But the weirdest thing happened. I went up the scruffy path at the back, investigating an old Kentucky Chicken carton with my foot just in case. (No luck at all, totally licked clean to the bone.) I climbed in through the back window, negotiated the kitchen, and walked into the living room, my footsteps sounding oddly loud on the bare floorboards.
The old curtains were drawn so it was quite dark in the room, but I could still see my red velvet sofa in the middle of the room . . . with 76
a big black velvet cushion at one end and a blue blanket neatly covering the worst of the muddy marks.
I stared at them as if I'd conjured them out of thin air. It was like one of those old fairytales. I squinted long and hard at the cushion and the blanket to see if they were being toted about by disembodied hands. I liked this idea even if it was kind of spooky. Maybe the hands were perched in a corner somewhere ready to flap their flying fingers at my command?
'OK, the cushion and the blanket are spot on, but what about some food? I said, snap-ping my own fingers.
Then I stopped mid-snap, my nails digging into my thumbs. I'd spotted an upturned cardboard packing case over by the window, with a checked dishcloth neatly laid over it like a little tablecloth. There was a paper party 77
plate with an entire giant packet of Smarties carefully arranged on top in rings of colour –
brown, green, blue, mauve, pink, red, orange, with yellow in the middle so that it looked like a flower.
I shivered from right up in the scalp down to the little taily bit at the end of my spine. My favourite food in all the world is Smarties. And here
was a big plate of them beautifully laid out just for me.
'It is magic!' I whispered, and I circled the cardboard table.
I put out a hand and picked up a red Smartie. I licked it. It was real. I popped it in my mouth, and then hurriedly shoved another handful after it in case they suddenly disappeared. Then I went to draw the old dusty curtains so I could have a
closer look and suss out how
this magic was working.
I yanked at the curtain –
and screamed. Someone else
screamed too!
A boy was sitting scrunched up
on the window ledge, knees up
under his little pointy chin,
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hands clasping a book, mouth gasping, eyes blink-blink-blinking.
'What are you doing here? Are you trying to frighten me?' I yelled.
He clasped his book so tightly it was in danger of buckling. His eyes were little slits because his face was so screwed up. 'You frightened me,' he whispered.
'What are you doing in my house?' I demanded.
He sat up a little straighter. 'It's my house, actually,' he said timidly.
'You don't live here.'
'Yes I do. Well, during the day I do. I'm making it my home. I brought the cushion.
And the rug. And organized refreshments.'
'You what? Oh. The Smarties.'
He looked over at the plate. 'You spoilt my pattern,' he said.
'It's only babies who play with food. Well, that's what they said at the Children's Home when I made my peas climb up my mashed potato mountain.'
'Did you really think it was magic?' he asked.
'Of course not!' I said firmly.
'I thought by the sound of your footsteps 79
you were really big and scary,' he said, un-clenching and swinging his legs free. 'That's why I hid.'
'I am big and scary,' I said. 'Bigger than you, anyway, you little squirt.'
'Everyone's bigger than me,' he said humbly.
'How old are you then? Nine? Ten?'
'I'm nearly twelve!'
I stared. 'You don't look it!'
'I know.'
'So what are you doing here then?' I asked, helping myself to another handful of Smarties. I offered him the plate, seeing as they were his refreshments. He said thank you politely and ate one blue Smartie, nibbling at the edges first like it was a biscuit.
He didn't answer me.
'Are you bunking off?' I asked.
He hesitated, then nodded. 'You won't tell, will you?' he said, swallowing his Smartie.
'I'm not a snitch.' I looked him up and down.
'Fancy you bunking off! You look too much of a goody-goody teacher's pet. Dead swotty!'
I pointed to his big fat book, trying to work out the title. 'Alex-an-der the Great. The great what?'
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'No, that was just what they called him.'
'As in Tracy the Great?' I rather liked the sound of it. 'That's me. Tracy.'
'I'm Alexander,' he said.
'Ah. Alexander the not-so-great. So. You're obviously dead brainy. Why do you need to bunk off? I bet you come top of everything.'
He nodded. 'Yep. Except for PE. I'm bottom at PE. I always bunk off on games days.'
'You're mad. PE's a bit of a laugh.
Especially when it's football.'
I'm truly Tracy the Great at footie, famed for my nippy footwork and dirty tackles. Old Vomit Bagley goes bright red in the face blowing her whistle at me.
Alexander was whingeing on about them being even worse then.
'Them?'
'The other boys. They tease me.'
'What about?'
Alexander ducked his head. 'All sorts of stuff. Especially . . . when we're i n the showers.'
'Aha!'
'They laugh at me because . . . '
'Because you're Alexander the not-so-great!'
I said, giggling.
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Alexander flinched as if I'd hit him. I suddenly felt mean. I
hitched myself up on the window
seat beside him. 'So you bunk off?'
I said.
'Mmm.'
'Haven't they complained to
your mum?'
'Yes.'
'So what did she say?'
'She never says anything much. It's Dad.'
Alexander said the word 'Dad' as if it meant Rottweiler.
'What did he say?'
I could feel Alexander trembling. 'He said –
he said – he said he'd send me away to boarding school if I didn't watch out, and then I couldn't play truant. And he said I'd really get bullied there.'
'He sounds dead caring, your dad,' I said, and I patted Alexander on his bony little shoulder.
'He says I have to learn to stand up for myself.'
I snorted and suddenly gave him the teeniest little push. He squealed in shock and nearly fell off the window seat. I hauled him back. 'You're not even very good at sitting up for yourself,'
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I said, shaking my head at him.
'I know,' Alexander said dolefully.
'So come on then. Try fighting back.'
'I can't. I don't know how.'
'I'll show you.'
He was in luck. I'm the greatest fighter in the world. I'm especially good at getting a sly punch in first. And I don't just rely on fists. I'm great at kicking shins. If I'm really pushed I bare my killer choppers and bite.
I pulled Alexander off the window seat and tried to get him to put his fists up. His little hands drooped back down to his sides.
'I can't fight. And anyway, I can't hit a girl.'
'You won't get a chance, matey,' I said, putting my own fists up. I gave him one little gentle punch. Then another. He
didn't react, apart from blinking rapidly.
'Come on! Try to hit me back.'
Alexander lunged at me feebly. His fist could have been cotton wool.
'Harder!'
He had one more go. I stepped
sideways and he punched thin air, stumbled, and very nearly fell over.
'Oh well. I see what you mean,' I said, 83
realizing he was a totally hopeless case.
'I'm useless,' said Alexander, drooping all over.
'Only at fighting,' I said. I pondered. I looked at his funny l
ittle feet in their highly polished Clarks lace-ups. It didn't look like he'd be much of a kicker. His tiny teeth only seemed capable of a hamster nibble, not a vicious vampire bite.
Other tactics might be required. I tried to think what I did those rare times when I was up against some huge gorilla guy who could jump up and down all over me. Easy. I got lippy (and then ran).
'See this,' I said to Alexander, and I stuck out my tongue. It is a very long pink tongue and I can waggle it till I almost touch my ears. Alexander backed away nervously. I replaced my tongue with pride. 'It's more cutting than the sharpest knife.'
Alexander nodded in agreement. I wondered if he got what I meant.
'You want to say something really cutting to those boys at your school.'
'Oh sure,' said Alexander. I detected a surprising spot of sarcasm. 'Then they'd beat me up even more.'
Maybe he had a point.
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'So why don't you say something to make them laugh? Like when you're in the showers?'
'They laugh at me already.'
'Make them laugh more.' I thought hard, trying to imagine myself into the situation. I got the giggles. 'I know!' I snorted. 'You tell them they might all have zonking great cucumbers but you're very happy with your own little gherkin.'
Alexander blinked at me.
'I can't say that!'
'Yes you can.'
'I wouldn't dare.'
'Yes you would. I dare
you. There. Now you've got
to say it. If you want to be my friend.'
Alexander looked puzzled. 'Are we friends?'
The cheek of it!
'Don't you want to be friends?' I
' demanded.
Alexander nodded. Wisely.
'Right. So we're friends. And we'll meet up again tomorrow?' I said.
Same time. Same place. He'd better be there. I hope he organizes some more refreshments.
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It was a little bit dodgy getting away. Cam came over all stroppy about school and the fact that I've been bunking off. Not that I told her. I'm not into that True Confession lark.
But the head phoned her up to tell her little Tracy was conspicuously absent and Cam got seriously fussed.
She started giving me a l-o-n-g lecture and I just happened to give the
teeniest little yawn. Cam
caught hold of me by the
shoulders so I had to look at
her. 'Tracy, this is serious.'
'Yeah, yeah.'
'I mean it.' Her silly short hair was sticking up all over the place. I can't see why she can't grow her hair into a decent style.
She'd look so much better if she wore make-up too. I don't know why she doesn't want to make 87
herself look pretty. Like my mum.
I didn't really want to look at her. I blinked so that my eyes went blurry and I just mumbled
'Mmm.' Then I wriggled. 'You're digging into my shoulders, Cam.'
She looked like she really wanted to dig straight through my skin but she just nodded and let me go. 'It is serious, Trace. You keep on and you'll be excluded.'
'Wow! Really?'
That Football guy is excluded. It only happens to the really tough nuts. I rather fancy being the Toughest Nutter of all.
'Don't sound so hopeful!'
'It's mad – you bunk off school because you hate it and they get narked and threaten you with this huge punishment, No School At All, which is precisely what you want most in the world!'
'You don't really hate school, do you?'
'Oh per-lease!'
'I know you don't get on very well with Mrs Bagley.'
'Understatement of the century!'
'But you won't be stuck in her class for ever.
You're bright; if you'd only give it a chance you could do really well, pass all your exams—'
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'I don't need to pass exams to be an actress.'
'I thought you wanted to be a writer.'
'I've changed my mind. I'd much sooner be an actress.'
'Like your mum?'
'Yep.'
I went off into a little dream, thinking about Mum and how it was going to be. Maybe I could get into acting
straight away and we
could be in films
together, a real mother
and daughter act: Mum
could play my mum –
not as a Mumsie type, naturally, more sexy and sassy – and I could be this cute kid with a sharp line in wisecracks. I could just see it.
'Tracy -' Cam's voice interfered with my imaginary reception. 'I know you love your mum very much. It's great
you've been able to see her again. But maybe – maybe it might be better not to pin all your hopes on your mum.'
I knew what she was getting at. I didn't want to listen. I've got so many hopes pinned on my mum she's like a human pin-cushion.
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It's going to be all right. We're going to be OK, Mum and me. We are we are we are. I'm going to stay with her next weekend and I can't wait.
Do you know something? Cam still doesn't seem to mind a bit. 'If it's what you want, Tracy,' she said.
'Of course it's what I want. But what do you want?'
'What I want is for you to stop playing truant. I want you to promise you won't bunk off school tomorrow. Or the next day.
Or the next. Ever again. Promise, Tracy.'
I promised. With my fingers crossed behind my back. It doesn't matter. Cam doesn't keep promises herself. I mean, she was all set for it to be me and her together for ever. And yet now my mum's come back on the scene Cam acts like she can't wait to be rid of me. Well, see if I care.
My mum's desperate to get me back. She's FANTASTIC. Even
better t h a n I made up. The best mum in the world.
She is.
She is.
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Better than anyone else's. Cam's mum is this weird old posh lady who lives in the country somewhere and doesn't want to see Cam any more because she disapproves of her
lifestyle.
Alexander's mum sounds
like this little mouse who
squeaks in a corner and
shivers whenever his dad
stalks past.
Football's mum is just the opposite, fiercer than fierce, and foul.
I saw her today when I bunked off school. I had to see if Alexander followed through with his dare. I went to the Spar on the corner first to fork out for a few refreshments with my school dinner money. I was wandering back up the road when I saw this woman coming out of her house yelling back into the hall, 'You can get out of your bed, you lazy great slummock, and get cracking with that vacuuming or you'll be for it when I get home. Did you hear me? I s a i d , DID YOU HEAR ME?'
You could hear her all the way up and down the street. People were probably wincing and putting their hands over their ears the other 91
side of town. She had a voice like a car alarm, going on and on and
on, so loud and insistent it was like it was ringing inside your
head as well as out.
'And if you dare get into one
more spot of bother then I'm
telling you straight, I'm having you put away. I'm sick to death
of you, do you hear me? You're
rubbish. No use to anyone. Just like your rotten father.'
She slammed the door and went slapping down the path in her grubby trainers, her huge thighs wobbling in her old leggings.
The upstairs window opened and the Football boy stuck his head out. He was in his vest, still all sleepy-eyed, straight from his bed, but he was still cradling his football.
'Don't you call my dad rotten!' he yelled.
'Don't get lippy with me, you lousy little whatsit!' she screamed. 'And don't you dare start sticking up for your lazy lying slug of a father!'
'Stop it! Don't call him names! He's worth ten of you!' Football shouted, going bright red in th
e face.
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'You think you know it all, eh? Staying in your bed half the day, never helping out, mucking things up at school, in trouble with the old Bill – yeah, you've really got your life worked out, my son.'
'I wish I wasn't your son. I wish I lived with my dad.'
'Oh right. OK then. Off you go.
Live with him, why don't you?'
Football's face got even redder.
'Yeah. Well. I would,' he mumbled.
'But he don't want you, right?' she yelled triumphantly. 'Face up to it, son. He's got his silly little lady friend – although by God she's no lady – and so he doesn't want me and he doesn't want you either, for all he goes on about you being best mates. He couldn't wait to turn his back on you – and he hasn't come back, has he?'
'He's taking me to the match on Saturday!'
'Oh yeah? Like he was a fortnight ago? He doesn't give a stuff about you.'
'He does, he does!' Football yelled, and there were tears dribbling down his bright red cheeks.
'You pathetic little cry-baby!' his mum jeered.
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Football took aim. His football
went flying through the air
and landed wallop, right on
her head. He cheered tearfully
as she swore, words so bad
they'd burn right through the
page if I wrote them down.
Then she stopped rubbing her head and grabbed hold of his football. 'Right!' she said, and she kicked it
way way way over
the rooftops out of
sight. I suppose she'd
have made a seriously good
footballer herself. Then she cheered.
'That's fixed you,' she said, and she marched off. She nearly bumped into me as she went. 'Had a good gawp, have you?' she said, pushing me out the way. 'Nosy little whatsit!'
I told her I wouldn't hurt my eyes gawping at something as ugly as her. Well, I whispered it. I didn't quite want to get into a shouting match with her myself.
Football was shouting too. At me. Telling me to clear off and mind my own business. Or 94