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carried on like immature idiots. The latest craze is spitballs. They get gobs of paper, slag on them endlessly till they’re soaking wet, then chuck them at each other—or at the walls when the tutor turns her back.
    Kate used yellow paper for hers, that left nice yellow stains on everything.
    In the middle of all this, Miss Curzon, who was on duty, caught Sophie with one in her hand, that she was getting ready to throw. ‘Put that straight in the bin Sophie,’ Miss Curzon said. Miss Curzon never shouts, but you know when she’s serious, and she was serious. ‘Oh Miss Curzon, I can’t,’ said Sophie. ‘He’s my pet.’ She was cuddling it like it was a mouse or something. ‘His name’s Albert,’ Sophie said, looking round at Kate to make sure she was laughing. I hate the way she does that. Miss Curzon started shouting then. I don’t blame her. Sophie’s always so rude to her.
    I tell you what though, Ms Journal, if they start mucking round after Lights Out again tonight I’ll be into them like a nuclear missile. Tomorrow’s a big day for me—there’s rowing all day, plus I want to go for a run and a swim before breakfast. Kate’s so inconsiderate that she’d talk all night, even if you’re sick or something.
    I want to be totally stuffed by Sunday so I can just sleep all day, while everyone else goes out with their families.
    F EBRUARY 25
    Dear Journal, or Mr Lindell, whoever I’m writing to, I’m in the cruddiest mood, so don’t expect any great words of wisdom. Had a massive bitch fight with Sophie last night, then one with Ann this afternoon. Wonder who’ll be next? Line up folks, to be blown away by Cyclone Lisa. But honestly, I’ve asked Sophie about sixteen times not to smoke in the bathroom. I hate it. The fight with Ann wasn’t so bad—I thought she’d dobbed on Issy to Mrs Graham (Issy got three hours for getting into the kitchen on Friday night and knocking off some Milo) but Ann swore she didn’t, so I ended up believing her.
    Then, on Saturday, while I was rowing my guts out, some klepto took ten bucks from my drawer. Honestly, I’ve never been in a dorm where so much stuff gets kleptoed. It’s disgusting. Soph reckons it’s Marina, and Trace reckon’s it’s Emma, but I don’t think it’s anyone from this dorm. Trace is playing detective—trying to work out who was in the dorm on their own on Saturday—but she’s not getting far.
    Just about everyone’s had money taken, and other stuff too. It’s really quite off. You don’t know who to trust.
    The only thing about Saturday was that I was wrecked by the end of it. I ran eight k’s before breakfast, then we rowed till our arms were like dog food. Kizzy was crying from start to finish of the last sprints. Me, I love it. I want Eddie to drive us even harder. I wanted to go for a swim after training, and I would have too, if we hadn’t had an extra Inspection at five o’clock (Kate’s fault).
    Went to Sick Bay yesterday, even though I hate going there, but I thought I had the flu. She just gave me Panadol. I chucked them away—I can’t take tablets any more. I choke on them now.
    F EBRUARY 26
    Dear Mr Lindell, do you think bears get periods? Alex seems very moody today, and off his food. I guess male bears are exempt.
    I ran twelve k’s this afternoon—did the Horseshoe crossie, then kept going out, past the tip and back along the beach. Cathy came part of the way but she didn’t do the extra bit.
    Mr Lindell, you know what Tracey said to me after English today? She said: ‘The reason you’ve got no friends is that you don’t tell anyone your problems.’ What a bitch! I hate the way they tell everyone every single detail about themselves. I don’t like talking about myself. Is that so bad? I mean, what’s talking going to do?
    If you