This is the new book about me - Tracey Binns is Lost. I thought you might like to read a bit. It's in a very nice pdf file here.

And the book is in the Fishpond for you here: Tracey Binns is Lost (Fishpond is a bookshop online and they promise the books don't get wet!)

And my first book is Tracey Binns Is Trouble ...

Chapter One begins ...

‘That Tracey Binns is trouble.’

‘Twenty laps around the footy field would fix her.’

Teachers. What did they know? I grinned and leaned back against the wall. I often listened outside the staffroom and heard interesting conversations.

‘Tracey’s fine. She just needs a firm hand.’

That was Mrs Gallant, my class teacher. Mum said Mrs Gallant had a soft spot for me. Maybe she was right.

‘Psst – Rubbish Binns! Whatcha doing?’ Justin stuck his spotty face right in front of mine, so close I could tell he’d had dim sims for lunch. His chin was all greasy and his breath ponged. I hate people who creep up on me, especially weedy, smelly boys who think they’re tough. Justin lost his bully status when a Grade Two kid punched him in the stomach last year and winded him. It served him right for pulling the kid’s ears.

I grabbed him around the neck with both hands and dragged him away from under the staffroom window before he got us both into trouble.

‘Eerrrggghhhh!’ His face was turning purple before I let him go, over behind the bike shed. It took him a few minutes to recover.

‘You’re a lunatic, Tracey Binns!’ He tried to look tough, puffing his chest out. ‘They shoulda left you at the tip, like all the other useless rubbish.’

‘Can’t you come up with any better insults than that?’

He poked my arm, hard. ‘How come you were hanging out by the staffroom?’

‘Listening, idiothead. How else do you find out what’s going on around here?’

‘I dunno. Who cares? It’s just school.’ He shook his head. ‘I’m going.’

‘I’ll go when I’m ready,’ I said, and watched him race out the gate towards the milk bar. The school was deserted, apart from a couple of teachers still in the staffroom. Papers blew across the playground and a black cloud slid over the sun. I shivered. No point staying. For once I didn’t have detention. I’d never tell anyone, but I quite liked staying back and helping Mrs Gallant put up displays and tidy the classroom. I trudged out through the gates and headed home, fingering the front door key in my pocket.

On my way home, I passed ordinary brick and wood houses with scrappy gardens and kids’ toys tossed everywhere, or rows of rose bushes and pansies grown by old ladies. Our house was at the end of a cul de sac, and it stood out like a decorated cream cake among a bunch of plain cupcakes – big white columns at the front, bay windows, white roses, curving paths. Mum loved it. She loved that it looked so perfect; they’d built the house she’d always wanted. Trouble was, her and Dad had to work seven days a week to pay for it.

My school report sat at the bottom of my bag. It’d been weighing me down for three weeks. I hadn’t shown it to Mum and Dad yet. And now Mrs Gallant had said if the acknowledgement slip wasn’t signed by one of them and brought back tomorrow, I’d be in big trouble.

When Mrs Gallant said ‘big trouble’ to me, I knew she meant it. I couldn’t forge Mum’s signature either. I’d done that too many times and now Mrs Gallant had an original she compared it with, and somehow she always knew, no matter how good a job I thought I’d done.