, for a split second, he looks away. I win. "You will go home, change and report back to this office when you're decent," he mutters. "That will be all."

Go home? I don't think so. I have some baggy clothes in my locker i can put on. They're what I leave the apartment in, otherwise Mom wouldn't let me out the door. I wear them over top, take them off as soon as I get in the elevator and stuff them in my plastic bag. It sounds dumb, but it saves a fight, and we fight enough as it is.

I tilt my head, smile at Mr. Carrouthers, get up and roll my eyes. "Have a nice day," I say.

I step out into the main office, and there's this senior lounging on the counter waiting for a secretary. I walk towards the hall staring straight ahead, but I can tell his eyes are following me. Not just following me - they're burning into the back of my head.

At the doorway, I stop and turn. "What's your damage?"

I expect him to go all red. But he just grins, winks, and keeps staring. So I give him the finger, toss my hair, and make an exit.

What a jerk!