I understood. I looked at my mum – really really looked at her – and I understood everything. I didn’t have it out with her. I just made my lips turn up and said that of course I understood and I wished her luck. She went a bit watery-eyed then, so that her last-night’s mascara smudged, and she reached across the table so that her black nylon nightie dripped in my cornflakes and she gave me a big hug. I breathed in her warm powdery smell one last time. Then she gave me a little pat, ran her fingers through her rumpled hair, plucked at her soggy nightie, and said she’d better go and have a bath and get herself all prettied up and what did I want to do today, darling?
I knew what I was going to do. As soon as Mum was in the bath I went to her handbag, nicked some money, picked up my bag and scarpered.
I left her a note.
The note got a bit smeared and blotchy but there wasn’t time to write it out again. I needed to leave her a message so she’d know I wasn’t a thief.
Then I walked out, closing her front door ever so slowly so she wouldn’t hear. Then I ran. And ran and ran and ran.
I didn’t know where I was going. I didn’t really have any place to go.
I could go back to Cam but she probably wouldn’t want me back now. Not after all the things I said. I came out with all sorts of stuff. Things that I didn’t want to write in this book. Things to hurt her. It was so hard choosing between Cam and my mum so I made it easy by doing such dreadful things to Cam that she’d never ever want me back.
Only I made the wrong choice. Now I haven’t got anywhere to go.
Yes I have.
I know where I’m going.
The Smashed Home
I FOUND MY way, easy-peasy. I got a train and then a bus and I had lunch in McDonald’s. It was great.
I don’t need ANYONE to look after me. I don’t need my mum. I don’t need Cam. I can look after myself, no bother at all. And it isn’t as if I haven’t got a roof over my head. I’ve got a whole house. All to myself.
Well. Sometimes I share it. Someone had been doing some serious housekeeping. There were cans of Coke and Kit-kats in the ‘fridge’ in the kitchen, and a cardboard dustpan and brush that really worked – sort of. But the living room was the real picture. A brand new television, with a video recorder too. A table with a permanent embroidered tablecloth and place settings. Three chairs, all different sizes, like the Three Bears story – a big one for Football, a medium size for me and the littlest for Alexander. Alexander himself, sitting on a special rug, was making yet more Ideal Home delights.
‘Tracy!’ he said, his eyes lighting up.
It felt so good that someone was pleased to see me that I gave his bony little shoulder a squeeze. ‘Hi, Chippendale,’ I said.
Alexander peered at me. ‘Chip . . .?’ he said. ‘Aren’t they those big oily men who take off all their clothes? Are you teasing me?’
‘Hey, Alexander, you’re the one who’s supposed to be the brainbox. I mean Chippendale as in furniture. He was some old guy in history who made posh chairs, right?’
‘Oh, I see,’ said Alexander, busily slotting one piece of cardboard into two grooves.
‘Another chair, maestro?’
‘No, I’m making a bookcase this time. I thought it would be great to have a bookcase. So we could keep our books in it. I could keep my Alexander the Great book here. And you could keep your diary in it.’
‘What diary?’
‘Well, whatever you write in your big fat purple book.’
‘If you’ve been peeking in my big fat purple book I’ll poke your eyes out!’
‘I wouldn’t dare, Tracy. Oops!’ Alexander rolled his eyes. ‘No more dares, eh?’
‘Not for the moment, anyway. So. What are you doing here, Alexander? I thought you weren’t going to come any more.’
‘I know. My dad will kill me when he finds out I’ve been bunking off again. But when I went back to school I limped for all I was worth but Mr Cochran, he’s the games master, he said I was a pathetic little weed and I had to play anyway. So I tried. And I got pushed over. And it hurt a lot so my eyes watered. And then everyone said I was crying and that just proved how weedy and wet I am and someone said “Gherkin is a jerkin” and they all started chanting it and—’
‘I get the general picture,’ I said. ‘Still. It’s not like it’s the end of the world.’
‘It kind of feels that way to me.’
‘Some silly stuck-up kids call you names. And one of the teachers picks on you. Oh boo hoo! That’s nothing. You want to hear what some of the kids at my school call me. And Miss Vomit Bagley has really got it in for me. She picks on me all the time – when I’m there. I bet some of your teachers think you’re the bee’s knees because you’re a right old swotty brainbox.’
‘Well . . .’ Alexander considered. ‘Yes, Mr Bernstein and Mr Rogers like me, and Mrs Betterstall says I’m—’
‘Yeah yeah yeah. See? And I bet your horrible old dad really cares about you or he wouldn’t go on so. I haven’t even got a dad, have I?’
‘You’ve got a mum though,’ said Alexander, slotting the last cardboard shelf into place. He stood the bookcase up for me to admire – and then saw my face. He suddenly remembered. ‘Oh! Your mum!’
‘What about her?’ I said fiercely.
‘You were meant to be staying with her.’
‘Yeah. Well. I got a bit fed up, if you must know.’
‘Didn’t she buy you all that stuff you wanted?’
‘Yes, she did. She bought me heaps and heaps. Look!’ I did a twirl in my new combat trousers.
‘Oh yes,’ said Alexander quickly.
‘The trousers. Yes. They look super-cool. You look lovely, Tracy.’
‘No I don’t,’ I said, sitting down beside him. ‘I look funny. My mum says.’
‘Well, you are funny,’ said Alexander. ‘That’s good, isn’t it? Tracy . . . what went wrong with you and your mum?’ He patted my knee timidly. ‘Didn’t she like you?’
I jerked away from him. ‘Nothing went wrong. I told you. My mum’s crazy about me. She can’t make enough of a fuss of me. But after a bit I just thought, hey, who needs this? I don’t need her.’
‘Ah! You need Cam, don’t you?’ said Alexander, looking immensely pleased. ‘I’m right, aren’t I?’
‘No!’ I folded my arms. ‘You’re wrong wrong wrong. I don’t need her.’
Alexander still wouldn’t be squashed. ‘Well, you need me. And Football. We’re your friends.’
‘I don’t need you either. I don’t need no-one.’
‘That’s a double negative. If you don’t need no-one it means you need someone, don’t you see?’
‘I see that you’re the most annoying little Smartypants and it’s no wonder everyone picks on you. You really get on my nerves.’ I gave him a push. Then I gave his bookcase a push too.
‘Watch my bookcase!’ said Alexander.
‘It’s a rubbish bookcase,’ I said, and my fist went thump thump thump.
‘My bookcase!’ Alexander wailed.
‘It’s my house and I don’t want your stupid bookcase in it, see?’
‘I’ll make one specially for you,’ Alexander offered, trying to slot his shelves back into place.
‘I don’t want you to make anything for me. I don’t need anything. It’s my house and I don’t want a single rubbish thing in it. I’m sick of homes, I’m sick of stuff. I want it to be empty.’ I smashed his stupid bookcase flat and then I whirled round the living room, breaking up all Alexander’s furniture.
‘Don’t, Tracy! Don’t! Don’t!’ Alexander shouted.
I smashed. Alexander screamed. Football suddenly came haring into the house.
‘What is it? What’s going on? You two all right?’ he said. He looked about him. ‘Who’s turned the place over?’
‘Oh Football, thank goodness!’ said Alexander, clinging to him. ‘Stop Tracy. She’s wrecking everything. Even my new bookcase.’
‘Sounds a good idea t
o me,’ said Football, shaking Alexander off. ‘Yeah, let’s have a bit of fun, right, Tracy? What you doing here anyway? Didn’t your mum want you after all?’
‘You shut up, Football.’ I glared at him. ‘Your mum doesn’t want you. And neither does your precious dad.’
I had to hurt everyone to show I didn’t need any of them. So they couldn’t hurt me. ‘How’s your dad, Football? How’s your dad, Alexander?’ I said.
‘Quit it,’ said Football.
‘Why don’t we all quit it?’ Alexander begged. ‘Let’s make friends and . . . and mend the furniture.’
‘Shut up, Gherkin,’ said Football. ‘Who cares about your boring old furniture?’ He flicked his dad’s lighter, waving it at the crumpled bookcase.
‘Stop it!’ Alexander shouted.
‘Don’t tell me to stop anything!’ said Football, flicking again.
The flame leapt at the cardboard, singeing it for a second and then suddenly flaming.
‘You’re crazy!’ said Alexander.
‘Shut up,’ said Football, stamping just in time.
‘You’ll set yourself alight! You’ll set the whole place on fire,’ Alexander cried. ‘You mustn’t ever ever ever play with fire.’
‘Oooh, aren’t I naughty!’ said Football, imitating Alexander’s high-pitched voice.
I giggled and Football grinned at me.
‘Let’s liven this dump up, eh, Tracy?’ he said. He threw the lighter to me. ‘Your turn.’
‘Don’t, Tracy. Don’t be so stupid,’ Alexander begged.
‘I dare you, Tracy,’ said Football.
I swallowed, the lighter hot in my hand.
‘You mustn’t, Tracy. You can’t start that awful Dare Game again. Please don’t dare. You know it’s crazy!’
Of course I knew it was crazy. But I felt crazy.
I suddenly flicked the lighter and held it to my small card-board-box chair. A sudden flame leapt in the air. I went to stamp it out – but I wasn’t big enough.
‘Don’t! You’ll burn yourself!’ Alexander screamed.
Football tried to elbow me out the way but I was determined to win this dare. I seized the flattened bookcase and beat hard at the flame – and it went out.
‘There! I did it! I won the dare!’ I yelled, leaping around and punching the air.
‘That’s great, kid. You and me, we’re the greatest,’ yelled Football.
‘You’re the greatest idiots,’ said Alexander tearfully.
‘You always try to spoil everything, Alexander,’ I said. ‘Go on. It’s your turn now. I dare you.’
‘No!’
‘Come on, you’ve got to, if I dare you.’ I tried to pass him the lighter but he put his fists behind his back.
‘I’m not going to. It’s mad and dangerous,’ said Alexander.
‘He hasn’t got the bottle,’ said Football, sneering.
‘Go on, Alexander,’ I said. ‘You felt great last time after you jumped out the window.’
Alexander shook his head violently. ‘I was mad then. What if the mattress hadn’t been there? I’d have been killed. I’m not taking any more chances.’
‘Coward! Chicken!’
‘Cluck cluck cluck!’
‘You can cluck and call me all the names you like,’ said Alexander. ‘I’m still not going to do it.’
‘Because you’re too scared,’ I said.
‘You’re only doing it because you’re scared,’ said Alexander. ‘Scared Football won’t think you as tough as he is. Only he’s scared too.’
‘I’m scared?’ said Football, outraged. ‘Who am I scared of, Gherkin?’ He took the lighter from me and stood in front of Alexander, flicking it on and off, on and off. ‘Am I scared of you, is that it? Or scared of skinny little Tracy? I’m not scared of anyone, you stupid jerk.’
Alexander still didn’t give up. ‘You’re scared your dad doesn’t care about you any more, that’s what you’re scared of.’
I couldn’t help nodding. ‘Ah! He’s got you there, Football.’
‘No he hasn’t. I’m not scared. I don’t give a toss about my dad any more,’ said Football.
‘Yes you do,’ said Alexander relentlessly. ‘That’s why you act crazy – because it’s driving you crazy.’
‘You think you know it all but you don’t know anything,’ Football shouted. ‘Now button that lippy little mouth of yours or I’ll set light to you.’
‘You wouldn’t dare!’ Alexander squealed.
‘Shut up, Alexander,’ I said.
‘I’ll dare anything,’ Football declared, waving his lighter round wildly.
Alexander snatched a cardboard shelf and held it up like a shield. Football lunged forward, expecting Alexander to dodge backwards. Alexander stood still – and there was a sudden flare of flame. Alexander stared, open-mouthed, unable to move. I snatched the sizzling cardboard, threw it to the floor, and stamped on it.
‘Stop it, Football!’ I shouted. ‘This is getting too scary now.’
‘You can’t stop me. No-one can stop me,’ said Football. ‘I’ll show you, Tracy Beaker. I’ll show you, Gherkin.’
‘Why do you have to bully us? We’re your friends,’ Alexander said desperately.
‘I don’t need no friends,’ said Football.
‘No, Football, you can’t say “no” friends because it’s a double neg— aaaaah!’ Alexander was cut off in mid-grammatical quibble because Football grabbed him by the front of his shirt with one hand. His other hand was still waving in the air, clutching the lighter. Alexander suddenly made a grab for it – snatched it – and then threw it wildly. It sailed right across the room and out the window.
‘My lighter! My dad’s lighter!’ Football yelled, letting go of Alexander in his shock.
‘Oh help! I didn’t mean it to go out the window. I didn’t know I could throw that far!’ said Alexander.
‘I’ll kill you, Gherkin!’ said Football, his eyes popping, his face purple.
‘Run!’ I yelled to Alexander. ‘Get out the house, quick!’
Alexander ran – but he wasn’t quick enough. Football caught him before he was even out the door. He raised his big fist ready to give him a punch – but I got there first. I shoved Alexander as hard as I could out the way and grabbed Football from behind.
‘Don’t you dare, you big bully!’ I yelled.
Alexander collapsed in a heap and started whimpering. Football and I took no notice, too busy fighting.
‘Get off, Tracy! Ouch! Don’t you dare kick me!’
‘I’ll dare anything, same as you! You think you’re so big and tough but I’ll show you!’ I kicked him again, wishing my trainers were socking great Doc Martens.
‘You little whatsit!’ said Football, nearly knocking me over.
I hit out hard, catching him right where it hurts most.
‘Oooooomph!’ said Football, doubling up. ‘No wonder your mum doesn’t want you. No-one could ever want you, Tracy Beaker.’
‘No-one wants you either! Especially not your precious dad. He doesn’t give a toss about you. It’s obvious.’
‘You shut up!’ He wrestled me to the floor.
‘You shut up, you stupid snot-nosed bully,’ I gasped, kicking out from under him. ‘That’s all you can do, isn’t it? Hit out at people. You think you’re so great but you’re useless. You’re even useless at football.’
‘Shut up or I’ll bang your head on the floor!’
‘You try!’
Football tried. It hurt like hell. So I spat hard. Upwards, right in his face.
Football stared down at me, wondrously spattered. ‘You wouldn’t dare do that again!’
I did.
‘You dirty little monkey!’ he said, banging my head again.
‘It’ll be right in your eye next!’ I warned.
‘I’ll spit right back, I’m warning you!’
‘Go on, then. I dare you!’
He dared all right. It was totally disgusting. I went to spit back but m
y mouth was too dry. ‘I’ve run out of spit! It’s not fair. Wait!’ I tried but only managed the merest dribble.
‘That was a bit pathetic!’ said Football.
‘You just wait. Oooh! I keep blowing raspberries instead of spitting.’
‘Can’t even spit!’ Football jeered.
‘Just give me a few seconds.’
‘So I’m going to hang around waiting?’ said Football, leaning back.
‘Come here, Football!’ I commanded, trying to summon up more spit by smacking my lips and sucking in my cheeks.
‘You look like you’re about to give me a great big kiss with your lips like that!’ Football grinned.
‘Yuck!’ I couldn’t help giggling at the very idea.
‘You watch out or I’ll kiss you!’ said Football.
‘No you don’t!’ I said, trying to wriggle free. ‘Hey, come on, get off me, you big lump.’
Football did as he was told this time. The fight was over.
‘I didn’t hurt you, did I?’ Football asked, picking me up and brushing me down.
‘Oh no, whacking great kicks on the shin and bashes on the bonce don’t hurt a bit!’
‘You twit,’ said Football. ‘Hey, we made a poem!’ He looked at Alexander. ‘And you’re a nit! There. You’re in the poem too. Hey, Gherkin, we’ve stopped fighting. You can get up now.’
‘It’s OK, Alexander. Alexander? Are you all right?’
‘N-o-o-o!’ said Alexander, still lying on the floor, his leg stuck out at an odd angle.
‘I didn’t hurt you, did I?’ said Football, looking stricken.