Free Take My Word for It by John Marsden

at the newsagent tonight when I was getting the paper. They said Peter was out of fashion for a while but made a comeback when ‘Peter Pan’ was published. Somehow I don’t think my Peter would have much in common with Peter Pan. Wasn’t Peter Pan the boy who never grew up? Peter Fallon-White’s grown up, that’s one thing I can vouch for.
    We had a breezy time. He came to lunch and did a good suction job on Mum, then we walked down to the beach and sat there and talked—and a few other things. Then we went to the shops, then he had to go. I miss him. I missed him from the moment he got on the bus. I’ve rung him tonight already—can’t wait till tomorrow when we can talk again—he’s ringing me.
    M AY 20
    It’s nearly the end of the holidays and my secret mission has failed so far. I wasn’t going to write about it in here but I’ve changed my mind. I want this to be a true record of the year, so when I’m an old grandmother (Mrs Fallon-White?) I can read it and see what I was really like, what I was thinking about and feeling.
    Four times these holidays (today was the fourth) I’ve taken a no. 8 bus (no. 18 from Dad’s flat) to Mercer, and sat in the milk bar diagonally opposite 61 Dobson Road, and taken as long as mortally possible to eat a sandwich and drink a coffee, while I watched, hoping to see them. I saw Mrs Aston once, going in, but no sign of Miranda. I’d recognise her if I saw her.
    It’s frustrating that I don’t know the truth about Mrs Aston and Dad. I just want to know. I think I’d know if I saw Miranda.
    Now I’ll have to make sure I hide this Journal extra well for the rest of the holidays. Mum’d be so upset if she found I’d been there, looking for them.
    M AY 21
    Went to Peter’s tonight for dinner. His father drove me back here a few minutes ago. I had a great time! It’s a funny old house but really sweet. And his parents were funny—they had about six arguments while I was there, but no-one seemed too worried.
    Peter’s father used to be in the Navy. He’s older than the fathers of most kids my age but he’s a cool guy. He calls everyone ‘darling’—his wife, Peter, me, the dog, the cat. He looks like a Norwegian sailing captain—fluffy white hair and red cheeks. He dresses like an out-of-work gardener—one of the arguments was about his not getting changed for dinner.
    Mrs Fallon-White’s tall, but with this great face, great bone structure as my mum would say. I’d love to photograph her, or paint her. She’s very calm—Peter says she meditates and does Yoga and stuff. She’s got a notice in the kitchen above the phone, that says, ‘The greatest risk is to take no risk.’ I like that! That’s my philosophy! I’ll have to remember it next term when Mrs Graham stands there draped in jewellery, telling us we can’t wear earrings, and a little voice inside me is saying, ‘Put your hand up and ask her why.’
    M AY 22
    We all go back to school tomorrow but Edward and Will went home today to get their stuff. For some stupid reason we ended up playing Monopoly all morning before they left. It was so dumb, one of those games that go on forever. By the time we gave up Will had about twenty million dollars, and Edward was about twenty million in debt, and I was even. Will’s so annoying when he’s winning though—I nearly rammed his hotels, cards and money down his mouth a few times. But we had some laughs.
    M AY 25
    I am so stressed out. This Basketball is the biggest mess I’ve ever seen. It’s so different from rowing, where it was all super-organised. We’re meant to have a team for Saturday; we’ve had two practices, one of which was a joke, and at the end of today’s practice Dr Thorley told me to pick a team and put it on the board by 9 am tomorrow. I don’t think she realises