Dear Miffy by John Marsden Page B

She only knew three recipes: pizza, lasagne and spaghetti bolognaise. And she’s not even Italian. Geez, I got sick of pizza. Most of the time she didn’t cook it anyway, just got takeaway.
    They try to teach you all this shit here like conflict resolution, ‘alternatives to violence’. I don’t know about that stuff. I’m not that interested.
    Something this kid here was saying though, this crazy girl called Jacqui, made me think. Just about the way my life was, way back. When my parents was together. I’d forgotten a lot of that shit. I don’t think I really wanted to remember it, to tell you the truth. Man, they was bad times. All this fighting and screaming and shit, and then my little brother dying, poor little bugger. At least he got out of life the easy way. I wonder what he’d think now if he saw me like this. Guess he wouldn’t think I was much of a brother, would he? Little brothers are meant to look up to their older brothers, aren’t they? Hope he doesn’t know what happened, wherever he is.
    You hear these kids talk, it’s like they’re from another planet. Most of them are real posh, go to private schools, stuff like that. I don’t think they’ve got much in common with me. They think they’ve got problems, fucking hell, they must be joking. They don’t know when they’re well off.
    To them a big problem is having a zit, like they need six months’ counselling if they have a fucking zit, that’s how sad their lives are.
    Oh, not all of them, I guess. Some of them are pretty fucked up.
    To hear the way they go on, though, you’d think there’s a competition to be the most fucked in the head. Like they’re always trying to prove that they’re more fucked up than the next person. Can you believe it? I’m the most fucked-up one here and I’m not happy about it, I don’t want to win any medals.
    I’m not happy, Miff, and that’s the truth. But the truth is that I’m not going to be happy anywhere. That’s a real problem.
    T.
    Dear Miff,
    Geez, the months have rolled on, haven’t they? I must have been having a hell of a lot of fun, because the time has flown like a Calibra turbo. Didn’t have nothing to do tonight, so thought I’d bring you up to date on my life.
    I don’t know where to start, but. It’s pretty boring for me, writing down stuff I already know. One day I ought to send all these fucking letters, God knows where. God knows where you are, where you’re living. Maybe you’re not even living. Maybe you’re dead. I never thought about that before. I just scared the shit out of myself thinking about it then. I don’t want you to be dead, Miff, I want you to be safe, to be OK, to have forgotten all about me and how I wrecked your life. I know you and your mum had fights all the time and you used to say you hated her, but I don’t think you hated her too much. It’s just the way a lot of kids talk, you know what I mean? It don’t mean a lot sometimes. Sure it was different for me, with my mum pissing off and all, but your mum was OK, just trying to do the right thing by you, even if she was a snob and all that.
    I been thinking about my mum a bit lately. You know, wondering where she is. Thinking I might even try to find her. Don’t know why. Don’t owe her nothing. She sure cleaned us out when she left. Geez, I’ll never forget that day till I’m dead and rotting. I never thought she’d leave. I mean they had fights and stuff but everyone’s parents are like that, they always fight, don’t they? And I thought things had been getting better, shows what a great bloody judge I am. They hadn’t had a real full-on fight for a few weeks but I guess she was just getting ready for the midnight flit. Midday flit in her case. Don’t know how she could have done it, but—not because of me or me dad, Christ,