The Old Willis Place

me. A kid dressed up in a weird outfit maybe. I asked him if he'd please call the police to search the farm and catch it, but of course he just laughed. He said if he called the police for every little thing, he would be like the boy who cried wolf. If something really bad happened, the police would think it was another false alarm and not come.
Dad must hate me. How can he expect me to live here now? I'm never going outside again. Dad says fine, I can spend the whole day on my stupid home-school lessons. If only I could go to a real school and meet real kids instead of ogres in the woods.
Oh, Dee Dee—what was that horrible creature? And what did it want? Does it have Tedward and my bike and my book? What will it take next? What if it's outside right now, watching me through my window? Why won't Dad at least buy me some curtains?
I am really, really scared.
Love, Lissa
WHO DID NOT IMAGINE THE MONSTER
    I read the entry two or three times, scarcely able to believe what Lissa had written. How could she think such terrible things about me?
    In my mind's eye, I tried to see myself as she had. It wasn't an easy thing to do. I hadn't thought about my appearance for years. When I'd stepped out of the woods, I'd been wearing what I wore now, what I always wore, a blouse and skirt that had once belonged to Miss Lilian. I'd forgotten how they looked—torn by brambles, stained and faded to the color of earth and moss, fluttering in rags and tatters.
    I spread out my hands and examined them. My skin was grimy with dirt, my nails long and ragged. Briar scratches crisscrossed my arms and hands, as well as my legs and feet. My hair hung below my hips in an unwashed mass of tangles, matted with twigs and leaves and mud.
    Till that moment I hadn't cared what I looked like. No one saw me except Georgie. We were used to each other, he and I.
    But Lissa wasn't. Her clothes were clean and fresh. So were her hands and face. Her hair shone from shampoo.
    Burrowing even deeper under my covers, I wept softly. Once I'd been as clean as Lissa. I'd worn nice clothes, too. My hair had been brushed and combed and shiny. I'd had a mother and a father and a home. And friends. But then the bad thing happened and everything changed. It wasn't my fault. Or Georgie's.
    I poked my head out of the covers and took a good, long look at my brother. He, too, was a wild child, dirty and ragged, his hair a long mass of tangles. In fact, we looked like feral children, raised in the wilderness by wolves. Romulus and Remus. Mowgli with a sister.
    It was enough to make me cry all over again. How had I let this happen to us? Georgie was my little brother. Why hadn't I taken better care of him?
    Thoughts raced through my mind, one after another. Finally, I slipped out from under the blankets and found a pencil in Georgie's and my box of useful items.
    Stealing glances at Georgie from time to time, I began to write on a blank page in Lissa's diary:
Dear Lissa,
I did not mean to scare you. Please accept my sincere apologies. I am not a monster. I am a twelve-year-old girl. My name is Diana. I am very lonesome. I hope to be your friend, but after today Vm afraid you have the wrong idea about me.
It's true that my brother, Georgie, and I have spied on you and laughed at you and borrowed certain items, but if you knew us,you would understand. At least I hope you would. We lead a strange and lonely life. It is hard for us to keep clean and nice-looking, but I promise that the next time you see me I will look better. You won't be scared of me.
I hope you do not mind that I have read your diary. I am well aware that diaries contain secrets and are not meant to be shared with others, especially strangers (I once kept a diary myself), but I had to know what you thought of me. I promise I will never read it again. Cross my heart and hope to die if I do.
If you wish to meet me, go to the lion bench tomorrow afternoon and wait for me.
Please do not tell your father. No one must know about Georgie and me. We are not allowed to make friends.
In hope,
Diana
    I read over what I'd written. In sixth grade, Miss Perry had insisted we all learn to compose proper letters in formal language. She would have been impressed with my grammar and spelling, though she might have found fault with my penmanship. Due to lack of practice, it was a little crooked but far neater than Lissa's large, round, loopy handwriting.
    I hesitated. The terrace—was it safe to meet Lissa there? But where