The Story of Tracy Beaker

  “Um. Did she really say that?” I said, giggling. “Oh, she's not so bad, really. And anyway, I didn't give her the red lollipop. I saved that for you.”

  “Thanks, Trace,” said Louise, and she beamed at me.

  Oh, we were like that in those days.

  I kept an eye on Justine. She didn't budge for a good half hour, letting the lollipop lie in her lap. And then I saw her hand creep out. She unwrapped it and gave it one small suspicious lick, as if I'd poisoned it. But it must have tasted okay because she took another lick, and then another, and then she settled down for a good long suck. Lollipops can be very soothing to the stomach.

  She didn't say thank you or anything. And when she eventually had to give up waiting and go to bed she stalked off by herself. But the next day at breakfast she gave me this little nod. So I nodded back and flicked a cornflake in her direction and she flicked one back, and we ended up having this good game of tiddlyflakes and after that we were friends. Not best friends. Louise was my best friend. Ha.

  She moaned at first.

  “Why do we have to have that Justine hanging around us all the time?” she complained. “I don't like her, Trace. She's really tough.”

  “Well, I want to be tough too. You've got to be tough. What do you mean? I'm tougher than Justine,” I said, sticking my chin out.

  “You nut job,” said Louise.

  It started to get to me, though. I started swearing worse than Justine and Jenny got really mad at me because Maxy started copying me and even little Wayne would come out with a real mouthful when he felt like it.

  So then I started the Dare Game. I've always won any dare. Until Justine came along.

  I dared her to say the rudest word she could think of when the vicar came on a visit. And she did.

  She dared me to go out in the garden stark naked. And I did.

  I dared her to eat a worm. And she did.

  She dared me to eat a worm.

  I said that wasn't fair. She couldn't copy my dare. Louise opened her big mouth and said I hated worms. “Then I dare her to eat two worms,” said Justine. So I did.

  I did. Sort of. It wasn't my fault they made me sick. I did swallow them first. Justine said I just spat them out right away but I didn't.

  I thought hard. I happen to be a crack hand at skateboarding. Justine's not much good at getting her balance and her steering's rotten. So I fixed up this skateboard assault course around the garden, with sloping benches and all sorts of things. And I dared Justine to take a chance on it. So she did.

  She fell over a lot. But she kept getting up and going on. So I said she was disqualified. But Louise said Justine should still win the bet if she completed the course. And she did.

  Then Justine dared me to climb the tree at the end of the garden.

  So I did.

  It wasn't my fault I didn't get all the way to the top. I didn't ask that stupid Mike to interfere. But Justine said I'd lost that dare, and Louise backed her up. I couldn't believe my ears.

  Louise was my friend.

  We couldn't do any more dares because Jenny PUT HER FOOT DOWN. You don't argue when she does that.

  The next day Justine's famous dad put in an appearance at long last. Justine had gone on and on about how good-looking he was, just like a pop star, and he actually had an evening job singing in pubs, which was why he couldn't be at home to look after her and her brothers. Well, you should have seen him. Starting to go bald. Pot belly. Medallion on a chain around his neck. He wasn't quite wearing a frilly shirt and bell-bottoms, but almost.

  You wouldn't catch me wanting a dad like that. But Justine gave a weird little whoop when she saw him and jumped up into his arms like a great big baby. He took her on some dumb outing and when she got back she was all bubbly and bouncy and showing off this … this present he'd bought her.

  I don't know why, but I felt really annoyed with Justine. It was all right when she didn't get a visit, like the rest of us. But now I kept picking on her and saying silly sniggery things about her dad. And then she burst into tears.

  I was a bit shocked. I didn't say anything that bad. And I never thought a really tough girl like Justine would ever cry. I don't ever cry, no matter what. I mean, my mom hasn't managed to come and visit me for donkey's years and I don't even have a dad, but you won't catch me crying.

  And then I got another shock. Because Louise turned on me.

  “You are horrid, Tracy,” she said. And then she put her arms right around Justine and gave her a big hug. “Don't take any notice of her. She's just jealous.”

  Me, jealous? Of Justine? Of Justine's dopey dumb dad? She had to be joking.

  But it didn't look like she was joking. She and Justine went off together, their arms around each other.

  I told myself I didn't care. Although I did care a little bit then. And I did wonder if I'd gone over the top with my remarks. I can have a very cutting tongue.

  I thought I'd smooth things over at breakfast. Maybe even tell Justine I hadn't really meant any of it. Not actually apologize, of course, but show her that I was sorry. But it was too late. I was left all alone at breakfast. Louise didn't sit next to me in her usual seat. She went and sat at the table by the window—with Justine.

  “Hey, Louise,” I called. And then I called again, louder. “Have you gone deaf or something?” I yelled.

  But she could hear me all right. She just wasn't talking to me. She wasn't my best friend anymore. She was Justine's.

  All I've got is silly squitty twitty Peter Ingham. Oh, maybe he's not so bad. I was writing all this down when there was this tiny tapping at my door. As if some timid little insect was scrabbling away out there. I told this beetle to buzz off because I was busy, but it went on scribble-scrabbling. So eventually I heaved myself off my bed and went to see what it wanted.

  “Do you want to play, Tracy?” he said.

  “Play?” I said witheringly. “What do you think I am, Peter Ingham? Some kind of baby? I'm busy writing.” But I'd been writing so much my whole arm ached and my writing lump was all red and throbbing. Oh, how we writers suffer for our art! It's chronic, it really is.

  So I did just wonder if it was time for a little diversion.

  “What sort of games do you play, then, little Peetle-Beetle?”

  He blinked a bit and shuffled backward as if I was about to squash him, but he managed to squeak out something about paper games.

  “Paper games?” I said. “Oh, I see. Do we make a football out of paper and then give it a kick so that it blows away? What fun. Or do we make a dear little teddy bear out of paper and give it a big hug and squash it flat? Even better.”

  Peter giggled nervously. “No, Tracy, pen and paper games. I always used to play tic-tac-toe with my granny.”

  “Oh, gosh, how incredibly thrilling,” I said. Beetles don't understand sarcasm.

  “Good, I like tic-tac-toe too,” he said, producing a pencil out of his pocket.

  There was no deterring him. So we played paper games after that.

  I suppose it passed the time a bit. And now I've just spotted something. Right at the bottom of the page, in teeny tiny beetle writing, there's a little message. “I like you a lot, Tracy.” Guess what! I've got a letter! Not another soppy little message from Peter. A real private letter that came in the mail, addressed to Ms. Tracy Beaker.

  I haven't had many letters recently. Oh, there have been plenty of letters about me. Elaine's got a whole library of files on me. I secretly rifled through them and you should just see some of the mean, horrid things they say about me. I had a good mind to sue them for libel. Yeah, that would be great. And I'd get awarded all these damages, hundreds of thousands of pounds, and I'd be able to thumb my nose at Justine and Jenny and Elaine and all the others. I'd just clutch my lovely lollipop in my hot little hand and go off and …

  Well, I'd have my own house, right? And I'd employ someone to foster me. But because I'd be paying them, they'd have to do everything I said. I'd order them to make
me a whole birthday cake all for myself every single day of the week and they'd just have to jump to it and do so.

  I wouldn't let anybody else in to share it with me.

  Not even Peter. I had to share my real birthday cake with him. And he gave me a nudge and said, “What's the matter, Tracy? Don't you feel well?” just when I'd closed my eyes tight and was in the middle of making my birthday wish. So it got all mixed up and I lost my train of thought and now if my mom doesn't come for me it's all that Peter Ingham's fault.

  Well, maybe it is.

  But I'd still let him come over to my house sometimes and we could play paper games. They're quite good fun, really, because I always win.

  Who else could I have in my house? I could try and get Camilla. I'd look after her. I could get a special playpen and lots of toys. I've always liked the look of all that baby junk. I don't suppose I had much of that sort of thing when I was a baby. Yeah, I could have a proper nursery in my house and when Camilla wasn't using it I could play around in there, just for a laugh.

  I wonder if Camilla remembers me now? That's the trouble with babies.

  I wonder if Cam is short for Camilla?

  That's who my letter was from.

  I was a bit disappointed at first. I thought it was from my mom. I know she's never written to me before, but still, when Jenny handed it to me at breakfast I just clutched at the envelope and held it tight and shut my eyes quick because they got suddenly hot and prickly and if I was a snivelly sort of person I might well have cried.

  “What's up with Tracy?” the other kids mumbled.

  I gave a great swallow and sniff and opened my eyes and said, “Nothing's up! Look, I've got a letter! A letter from—”

  “I think it's maybe from Cam Lawson,” Jenny said, very quickly indeed.

  I caught my breath. “Yeah. Cam Lawson. See that? She's written me my own personal letter. And she's not written to any of you. See! She's written to me.”

  “So what does she say, then?”

  “Never you mind. It's private.”

  I went off to read it all by myself. I didn't get around to it for a bit. I was thinking all these dopey things about my mom. And I had a bad attack of hay fever. And I didn't really want to read what Cam Lawson had to say anyway. She saw me having my hairy fit. I was scared she'd think I was some sort of loony.

  Only the letter was okay.

  So I wrote back to her.

  And she wrote back to me.

  And I wrote again. And she wrote again.

  Then she came to see me on Saturday morning. But she really screwed up.

  I'd got it all worked out. I was ready to fill her in on all the facts. Mostly about me, of course. But I thought maybe she might fancy interviewing Peter too, to balance things. A girl's point of view, and a boy's. No need to bother with any of the others.

  Cam's got this dinky little tape recorder and after just one minute of instruction I mastered the entire mechanism and had great fun fast-forwarding and rewinding and playing back. I took a little turn first, trying out all my different accents, doing my Australian G'day routine and my sinister gangster and my special Donald Duck, but then I decided we'd better get down to business and as I'm not the sort of girl to hog the limelight I said Peter could go first.

  He backed away from the tape recorder as if it was a loaded gun.

  “Don't be so silly, Peter. Just act normal and speak into it.”

  “What shall I say?” Peter squeaked.

  I sighed impatiently. “Just tell Cam your life story.”

  “But I haven't got a story. I couldn't think of anything to put when Elaine gave me that book,” said Peter. “I lived with my granny. And she died. So I came here. That's all there is.”

  “That's okay, Peter. Don't let Tracy bully you into it. You don't have to say anything,” said Cam.

  “What a nerve! I'm not a bully. Huh, I was the kid who always got bullied. This other

  Home I was in, there was this great big teenage guy, and he was a really tough skinhead and he had these stomper boots and I filled them up with custard for a joke and he didn't see the funny side of it but he looked really hilarious, all this frothy yellow liquid squishing up his trouser legs—so anyway, from then on my name was mud, and he really had it in for me. The things he used to do!”

  I was about to launch into a long account but— typical typical—that Justine Littlewood came barging over.

  “It's not fair, Ms. Lawson. You're letting that stupid Tracy show off like mad, and you're not giving any of us a turn.”

  “You shut your face, blabbermouth,” I said. “She hasn't come to see you. She's come to see me. A strictly private appointment. So get out of here. Isn't that right, Cam?”

  “Well. Yes, I've come to talk to you, Tracy. But we could all take a turn on the tape recorder for a bit,” she said.

  What a gutless creep she is! She was there just to see me. We had a proper business appointment. All she had to do was tell Justine and the others to buzz off. It wouldn't have mattered if Peter stayed, because he's not really any bother. But the others! It was useless. Practically the whole morning was wasted. She let them all mess around on the tape recorder and then some of the little kids wanted another turn drawing with her Mickey Mouse pen, and then Jenny came in with coffee for Cam and soda for us and it was like some big party. Only I didn't feel like the birthday girl. I felt squeezed out to the edge again.

  After a bit I stomped off. I kept looking back over my shoulder and I thought she didn't even notice. But then she sidled up. She still had baby Becky on one hip and little Wayne clinging to her leg like a limpet. She gave me a dig in the back with her Mickey Mouse pen.

  “Hey,” she said softly. “Shall we get started on your interview now, Tracy?”

  “Well, you've got all these other kids. Why waste your time with me?” I said acidly. “I mean, I'm only the one you were supposed to see.”

  “Tell you what. Let's go up to your room. Just you and me. How about it?”

  “Okay,” I said, yawning and shrugging. “If you really want. I'm not interested in the idea now. But if you insist. Just for a minute or two.”

  It took her a while to dump the baby and pry Wayne away, and then all the others kept clustering around, saying it wasn't fair. So do you know what she did? She said they could do interviews on her tape recorder. And she put Justine in charge of it.

  “You sure are making a mistake there, Cam. You're crazy. They'll wreck it in two minutes,” I said.

  “No they won't. Justine will work it. And everyone take a two-minute turn. Introduce yourselves first, and then say whatever you want. But don't worry, Peter, you don't have to.”

  “You are stark staring mad,” I said. “Look, if anyone's in charge of that tape recorder it's got to be me. I'm the only one who knows how to work it properly.”

  “Well, show Justine,” said Cam. “Then she'll be able to work it too.”

  “I'm not showing her,” I said. But in the end I did. And of course Justine was clueless and didn't catch on and I kept sighing and groaning and she got upset and gave me a push and I clenched my fist ready to punch her, but Cam got in between us and said, “Look, I'll run through it. Here's the Record button, Justine, right?” and eventually Justine got the hang of it. I don't know why she's called Littlewood. Little brain would be far more appropriate.

  Then Cam and I went up to my room and left them to it.

  “You thought you'd found a way of getting Justine

  and me to make friends,” I said. “But, ha-ha, it didn't work, did it? Because we're always going to be deadly enemies.”

  Cam laughed at me. She laughed at the notice taped on my bedroom door too.

  “It's okay. You can come in. You're my guest,” I said, opening the door for her.

  My room looked like a rubbish dump, actually. I hadn't got around to making the bed and the floor was littered with socks and pajama tops and bits of cookie and pencil sharpenings, so she had to pick her
way through. She didn't make a big thing of it, though. She looked at all the stuff I've got pinned to my bulletin board, and she nodded a bit and smiled.

  “Is that your mom?” Cam asked.

  “Isn't she lovely? You'd really think she was a movie star, wouldn't you? I think she maybe is a movie star now. In Hollywood. And she'll be jetting over to see me soon. Maybe she'll take me back with her, and I'll get to be a movie star too. A child star. The marvelous movie moppet, Tracy Beaker. Yeah. That would be great, eh?”

  I spun around with a huge grin, doing a cutesiepie curtsy. Cam caught on right away and started clapping and acting like an adoring fan.

  “I hope you're still going to be a writer too,” she said. “Have you done any more about Goblinda?”

  “Give me a chance. I've been too busy doing my autobiography,” I said.

  “I suppose this autobiography of yours is strictly private?” Cam asked, sounding a bit wistful.

  “Of course it is,” I said. But then I hesitated. Elaine the Pain has seen bits of it. And Louise and Littlebrain. And I did show a bit to Peter, actually, just to show him how much I'd done. So why shouldn't I show a bit to Cam too? As she's sort of a friend.

  So I let her have a few peeks. I had to be a bit careful, because some of the stuff I've written about her isn't exactly flattering. She came across a description of her by accident, but she didn't take offense. She roared with laughter.

  “You really should be the one writing this article about children in foster care, Tracy, not me. I think you'd do a far better job of it.”

  “Yes, have you made a start on this article yet?”

  She fidgeted a bit. “Not really. It's difficult. You see, this magazine editor wants a very touching sentimental story about all these sad sweet vulnerable little children that will make her readers reach for a wad of Kleenex.”