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  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