My Diary from the Edge of the World Read Online Free
Author: Jodi Lynn Anderson
much a girl version of hisâthough heâs usually all stubbly.
âJust . . . daydreaming,â he said, turning red and folding up the map abruptly. He adjusted his black glasses on his nose and smiled at me in the fake way adults do sometimes when theyâre hiding something from you.Then he glanced up at the clock above the sink. âHey, shouldnât you be in bed?â
So here I am back in my room. But now I canât sleep.
I canât stop thinking about the father dragon and his baby. I hope theyâre somewhere safe and warm, even if they did smell bad and even if they eat disgusting things. I guess I can admit this here: I canât help thinking that if I were flying over a valley and my wings were drooping and giving out, my dad wouldnât even notice, much less be able to save me.
*Â Â *Â Â *
One more thing about the Extraordinary World. Something that is real about it is that many of the ships that went in search of it in the old days never came backânot because they found what they were looking for, but because of the Great Kraken. And now the southern ocean is scattered with phantom ships sailed by ghosts. They canât be caught on film (no ghost can), but they are widely known to be real. Thatâs one of many reasons no one goes sailing around the Southern Sea exploring anymore.
And with that cheerful thought, Iâm going to bed.
September 10th
Boring.
September 11th
Iâm so bored.
September 12th
I may be the only twelve-year-old on earth whoâs managed to break her arm and get grounded in the same week.
Tonight Iâm a prisoner in my own room. Iâve renamed myself Andromeda and am trying to pretend that Iâve been trapped in a tower by a greedy centaur who wants to marry me, but my imagination doesnât always work as well as it used to.
Anyway, I may as well just write the embarrassing truth here: I hit a girl in my class on the head with a stick.
Iâm sitting in my windowsill as I write this. Sam the Mouse is feeling better today, and he and his friend from down the street are roughhousing in a pile of leaves out front. This may be the last year Iâll even jump in a pileof leavesâMillie says I wonât want to do things like that much longer. Even though she usually doesnât know what sheâs talking about, I worry that she might be right, because last year I raked up a pile of leaves and didnât even have the patience to lie under it for more than a few seconds. I used to be able to do that for hours, looking up through the cracks in the leaves, but certain things donât excite me the way they used to.
The Dark Cloud has come closer in the last few days, and it does seem that itâs headed for our neighborhood, since weâre the only collection of houses on top of this hill. Iâve added up all the old people on our block and there are fourâfive if you count Michael Kowalskiâs grandma, whoâs sixty-eight, which is sort of in the middle between old and not so old. I hope itâs not her, even though sheâs always yelling at me not to ride my bike so fast.
My mom says weâre having ravioli for dinner and that I have to eat it in my room, even though I told her Iâll barf if I eat it. I reminded her of the last time she made me eat ravioli three years ago, when I did throw it up . . . all over a pile of Barbies beside my bed.
âThat was self-motivated vomiting,â she said, closing her lips in a thin determined line and running a handthrough her long dark hair, which is the exact brown (almost-black) color of Millieâs, only straighter.
My mom is the opposite of my dadâsheâs admired everywhere she goes. Millie says itâs something about the way she âholds herself.â I think itâs that she looks like a painting and is always thinking of other people (sheâs fascinated by our neighbor Mrs.
âJust . . . daydreaming,â he said, turning red and folding up the map abruptly. He adjusted his black glasses on his nose and smiled at me in the fake way adults do sometimes when theyâre hiding something from you.Then he glanced up at the clock above the sink. âHey, shouldnât you be in bed?â
So here I am back in my room. But now I canât sleep.
I canât stop thinking about the father dragon and his baby. I hope theyâre somewhere safe and warm, even if they did smell bad and even if they eat disgusting things. I guess I can admit this here: I canât help thinking that if I were flying over a valley and my wings were drooping and giving out, my dad wouldnât even notice, much less be able to save me.
*Â Â *Â Â *
One more thing about the Extraordinary World. Something that is real about it is that many of the ships that went in search of it in the old days never came backânot because they found what they were looking for, but because of the Great Kraken. And now the southern ocean is scattered with phantom ships sailed by ghosts. They canât be caught on film (no ghost can), but they are widely known to be real. Thatâs one of many reasons no one goes sailing around the Southern Sea exploring anymore.
And with that cheerful thought, Iâm going to bed.
September 10th
Boring.
September 11th
Iâm so bored.
September 12th
I may be the only twelve-year-old on earth whoâs managed to break her arm and get grounded in the same week.
Tonight Iâm a prisoner in my own room. Iâve renamed myself Andromeda and am trying to pretend that Iâve been trapped in a tower by a greedy centaur who wants to marry me, but my imagination doesnât always work as well as it used to.
Anyway, I may as well just write the embarrassing truth here: I hit a girl in my class on the head with a stick.
Iâm sitting in my windowsill as I write this. Sam the Mouse is feeling better today, and he and his friend from down the street are roughhousing in a pile of leaves out front. This may be the last year Iâll even jump in a pileof leavesâMillie says I wonât want to do things like that much longer. Even though she usually doesnât know what sheâs talking about, I worry that she might be right, because last year I raked up a pile of leaves and didnât even have the patience to lie under it for more than a few seconds. I used to be able to do that for hours, looking up through the cracks in the leaves, but certain things donât excite me the way they used to.
The Dark Cloud has come closer in the last few days, and it does seem that itâs headed for our neighborhood, since weâre the only collection of houses on top of this hill. Iâve added up all the old people on our block and there are fourâfive if you count Michael Kowalskiâs grandma, whoâs sixty-eight, which is sort of in the middle between old and not so old. I hope itâs not her, even though sheâs always yelling at me not to ride my bike so fast.
My mom says weâre having ravioli for dinner and that I have to eat it in my room, even though I told her Iâll barf if I eat it. I reminded her of the last time she made me eat ravioli three years ago, when I did throw it up . . . all over a pile of Barbies beside my bed.
âThat was self-motivated vomiting,â she said, closing her lips in a thin determined line and running a handthrough her long dark hair, which is the exact brown (almost-black) color of Millieâs, only straighter.
My mom is the opposite of my dadâsheâs admired everywhere she goes. Millie says itâs something about the way she âholds herself.â I think itâs that she looks like a painting and is always thinking of other people (sheâs fascinated by our neighbor Mrs.
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