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 95
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 out 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.
96
'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 97
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.
'What's what like? Hey, give me a go at heading it, eh?'
'You've got to be joking!'
'You're so mean! I got you your rotten ball back.'
'I don't think it's mine anyway.' Football caught it and swivelled it around. 'I had my name inked on it, plus a dire warning of what I'd do if anyone got their dirty mitts on it.'
'So it's really not yours?'
'Never mind. It's actually in better nick. I'd really hammered my last one.'
98
'Then it's just as much mine as yours – so give it here!'
'OK, OK, I'll play five minutes' footie with you – after you tell me what it's like to be in care.'
'What do you want to know for?'
'Because my mum keeps threatening stuff, see – and then I've got this social worker—'
'So have I. Elaine the Pain!' I pulled a face.
'What did you get up to then, a little kid like you?'
'I've been up to all sorts,' I boasted.
'But you haven't really been in trouble with the old Bill. I have. Lots,' said Football, swaggering.
'Yeah well. I've been too clever to get caught,' I said.
'So what is it like? Do they really beat you with wet towels so you don't get bruises?
And do the older ones bash the little ones up and stick their heads down the toilets? And do the boys have to wear short trousers even in winter so they're a laughing stock? My mum says—'
Aha! I decided to wind him up just a tiny bit. 'That's right! Only it's far worse,' I said.
'The food's awful, all these meat loaves made 99
of cow's nostrils and uddery bits, so you get mad cow disease as
well as being sick. And if you're sick at a meal they
pile it up on a plate and
make you eat it.'
Football was staring at
me, eyes popping, mouth
open, like he was about to be sick himself. I could have nicked his ball – my ball – there and then, but this seemed like more fun. I went on elaborating and he carried on drinking it all in and it wasn't until I invented this torture chamber where they keep you handcuffed in the dark and let live rats run all over you and burrow down beneath your underwear that he suddenly twigged.
'You're having me on!' he said. He stared at me, his face scrunching up. I decided I might have to back off sharpish. But then this weird spluttery noise started up. Old Football was laughing!
'You're a weird little kid! OK, OK, I'll play footie with you. But just for five minutes, right?'
He went into his house to put on a T-shirt.
He left the door ajar so I followed him in. It 100
wasn't much cop at all. The carpet was all fraying at the edges and covered in bits. I could see why his mum had nagged on about the vacuuming. It looked like the whole house needed spring-cleaning. There were scuffs and marks all over the walls – obviously traces of Football's football.
He was in his living room, shoving his feet into his trainers. 'Here, you. I didn't ask you in.'
'I know. But I'm dead nosy. Seeing as I haven't got a real home.'
Football's certainly wasn't my idea of home sweet home. Yesterday's takeaways were congealing on trays by the sofa. The ashtray was so full it was spilling over and the whole room smelt stale. It was empty too. Well, there was a sofa and chairs and the telly, but that was about it. Cam's got all her cushions and patchwork and plants and pictures all over the walls and books in piles and little ornaments and vases of dried flowers and windchimes and notebooks and painted boxes and this daft old donkey she had when she was little. She said I could have Daisy if I wanted.
I said I wasn't a silly little kid who played with toy animals. Cam said good, because she 101
was a silly little woman who still liked cuddling up with Daisy when she was feeling dead depressed and she didn't really want to give her away.
I've tried hanging onto the old donkey once or twice, when Cam's not
around. Daisy's got this old
soft woolly smell, and the
insides of her big ears are all
velvety.
You can't cuddle up with anything at all in Football's house. Maybe Football doesn't mind. He's certainly not a cuddly kind of guy.
We played football out in
the street. It was great for a
bit.
But then these other
J guys came sloping past
and Football act
ed like I was this little bee buzzing in his ear.
He swotted me away
and started playing football
with these other guys.
'Hey, what about me?'
I demanded indignantly.
102
'You push off now,' Football hissed out the side of his mouth, like he couldn't even bear to be seen talking to me.
'OK, OK. But you give me back my ball. I found it. And you said it wasn't yours.'
I got into a bit of an argument about it.
Football and his new mates won.
I decided I didn't
want to play
footie with him
if he were the
last guy in the
world. In fact, I'd
gone off the game alto-
gether so there was no
point taking my ball
with me. So I didn't insist.
I sloped off to the old house to see Alexander.
I needed to see if he'd followed my advice and learned to stick up for himself.
103
I let myself in the back window and noted straight away that someone had been making serious improvements in the kitchen. There was a big bottle of mineral water standing on the draining board, with a label saying THIS IS THE TAP. SO I drank a little 'tap' water because Football (and the ensuing
dispute) had been thirsty work.
I slurped a little down my T-
shirt but there was a clean towel hanging on a hook so I could mop myself up. A cardboard box was stacked in a corner with another label: THIS IS THE
FRIDGE. I inspected the 'fridge'
contents with interest. I
discovered two rounds of tuna
sandwiches, a packet of cheese
and onion crisps, a Kit-Kat
105
and an apple. Plus a giant pack of Smarties!!!
I helped myself to a handful or two because I'd already burnt up a lot of energy that morning. I was all set to share my own refreshments – only I'd somehow or other eaten them up. Still, I was sure Alexander would be happy to share his refreshments with me.
'Alexander?' I called. It came out indis-tinctly, because my mouth was full. I tried again, louder. 'Alexander?'
I heard a little mousy squeak from the living room. Alexander was sitting cross-legged on a little rug in front of another cardboard box.
There was a drawing of smiley Blue Peter presenters on the front and another label: THIS IS THE TELEVISION.
'It seems to be on permanent freeze-frame,'
I said wittily.
106
Alexander seemed unusually immobile too, hunched up with his chin on his chest.
'Are you OK?' I asked, sitting down beside him.
'Yes,' he said. Then, 'Well, no, not really.'
'Ah,' I said. 'What's up, then?'
Alexander sighed heavily. 'Everything,' he said sadly, and went back to watching the frozen TV programme.
'How did you get on at school?' I asked.
He didn't react, though his eyes flicked backwards and forwards as if the presenters were really doing something on the screen.
'You know, with the big bully boys in the showers?'
Alexander sighed again and slumped even further into his shoulders. 'The entire school calls me Gherkin now.'
I couldn't help spluttering. Alexander looked at me as if I'd kicked him.
'Sorry. Sorry! It j u s t . . . sounded funny.'
'Everyone thinks it's very funny. Except me.'
'Oh dear. Well. Never mind.'
'I do mind. Dreadfully.'
'Still.' I struggled hard to say something optimistic. 'At least you won the dare. I dared 107
you to do it, didn't I? And you did. So you get to win that dare.'
'Big deal,' said Alexander.
I thought hard. 'OK. You get to dare me now.'
'I don't really want to, thank you.'
I couldn't believe his attitude. Didn't he realize the potential of my offer??? 'Go on, Alexander,' I said impatiently, standing over him.
Alexander wriggled backwards on his bony bottom. 'I can't make up any dares,' he said meekly. 'You make one up, Tracy.'
'Don't be so wet! Come on. Dare me to do something really really wicked.'
Alexander thought hard. Then I saw light in his pale blue eyes. 'All right. I dare you to . . .
I dare you to . . . stand on your head.'
He just didn't get it! But I decided to show willing. I spat on my hands and sprang forward. 'Easy-peasy,' I said, upside down.
'Gosh! You're really good at it.'
'Anyone can stand on their head.'
'I can't.'
I might have known. I
tried hard to show him.
He was useless. He just
crumpled in a heap when-
108
ever he tried to kick his legs up.
'Watch me!' I said, doing headstands and handstands
and then a cartwheel round the
room.
'I can see your knickers,'
said Alexander, giggling.
'Well, don't look,' I said
breathlessly.
'I can't help it,' said Alexander. Then he started singing this weird song about leaping up and down and waving your knickers in the air.
'You what?' I said, right way up again.
'It's a song,' said Alexander. 'My dad sings it when he's in a good mood. Which isn't often when I'm around.' He sang it again.
'Is that another dare?' I said.
Alexander giggled.
'Right!' I said, and I
whipped my knickers off
and leapt up and down,
waving them like a flag.
'Tracy! Um! You are rude!'
Alexander spluttered, nearly
keeling over sideways he was
laughing so much.
109
I leapt right round the cardboard television, waving away, and pranced past the window.
'Tracy! Get away from the window! Someone will see,' Alexander screeched.
'I don't care,' I said, bouncing up and down as if the bare floorboards were a trampoline.
'Look at me, everyone! Look at m-e-e-e!'
A football suddenly came flying
through the window and bounced
right across the floor. Alexander must have seen it coming but he
didn't duck in time. It caught him bang on the bonce.
'Ouch! A football!' he said, rubbing his head.
'My football,' I said, retrieving it triumphantly.
'Who on earth threw it in here?' said Alexander.
I didn't need three guesses. Football himself came climbing through the window. It's a harder window to negotiate than the one in the kitchen at the back. He jumped down, lost his balance, stumbled forward . . . and landed on Alexander.
Alexander lay quivering, hands over his head.
110
'You clumsy great oaf!' I said
to Football. 'Are you all
right, Alexander?'
'No,' said Alexander,
whimpering.
Football picked him
up and brushed him
down. 'Yes you are,' he said firmly.
'Bully,' I said, bouncing the ball one-handed. 'First you beat me up. And I'm a girl and I'm younger than you. And then you pick on a total wimp like Alexander.'
I was defending Alexander but he crumpled again at the word wimp. I sighed. There's something about Alexander that kind of makes you want to bully him. Even though you know it's mean.
'Bully, bully, bully,' I said, bouncing the ball in time.
'Give me my ball back, kid,' said Football.
' I t ' s my ball.'
'You gave it to me.'
'And then I took it back. It's my ball now.
And this is my house and you're not invited so you can just clear off. What are you doing following me, anyway?'
/> 'I didn't follow you. I was just checking up 111
on you. And it's not your house.'
'It is, it is, it is,' I said, bouncing.
'It's my house too,' said Alexander.
I smiled at him and bounced the ball to him.
An easy-peasy bounce but he totally misjudged it. His hands closed on thin air and the ball bounced past. Football stuck out a paw and caught the ball.
'Alexander!' I said.
Alexander hung his head.
'My ball now,' said Football, smirking. He started bouncing so hard the cardboard furniture vibrated.
'You'll break the television,' said Alexander.
'You what?' said Football.
'You're interfering with the reception, look,' said Alexander.
I twigged that he was deliberately distracting him. I grinned – and as Football peered in disbelief at the cardboard box I whipped the ball from his arms. I used two hands – and Something fell on the floor.
Football peered hard at the Something.
'I've got the ball, I've got the ball' I gabbled quickly, to distract him again.
This time it didn't work. Football bent over, 112
grinning, and picked up the
Something with his thumb and
forefinger. 'What's this, then?'
he said, grinning.
'Nothing,' I said. Though it obviously wasn't Nothing. It was a pretty embarrassing Something.
'It's your knickers!' Football chortled.
'She's been leaping up and down and waving her knickers in the air.'
'Shut up, Alexander,' I said furiously.
I snatched my knickers back and stuffed them in my pocket.
Football laughed loudly and made an extremely coarse remark. I told him to watch his mouth and he said I should watch his ball – as he knocked it out
of my arms. He
cheered himself
wildly and then
kicked the ball
all round the living
room, knocking the
television over and severely denting the table.
'Do you mind! This is my living room, not a football pitch,' I said.
'It's my living room too,' said Alexander, 113
quickly dodging out of Football's way.
'I've got just as much right to be here as you have. And I say it's not a dopey old living room, it's a cracking indoor football pitch,'