Jennifer's Diary - Anne Fine [1]
“Yes. Of course.”
She seemed amazed.
“How did you think of that?”
“I just did.”
“I don’t know how you do it,” she said crossly. “Miss Hardie says ‘Write a story’ and I sit here and can’t think of a single word to write. You just pick up your pen and out it pours. Sensitive sheep. Cruel farmers. Cannibal cows. And I can’t think of anything. It’s not fair.”
There must be something between Jennifer’s ears. She can do maths, and learn poems, and even play the piano.
But every time I hear that old wail of hers (“I can’t think of anything to write”), I want to tape her mouth shut. Or fine her fifty pence. Or move, and sit by Sarah. Or complain to Miss Hardie. Or change schools. Or slice off the top of Jennifer’s head, and fill her brain up to overflowing with some of my leftover ideas.
I have too many of them. That’s my trouble.
Chapter Two
WHEN WE WERE getting ready to go home, I found a rainbow-coloured book on the floor. I picked it up and asked Jennifer, “Did this fall out of your pocket?”
She put her hand out for it.
“Oh, thank you, Iolanthe.”
I turned the pretty book over.
“What is it? Is it new?”
“It’s a present,” she said. “A diary. From my Aunt Muriel. Every single day of the year has a whole glossy blank page to itself, so you can write in it.”
“And what have you put in it so far?”
“Nothing much,” she admitted.
I opened it at the first page.
Jan 1st. It was quite cold today.
I turned the page. January 2nd was still blank. And so was January 3rd. But on January 4th, she’d spilled out all her secrets.
Mum and I went to the shops.
“So what did you buy,” I asked her, “on January 4th?”
She stared at me.
“I can’t remember.”
“You should have put it in the diary,” I said. “That’s what it’s for.”
She snatched it back.
“You know I’m no good at writing.”
“That’s ideas for Miss Hardie,”
I said. “But this is a diary. You didn’t have to make things up. You could have just written down what happened.”
“Not much did.”
“Then you could have written something else in it,” I said. “Like Inner Thoughts.”
She looked as blank as January 2nd.
“Inner Thoughts?”
“You know,” I said. “Things like Unspoken Fears. Private Worries. Secret Hopes. Everyone has those.”
Jennifer gave me a funny look, as if to say, ‘Maybe you do, Iolanthe. But /don’t.’ Then she went off, to walk home with Sarah. I go the other way. So when I saw the diary on the ground again, just outside school, instead of chasing after the two of them to give it back, I picked it up and took it home with me.
Diaries are deeply private. I know that.
So it sat on the table while I was having tea, and I didn’t even touch it.
It sat on the arm of the sofa while I was watching telly. I didn’t even peep inside.
And it sat on the laundry basket while I was having my bath. I didn’t even nose through the pages, looking for good bits I’d missed.
I didn’t crack until bedtime. Then I read all the bits I’d read before, while Jennifer was watching. (Jan 1st. It was quite cold today. Blank. Blank. Jan 4th. Mum and I went to the shops.) The next two pages were just two more blanks. Then:
Jan 7th. Nothing much happened.
And that was that.
I’m serious. I turned over every page, and there was no more. Not a single word. And it’s the eleventh today.
Sad life.
Chapter Three
I ONLY WROTE in it because it was there. I wasn’t being spiteful. It’s just that I was tucked up in my bed, not at all tired, with nothing else to do. My pen was practically waving at me out of my school bag. And the next page in the diary was so smooth and white and empty, it seemed to be begging for help.
“Help! Help!”
The words still ring in my ears.
“Help! Help!”
Today (January 11 th) I saved a little boy’s life. I’m not that brave. In fact. Ulolanthe, who sits next to me in class, often says I’m a wimp. But when I saw that poor child drowning in the river on the way to school, I didn’t stop to think. I just tore off my clothes, and jumped, in my knickers, into the freezing water.
The boy was panicking.
“Stop struggling,” I warned.