The Trophy Trap

  Chapter Two

  Abby told everybody at school about winning the trophy. She wasn’t sure if they were all that interested, but it was important. They needed to know.

  Especially Maya, who went horse-riding and was inclined to be snooty about it. She was always going up in prize assembly to be given rosettes that she had won.

  “It’s only ping-pong,” Maya said.

  “Table tennis,” corrected Abby. “It’s an Olympic sport.”

  Maya rolled her eyes in an incredibly annoying way. “It’s not a sport at all, if you ask me,” she said.

  “I don’t ask you,” said Abby.

  “How many people were in the competition? One?”

  Abby thought about kicking her. “Loads,” she said. “It was a proper tournament at the sports centre. We had to play six matches.”

  “Who’s we?”

  “My brother Liam helped me.”

  Maya looked down her nose. “My brother Bradley plays football with your brother. He says he’s got two left feet.”

  Abby was startled. “Well, he’s good at table tennis.”

  “Ping-pong,” corrected Maya. “I bet it’s not a real trophy. I bet it’s a little pimple, just like you.”

  “I am not! And it’s this big!” Abby cried. “You’ll see, on Friday. I’m going to bring it in for prize assembly.”

  Maya shrugged and strolled away.

  “She didn’t have a smart answer for that!” said Abby with satisfaction to her friend Kate.

  Kate was quiet, as always. Miss Lewis said she didn’t have much choice when Abby was around. Now Kate said, “Is it a real trophy?”

  “Of course it is! I’ll show you it on Friday,” Abby assured her.

  If she told enough people, she reckoned it would have to happen. She could say to Mum, “I’ve told everybody I’m going up in assembly on Friday. So I’ve got to have the trophy now!” And Mum would be forced to agree.

  That evening, over tea, she said, “I’ve told everybody I’m going up in assembly on Friday. So I’ve got to have the trophy now!”

  “Then you’d better untell them,” said Mum. “And tell them again next month. Don’t you dare scream at the tea-table.”

  Abby managed to restrain herself. She wanted to finish her pizza. But it turned to cardboard and old socks in her mouth as she thought of how Maya would sneer on Friday, if she arrived at school with no trophy.

  She turned to Liam. “Dear dear lovely favourite brother, I’m ever so sorry I kicked you, and I’ll share my pocket money with you and I promise not to kick you any more for, ooh, three weeks, if you’ll only–”

  “No,” said Liam.

  “But you don’t–”

  “Yes, I do,” said Liam, “and the answer is No.”

  “I only want it two days early!”

  “No, NO, NO. It’s mine for a week. That’s not much to ask.” He pushed his chair back.

  “Neither is borrowing it for one measly morning!” yelled Abby after him. But Liam had grabbed his last slice of pizza and marched out.

  Abby turned to her mother. “Mu-um!” she wailed.

  Mum helped herself calmly to more salad. “You’re reaping what you’ve sown, Abby. And you have sown an awful lot of kicks. It’s entirely up to Liam what he does with the trophy.”

  Abby smouldered. It was absolutely, totally not fair. But it was also obvious that Mum and Liam had no intention of being fair. It was up to her to impose fairness.

  So after tea she skulked in her bedroom, waiting for the right moment. She heard Liam go downstairs to use Mum’s computer; he didn’t yet have his own.

  As soon as the coast was clear, Abby scuttled out of her room. Liam’s door was slightly ajar.

  She inspected it carefully. Yep, sure enough, he’d done exactly what she would do herself. The door was booby-trapped with a lunchbox balanced on top of it.

  Abby fetched the laundry basket from the bathroom and stood on top of it. She held the lunchbox steady while she opened the door wide enough to lift it down.

  It was full of forks. “Nice one,” she muttered. Prickly and clattery at the same time. She tossed them in the now somewhat squashed laundry basket and returned it to the bathroom.

  Tiptoeing back to Liam’s room, she saw the trophy straight away. It had pride of place on the shelf above his bed. On the point of running over to it, Abby stopped. This is too easy, she thought. What would I do next?

  She looked down.

  In the middle of the floor there was a multicoloured rug. All over the rug, well-camouflaged, were marbles. One more step and she’d have gone flying.

  She picked a way around them carefully. She knelt on Liam’s bed, reached up for the trophy: seized it, hugged it, screamed.

  Mum came bounding up the stairs and burst into the room.

  “What have you done? Have you hurt yourself?”

  Numbly, Abby held out the trophy. It slid from her hands. Mum caught it deftly before it hit the floor. “Oh,” she said.

  Abby couldn’t speak properly. The words lurched and staggered out.

  “Look what, look what he’s d-done to my tr-trophy! He’s slimed it! He’s ruined it!”

  Mum wiped a cautious finger round the trophy. It was slick with something greasy and transparent. She sniffed.

  “Vaseline,” she said. “Liam?”

  He was behind her, grinning widely. “Gotcher,” he told Abby.

  Mum held it out at arm’s length. “Wash this. Now.”

  “She shouldn’t have been in my room,” said Liam, taking the greased trophy. “Little sneak. Little thief. Little sneak-thief.”

  “Half of it is mine!” yelled Abby.

  “I don’t know what to do with you,” said Mum.

  “Why me? I didn’t slime the trophy. You never say I don’t know what to do with Liam!” shouted Abby.

  “Do not go in his room,” commanded Mum. “And do not touch that trophy. You can have it in a week.”

  “Six days,” corrected Abby. “Am I grounded?”

  “Why can’t the pair of you just get on?” asked Mum despairingly. “You should be a team. You won a tournament together, for goodness sake.” She ran her hands through her hair.

  “He’s a drongo,” Abby said.

  “She’s a muppet,” yelled Liam from the bathroom.

  Mum took her hands from her head and looked at them. “Oh, good grief. Now I’ll have to wash my hair.”

  “You can’t,” called Liam. “The trophy’s in the shower.”

  “Can I be grounded in the garage?” demanded Abby.

  Mum closed her eyes. “I think you’d better.”

  Abby raced down to the garage. Her smash-board was still in place, and she needed it badly.

  “That trophy’s mine,” she panted as she smashed a ball. “It’s mine, you drongo muppet. You’re a loser. You’re a pimple. You’ve got two left feet. It’s mine, mine, mine.”