Dear Miffy by John Marsden Read Free Book Online Page A

me. Oh God, Miff, I’m going to do myself damage here just imagining it. Better change the subject, change it real quick. A couple of times thinking about you early on, when we first started going together, I came without even touching myself, never done that before or since. It was out of sight, man. Unreal. That’s how much I loved you.
    Sometimes you can’t hardly believe what your body will do.
    OK, change the subject. What to? I don’t know, I was just thinking about school and how different it was once we started being together. I lived for the sight of you, Miff. I’d come to school in the morning, get off the scummy old bus with its ripped seats and shitty smelly old Wally the driver, and I’d walk through the staff carpark where we weren’t meant to go, round the Lasers and Hyundais and Nissans, all those shitty little clean shiny cars that teachers buy . . . past them and past the main entrance with the sign saying students can’t use it—in case we contaminate it or something—along the covered walkway and the lockers with doors hanging off and graffiti all over them, past the rubbish tins that the cleaners never empty, through the plastic bags blowing across the bitumen, past the sexual harassment poster that says if you look at a girl’s legs you’re a pervert, past the try-hard library and the noticeboards with last year’s netball results going yellow and faded, and there you’d be, Miff, in your tight black jeans and that plain grey T-shirt, playing with your long black hair, looking so clean like you’d just stepped out of the ocean, like a model in a magazine, just shining , shining like the sun was for you alone, shining like you were the sun, shining like this special light came from inside you, a fucking miracle, and you were a miracle, Miff, you were the greatest fucking miracle in my life.
    After I started going with you I never wagged school no more, Miff—not unless you were wagging it with me. I mean, shit, I didn’t do any more work than I had before, even though you kept giving me a hard time about it, trying to make me do a bit, but hey, at least I turned up. Be grateful for small mercies, OK?
    I loved just talking to you, Miff, even though I never said anything much about myself. I know you didn’t like that, you kept hassling me about it, asking all them questions, wanting to know every fucking thing about me. Now I wish I had said more. I’m trying to make up for it by writing these letters, but it’s not the same, and anyway it’s a bit late. Talking: that’s what I should have done more of. It’s just that I’m such a dickhead that I couldn’t figure it out before. Christ, we fuck ourselves up, don’t we Miff? Don’t we just fuck ourselves up?
    Trouble is, I’ve never been a talker. You gotta learn how to talk, I reckon. I don’t mean just jabber on about footy and shit; I mean talk the way you did, about yourself and stuff that happens and whether you should do this or that or something else. I found that pretty fucking hard, still do. I know you did too, don’t get me wrong, but you did it better than I ever could.
    You know those movies where something bad, something real bad, is about to happen, and the sky gets darker and darker and this music starts, and it’s always the same kind of music, real threatening, real scary, it’s not exactly music even, just these sounds that are ugly and they don’t go together all smooth and nice and sweet like some music do? It’s like you can feel the wings of the dark angel beating over your head and you know something terrible’s coming and there’s nothing, not one fucking thing, you can do to stop it? That’s what it was like with us Miff; I heard that music, I heard it getting louder and louder, and there wasn’t nothing anyone could do about it. It scared the shit out of me but there