‘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 you were really big and scary,’ he said, unclenching 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?’
‘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 in the showers.’
‘Aha!’
‘They laugh at me because . . .’
‘Because you’re Alexander the not-so-great!’ I said, giggling.
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,’ 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, 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 little 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.
‘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.
Football’s Home
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 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—’
‘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.
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 than I made up. The best mum in the world.
She is.
She IS.
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 said, 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 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 the face.
‘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.
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 words to that effect. Almost as bad as his mum.
He wiped his face very quickly so that I couldn’t see the tears. Though I’d already seen them, of course. But I cleared off and ate most of my tube of Smarties to calm myself because I can’t stick it if people start yelling and screaming – unless it’s me. Then I made for the house and you’ll never guess what! There was the football, in the garden, landed smack in a soggy carton of sweet and sour sauce. Now that had to be magic! I mean, fancy that football landing in my garden!
So I decided to be a good little fairy myself. I picked the football up gingerly and wiped all the orange goo off on the grass and bounced it all the way back to Football’s house.
I banged at his door.
No answer.
I banged again.
Nothing. I stared at the peeling paint, wondering if I’d got the wrong house. No, I was pretty sure. I backed down the garden path and peered up at the window.
‘Oi – you! Football guy!’ I bellowed. ‘Want your ball back?’ I bounced it hard to show I wasn’t kidding.
It worked! The window went up and Football’s head poked out. ‘What are you doing with my ball?’ he bellowed, as if I’d been the one to kick it over the rooftops.
‘OK, pal, if you’re not even grateful . . .’ I said, and I turned my back and went bouncy-bouncy-bouncy to his gate.
‘Wait!’ he yelled.
I knew he would. He came charging ou
t in two ticks in his vest and tracksuit bottoms and bare feet. Those little pink wiggly toes made him look much less fierce.
‘Give us it then,’ he said.
‘Play a game of footie with me?’
‘I told you before, I don’t play with girls.’
‘Then I’ll take this ball and find some guy who will play with me,’ I said.
He tried to tackle me then, but I was too quick for him.
‘You little . . .’ More amazing words.
‘You haven’t half got a mouth on you. You obviously take after your mum.’
That really got him going. Blank blank blankety blank, you blanking blanker.
‘Hasn’t anyone ever washed your mouth out with soap?’ I said.
‘Ha ha,’ he said, not laughing. He was eyeing the ball, but I kept it out of his reach.
‘They used to do it in the Children’s Home. This careworker shoved a great cake of her Body Shop Dewberry soap right in my gob when I was just the weeniest bit lippy. It was disgusting. Still, I bit it into pieces so she couldn’t use it any more. And then I was sick and she got scared in case I reported her for abuse. The sick was all foamy. It looked pretty impressive.’
Football was looking at me like he was a little impressed himself. ‘You’ve been in care?’ he said.
‘Sure,’ I said. ‘Still am. Technically. Though any minute now I’m getting back with my mum. She’s the most amazing actress and she’s incredibly beautiful and she thinks I’ll make it in the movies too and—’
And Football tackled me and got the ball back, laughing.
‘You rotten . . .’ My own language sparkled and hissed too.
I thought he’d go back indoors with his blooming ball and slam the door on me, but he hung around on his doorstep, heading the ball at the front wall, backwards and forwards.
‘So, what’s it like then?’ he said, a little breathlessly because he was really whacking that ball. It made my eyes smart to watch him.