TUESDAY 10 JANUARY 1989

Dean still hasn’t called. Maybe he lost my number. Perhaps I should look him up in the phone book & ring him. But if he didn’t lose my number, & just didn’t ring, the last thing he would want is for me to ring him.

The Assistant Commissioner of the Federal Police (Colin Winchester) was shot dead at his home by a sniper. I’m trying to keep up with news & current affairs, so when/if I see Dean again I’ll have something intelligent to talk to him about.

What if something’s happened to Dean? What if he’s hurt or sick, & here I am selfishly pissed off about him not ringing me? What if he’s dead? Oh please, God, don’t let him be dead. I should ring him just to make sure he’s OK.

I’m sure he’s not dead, & I shouldn’t ring him, but I looked up his number & wrote it in my new address book. I’ll wait one more day — if he doesn’t ring tomorrow, I’ll ring him.

Auntie Stella suggested she & Mum (& Nan & Pop too) go stay at a motel up on the Murray River border so they can play the poker machines all weekend. I’ve been making up plans in my head. If Mum lets me stay home by myself, I could invite Dean over (if he’s not dead) for a video night. I’ll rent a horror movie, or maybe a romantic comedy. I’ll make popcorn & he can bring some bourbon or vodka to mix with soft drink. Or Southern Comfort — I think he was drinking Southern on New Year’s.

If it’s hot (as if it’s ever not going to be!), I could take him down to my special place by the river.

THURSDAY 12 JANUARY 1989

No video night. No river night.

I didn’t ring him. He’s not dead, but I wish he was were. He rang me. Tonight. Not because he wanted to, but because Petra rang him & told him to. It was dumb, & I never should have asked her to do it. I was just too shy to ring for myself. I know it was childish, as Dean assured me. He thinks I’m too young for him. That was the problem all along. He said he was really drunk on New Year’s & didn’t know what he was doing. Fucking liar. Rumours have been going around, his mates calling him a ‘cradle-snatcher’. I don’t think 5 (OK, 6) years’ difference in age is a big deal, but obviously what people think is more important to him than I am. He’s not worth worrying about. I must forget him now. He loves himself too much anyway. Fuck him! I am so stupid for thinking he was different to all the other dumb, small-town boys.

Petra says he’ll regret it & he’ll never find anybody better than me. I don’t care. I never want to see him again.

Bastard! I hate him. Hate him. Hate him.

It hurts. So much.

FRIDAY 13 JANUARY 1989

Black Friday

So fucking hot I could die. One of our chooks (Dixie) did die from the heat. The house is an oven. The futile fans drone on, doing nothing but moving the heat around, while the black bugs take over.