The Story of Tracy Beaker Read online

  “That's a big fat lie! What about Camilla? I looked after her at that children's home and she loved me, she really did.”

  “Yes, I'm sure that's true, Tracy, but—Well, the thing is, Julie and Ted still feel they don't want to take any chances. They're worried that you might feel a bit uncomfortable with a baby in the house.”

  “So they're pushing me out?”

  “But like I said, they still want to keep in touch with you and maybe take you out for dinner sometimes.”

  “No way,” I said. “I don't want to see them ever again.”

  “Oh, Tracy, that's silly. That's just cutting off your own nose to spite your face,” said Elaine.

  That's such a stupid expression. How on earth would you go about it?

  It sure would hurt.

  It hurt a lot leaving Julie and Ted's. They wanted me to stay for a few months but I couldn't get out of there quick enough. So here I am in this dump. They've tried to see me twice but I wasn't having any of it. I don't want any visitors, thanks very much. Apart from my mom. I wonder where she is. And why didn't she leave a forwarding address at that last place? And how will she ever get to find me here? Yeah, that's the problem. I bet she's been trying and trying to get hold of me, but she doesn't know where to look. Last time I saw her I was at Auntie Peggy's. I bet Mom's been around to Auntie Peggy's and I bet that silly old smacking machine wouldn't tell her where I'd gone. So I bet my mom got really mad at her. And if she found out just how many times that Auntie Peggy smacked me then WOW! KER-POW! SPLAT! BANG! I bet my mom would really let her have it.

  I want my mom so much.

  I know why I can't sleep. It's because I'm so starving hungry, that's why. Crying always makes me hungry. Not that I've been crying now. I don't ever cry.

  I think maybe I'll try slipping down to the kitchen. Jenny's bound to be fast asleep by now. Yeah, that's what I'll do.

  I'm back. I've had my very own midnight feast. And it was absolutely delicious too. Well, it wasn't bad. I couldn't find any chocolate, of course, and that was what I really wanted. But I found an opened package of cornflakes and got into them, and then I tried raiding the fridge. There weren't too many goodies. I didn't pig out on tomorrow's raw hamburger or yesterday's cold custard, but I poked my finger in the butter and then dabbled it in the sugar bowl and that tasted fine. I did quite a lot of poking and dabbling, actually. I knew Jenny might notice so I got my little fingernail and drew these weeny lines like teethmarks and then did some paw prints all over the butter, so she'd think it was a mouse. Mice do eat butter, don't they? They like cheese, which is the same sort of thing. Of course this is going to have to be a mountaineering mouse, armed with ice pick and climbing boots, able to trek up the grim north face of the refrigerator. And then it's got to develop Mighty Mouse muscles to pry open the door of the fridge to get at the feast inside.

  Maybe Jenny will still be a teensy bit suspicious. But I can't help that. At least she didn't catch me while I was noshing away at my midnight feast.

  Someone else did, though. Not in the kitchen. Afterward, when I was sneaking up the stairs again. They're very dark, these stairs, and they take a bit of careful negotiating. One of the little kids is quite likely to leave a teddy bear or a rattle or a wooden block halfway up and you can have an awfully bad fall and wake the entire household. So I was feeling my way very very cautiously when I heard this weird little moaning sound coming from up on the landing. I looked up quickly, and I could just make out this pale little figure, all white and trailing, and it was so exactly like a ghost that I opened my mouth to scream.

  But Tracy Beaker has a lot of guts. I'm not scared of anybody. Not even ghosts. So I clapped my hand over my mouth to stop the scream and pattered right on up the stairs to confront this puny little piece of ectoplasm. Only it wasn't a ghost after all. It was just sniveling, driveling Peter Ingham, clutching some sheets.

  “Whatever are you up to, creep?” I whispered.

  “Nothing,” Peter whispered back.

  “Oh, sure. You just thought you'd take your sheets for a walk in the middle of the night,” I said.

  Peter flinched away from me.

  “You've wet them, haven't you?” I said.

  “No,” Peter mumbled. He's a useless liar.

  “Of course you've wet them. And you've been trying to wash them out in the bathroom, I know. So that people won't guess.”

  “Oh, don't tell, Tracy, please,” Peter begged.

  “What do you take me for? I'm no tattletale,” I said. “And look, you don't have to fuss. Just get Jenny by herself in the morning and whisper to her. She'll take care of it for you. She doesn't get angry.”

  “Really?”

  “Truly. And what you do now, you get yourself some dry sheets from the linen closet, right? And some pajamas. Goodness, you don't know anything, do you? How long have you been in foster care?”

  “Three months, one week, two days,” said Peter.

  “Is that all? I've been in and out of children's homes nearly all my life,” I said, getting the sheets for him. “So then why are you here now? Your mom and dad get fed up with you? Can't say I blame them.”

  “They died when I was little. So I lived with my granny. But then she got old and then—then she died too,” Peter mumbled. “And I didn't have anyone else so I had to come here. And I don't like it.”

  “Well, of course you don't like it. But this is a lot better than most children's homes. You ought to have tried some of the places I've been in. They lock you up and they beat you and they practically starve you to death and then when they do give you meals it's absolutely disgusting, they pretend it's meat but it's really chopped-up worms and dried dog turds and—”

  “Shut up, Tracy,” Peter said, holding his stomach.

  “Who are you telling to shut up?” I said, but not really fiercely. “Go on, you'd better go back to your room. And put your dry pajamas on. You're shivering.”

  “Okay, Tracy. Thanks.” He paused, fidgeting and fumbling with his sheets. “I wish you would be my friend, Tracy.”

  “I don't really bother making friends,” I said. “There's not much point, because my mom's probably coming to get me soon and then I'll be living with her so I won't need any friends here.”

  “Oh,” said Peter, and he sounded really disappointed.

  “Still, I suppose you can be my friend just for now,” I said.

  I don't know why I said it. Who wants to be saddled with a silly little creep like that? I'm too kindhearted, that's my trouble.

  There wasn't much point in getting to sleep, because when I did eventually nod off I just had these stupid nightmares. It's as if there's a video inside my head and it switches itself on the minute my eyes close. I keep hoping it's going to be showing this great comedy that'll have me in stitches but then the creepy music starts and I know I'm in for it. Last night was the Great Horror Movie of all time. I was stuck in the dark somewhere and there was something really scary coming up quick behind me so I had to run like mad. Then I got to this big round pool and there were these steppingstones with people perching on them and I jumped onto the first one and there was no room at all because that fat Auntie Peggy was spread all over it. I tried to cling to her but she gave me a big smack and sent me flying. So then I jumped onto the next stepping-stone and Julie and Ted were there and I tried to grab hold of them but they just turned their backs on me and didn't even try to catch me when I fell and so I had to try to reach the next stepping-stone but I was in the water doing my doggy paddle and it was getting harder and harder, and every time I swam to a stepping-stone all these people prodded at me with sticks and pushed me away and I kept going under the water and …

  … and then I woke up and I know that whenever I dream about water it spells Trouble with a capital T. I had to make my own dash to the linen closet and the laundry basket. I was unfortunate enough to bump into Justine too. She didn't look as if she'd slept much either. Her eyes seemed a bit on the red side. I could