The Story of Tracy Beaker Read online

  So I started reading it to her.

  “ ‘You can see the signs of suffering on little Tracy Beaker's elfin face. This very very intelligent and extremely pretty little girl has been grievously treated when in so-called care. Her lovely talented young mother had to put her in a children's home through no fault of her own, and in fact she might soon be coming for her lovely little daughter, but until then dear little Tracy Beaker needs a foster family. She is deprived and abused in the dump of a children's home’—Why are you laughing, Cam?”

  “Abused?” Cam spluttered.

  “Look at my hand. My knuckles. That's blood, you know.”

  “Yes, and you got it bouncing your fist up and down on poor Justine's nose,” said Cam. “You're the one who deprives and abuses all the others in your Home.”

  “Yes, but if I put that no one will want me, will they?”

  “I don't know,” said Cam. “If I were choosing, I'd maybe go for a really naughty girl. It might be fun.”

  I looked at her. And went on looking at her. And my brain started going tick tick tick.

  I was mildly distracted when we got to McDonald's. I ate a Big Mac and a large portion of french fries, and washed it down with a strawberry milk shake. So did Cam. Then she had coffee and I had another milk shake. And then we sat back, stuffed. We both had to undo our belts a bit.

  I got out my article again and showed her some more, but she got the giggles all over again.

  “I'll give myself hiccups,” she said weakly. “It's no use, Tracy. I think it's great, but they'll never print it. You can't say those sorts of things.”

  “What, that Tracy Beaker is brilliant and the best child ever? It's true!”

  “Maybe! But you can't say all the other things, about Justine and Louise and the rest.”

  “But they're true too.”

  “No, they're not true at all. I've met them. I like them. And you certainly can't say those things about Jenny and Mike and your social worker and all the others. You'd get sued for libel.”

  “Well, you do better then,” I said huffily. “What would you put?”

  “I don't know. Maybe I don't want to do the article now anyway. I think I'd sooner stick to my stories and forget about the money.”

  “That's not a very professional approach,” I said sternly. “Maybe you ought to give up writing. Maybe you ought to do some job that gives you a big fat allowance. Looking after someone. You get an allowance for that.”

  Cam raised her eyebrows.

  “I can barely look after myself,” she said.

  “Well, then. You need someone to look after you for a bit,” I said. “Someone like me.”

  “Tracy.” Cam looked me straight in the eye. “No. Sorry. I can't foster you.”

  “Yes you can.”

  “Stop it. We can't start this. I'm not in any position to foster you.”

  “Yes you are. You don't need to be married, you know. Single women can foster kids easy-peasy.”

  “I'm single and I want to stay single. No husband. And no kids.”

  “Good. I hate other kids. Especially boring little babies. You won't ever want to have a baby, will you, Cam?”

  “No fear. Holding that little Wayne was enough to douse any maternal urges for all time,” said Cam.

  “So it could be just you and me.”

  “No!”

  “Think about it.”

  Cam laughed. “You are so persistent, girl! Okay, okay, I'll think about it. That's all. Right?”

  “Right,” I say, and I tap her hand triumphantly. “Can I phone home now? I sound like E.T., don't I? We've gone through two videos of that already. So, can T.B. phone home? Only she doesn't have any change.”

  Cam gave me ten pence and I went to the phone by the rest room and gave Jenny a buzz. My heart did thump a bit when I was waiting for her to answer. I felt a little bit sad when she told me that Mom hadn't come. Even though that was the answer I was really expecting.

  But I had other things to fuss about now. I whizzed back to Cam.

  “Well? Have you thought about it? Is it okay? Will you take me on?” I asked eagerly.

  “Hey, hey! I've got to think about this for ages and ages. And then I'm almost certain it's still going to be no.”

  “Almost certain. But not absolutely one hundred percent.”

  “Mmm. What about you? Are you absolutely one hundred percent sure you'd like me to foster you?”

  “Well, I'd sooner you were rich. And posh and all that, so that I could get on in the world.”

  “I think you'll get on in the world without my help, Tracy.”

  “No, I need you, Cam.”

  I looked straight at her. And she looked straight at me.

  “We still hardly know each other,” she said.

  “Well, if we lived together we would get to know each other, wouldn't we, Cam? Camilla. That sounds classier. I want my foster mom to sound absolutely classy.”

  “Oh, Tracy, give it a rest. Me, classy? And I told you, I can't abide Camilla. I used to get teased. And that's what my mom always called me.” She made a face.

  I was shocked by her tone and her expression.

  “Don't you … don't you like your mom?” I said.

  “Not much.”

  “Why? Did she beat you up or something?”

  “No! No, she just bossed me around. And my father too. They tried to make me just like them, and when I wanted to be different they couldn't accept it.”

  “So don't you see them anymore?”

  “Not really. Just at Christmas.”

  “Good, so they'll give me Christmas presents, won't they, if I'm their foster grandchild?”

  “Tracy! Look, it really wouldn't work. It wouldn't work for heaps of practical reasons, let alone anything else. I haven't got room for you. I live in this tiny apartment.”

  “I'm quite small. I don't take up much space.”

  “But my apartment's really minute, you should see it.”

  “Oh, great! Can we go there now?”

  “I didn't mean—” Cam began, but she laughed again. “Okay, we'll go to my apartment. Only I told Jenny I'd take you back to the Home after lunch.”

  “T.B. can phone home again, can't she?”

  “I suppose so. Tell Jenny I'll get you back by dinnertime.”

  “Can't I come to dinner with you too? Please?”

  “Tell you what. We could pretend to be posh ladies just to please you and have afternoon tea. About four. Although I don't know how either of us could possibly eat another thing. And then I'll take you back to the Home by five. Right?”

  “What about dinner? And look, I could stay the night, we're allowed to do that, and I don't need pajamas, I could sleep in my underwear, and I needn't bother about washing things, I often don't wash back at the Home—”

  “Great! Well, if you ever lived with me—and I said if, Tracy—then you'd wash all right. Now don't carry on. Five. Back at the Home. That'll be quite enough for today.”

  I decided to give in. I sometimes sense I can only push so far.

  I phoned, and Cam spoke to Jenny for a bit too.

  “T.B.'s phoned home twice now. Like E.T. Do you know what E.T. got?” I said hopefully. “Smarties.”

  “You'll be in the Sunday papers tomorrow, Tracy.

  THE GIRL WHOSE STOMACH EXPLODED,” said Cam.

  But she bought me Smarties all the same. Not a little tube, a great big packet.

  “Wow! Thanks,” I said, diving in.

  “They're not just for you. Take them back and share them with all the others.”

  “Oh! I don't want to waste them.”

  “You're to share them, greedyguts.”

  “I don't mind sharing them with Peter. Or Maxy. Or the babies.”

  “Share them with everybody. Including Justine.”

  “Hmm!”

  She stopped off at another shop too. A bakery. She made me wait outside. She came out carrying a cardboard box.

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