Free Take My Word for It by John Marsden Page B

tonight—it’s Matron’s night off, and the Relieving Matron does great suppers. Better ones anyway. Everything’s relative, as Mr Ross keeps saying. The game tomorrow (basketball) is at 9.30. We’ve got a massive squad of six, so too bad if someone’s injured in the first two minutes, or gets fouled off.
    I’m exhausted. It’s tiring being back at school. Think I’ll catch up on some Z’s.
    M AY 28
    Everyone’s on leave except me, as usual. Even Marina’s gone, to the Lindells again. You don’t normally get so many people out on the first weekend. Issy’s around somewhere but I haven’t seen her.
    I sat in my tree for hours this afternoon, reading a book.
    What’s become of poor old Lisa ,
    Why’s she sitting up a tree sir?
    Won’t she wave to you or me sir?
    Can she see what we can’t see sir?
    Can I see anything? I don’t think so. I don’t understand a lot of things. It’s being able to see the inside of things that matters—anyone can see the outside, and it doesn’t signify much. Take life at ‘Connewarre’, for instance. I only ever looked at the outside life there. I looked at the paddocks, the trees, the sky, at the blackberries growing in the old boundary rider’s hut, the Boobook owls perched above the willie wagtail’s nest, the burnt out car among the trees and rocks on a hilltop on the far side of the property. The thing is, though, that the heart of a property is the house, and I never looked, I wouldn’t look, at what was going on in that house. I was outdoors from dawn to dusk. Inside the house it was cold and uncomfortable, although I was only dimly aware of that—I didn’t think about it. I only came in for meals and sleep.
    It was the same with the magazine picture that wrecked everything. Mrs Aston and Miranda. I showed it to Mum quite innocently, didn’t I? ‘Look Mum, how come Mrs Aston doesn’t come here any more. She used to come so often. I didn’t know she had a daughter. She looks like that baby photo of Chloe, doesn’t she? I thought it was Chloe at first.’ Was it all innocent? That’s what I’m not sure of. Even though I didn’t know or understand, I had some deep, strange, vague feeling that I was stirring up trouble, doing something dark and wicked and wrong. It was the same as a year or so before that, when I’d let Mum catch me eating some chocolate I knew Chloe had shoplifted, and when Mum said, ‘Where’d you get that?’ I’d innocently said, ‘Chloe gave it to me,’ knowing Chloe would get into a lot of trouble.
    With the magazine it was vaguer than that—a vaguer feeling of mischief—but I knew, or at least thought it possible, that I was nudging open an evil door. I had a feeling something was lurking in there.
    Well, if I wanted to cause trouble, I sure succeeded. I lay in bed that night listening to what I’d caused. My eyes were open and I practised keeping my face even and strong and cold. I was determined not to be a baby. But I felt sick at what I’d done.
    I feel sick writing about it, remembering it.
    After that I started thinking that my family would have been better off if I’d never been born.
    Oh, by the way, we actually won the basketball. Can you believe it? I can’t. If ever a bunch of losers went onto a court with no hope at all, it was us. But we battled away, scored a few baskets now and then, and got ourselves out of it whenever we seemed to be heading into a catastrophe. We did it on guts, not class or skill. We won 28-24. I’m still amazed.
    M AY 29
    It’s getting good and cold. I don’t mind the cold weather, especially when it means snow. I hope it’s a good season. It opens officially next weekend but there hasn’t been a flake so far. Still, ‘late snow is good snow,’ Mr Susanto always tells us. At least we can count on Dad to