The Story of Tracy Beaker Read online

  “You look … nice, Tracy,” he said.

  But I knew he was lying. It was no use kidding myself. It was obvious I looked like a total idiot. Jenny's pretty laid back about appearances but even she looked shocked at the sight of me. And it looked like all that effort was for nothing, because she didn't seem to have the woman writer person with her after all.

  I've seen women writers on talk shows on TV. They're quite glamorous, like movie stars, with glittery dresses and high heels and lots of jewelry. They look a bit like my mom, only nowhere near as pretty, of course.

  The woman with Jenny looked like some boring social worker or teacher. Scruffy brown hair. No makeup. Scrubby T-shirt and rumpled jeans. A bit like me on an off day, grown up.

  I decided to slink back to my bedroom. It seemed sensible to steer clear of Adele anyway. But Jenny caught hold of me by the back of my sweater.

  “Hang around, Tracy. I thought you wanted to meet Cam Lawson.”

  “Who?” I said.

  “You know. The writer. I told you,” Jenny said through her teeth. Then she lowered her voice even more. “Why are you wearing your winter sweater when it's boiling hot today? And what on earth have you done to your face?”

  “She thinks she looks pretty,” said Justine, and she clutched Louise and they both shrieked.

  “Pipe down, you two,” said Jenny. “Tracy. Tracy!” She hung on to me firmly, stopping me from barging over to that stupid pair of titterers so that I could bang their heads together. “Leave them, Tracy. Come and meet Cam.”

  I wanted to meet this Cam (what sort of a silly name is that?) even though she didn't look a bit like a proper writer, but I sort of hung back. I'm usually the last person to feel shy, but somehow I suddenly didn't know what to say or what to do. So I growled something at Jenny and twisted away from her and stood in a corner by myself, just watching.

  Peter came trotting after me. Justine and Louise were still having hysterics at my appearance. You could tell they'd actually got over the giggles by this time, but Justine kept going into further false whoops and Louise was almost as bad.

  “Don't take any notice of them,” Peter whispered.

  “I don't,” I said angrily.

  “I like your sweater,” said Peter. “And your makeup. And the new hairstyle.”

  “Then you're crazy. It's a mess. I'm a mess. I look like a mess on purpose,” I said fiercely. “So you needn't feel sorry for me, Peter Ingham. You just get out of here and leave me alone, right?”

  Peter fidgeted from one foot to the other, looking worried.

  “Get out of here, you stupid little creep,” I said.

  So of course he did leave then. I wondered why I'd said it. Okay, he is a creep, but he's not really that bad. I'd said he could be my friend. And it was a lot better when he was with me than standing all by myself, watching everyone over on the other side of the room clustered around this Cam person calling herself a writer.

  She's a weird sort of woman, if you ask me. She was chatting away and yet you could tell she was really nervous inside. She kept fidgeting with her pen and notebook and I was amazed to see she bites her nails! She's a great big grown-up woman and yet she does a dopey kid's thing like that. Well, she's not great big, she's little and skinny, but even so!

  My mom has the most beautiful fingernails, very long and pointy and shiny. She polishes them every day. I just love that smell of nail polish, that sharp

  smell that makes your nostrils twitch. Jenny caught me happily sniffing nail polish one day, and do you know what she thought? That I was inhaling it, like sniffing glue. Did you ever? I let her think it too. I wasn't going to tell her I just liked the smell because it reminds me of Mom.

  I'll tell you another weird thing about Cam Whatsit. She sat on one of our rickety old chairs, her legs all draped around the rungs, and she talked to the children. Most adults that come here talk at children.

  They tell you what to do.

  They go on and on about themselves.

  They talk about you.

  They ask endless stupid questions.

  They make personal comments.

  Even the social workers do it. Or they strike this special nothing-you-can-say-would-shock- me-sweetie pose and they make stupid statements.

  “I guess you're feeling really angry and upset today, Tracy,” they twitter, when I've wrecked my bedroom or got into a fight or shouted and sworn at someone, so that it's obvious I'm angry and upset.

  They do this to show me that they understand. Only they don't understand peanuts. They're not the ones in foster care. I am.

  I thought Cam Thing would ask questions and take down case histories in her notebook, all brisk and organized. But from what I could make out over in the corner she had a very different way of doing things.

  She smiled a bit and fidgeted a lot and sort of checked everybody out, and they all had a good stare at her. Two of the little kids tried to climb up onto her lap because they do that to anyone who sits down. It's not because they like the person, it's just they like being cuddled. They'd cry to cuddle with a cross-eyed gorilla, I'm telling you.

  Most strangers to children's homes get all flattered and make a great fuss of the little kids and come on like Mary Poppins. This Cam seemed a bit surprised, even a bit put out. I don't blame her. Little Wayne in particular has got the runniest nose of all time and he likes to bury his head affectionately in your chest, wiping it all down your front.

  Cam held him at arm's length, and when he tried his burrowing trick she distracted him by giving him her pen. He liked flicking the catch up and down.

  She let little Becky have a ride on her foot at the same time so she didn't feel left out and bawl. Becky kept trying to climb up her leg, pulling her jeans up. Some of Cam's leg got exposed. It was a pretty lousy sort of leg if you ask me. A bit hairy, for a start. My mom always shaves her legs, and she wears sheer pantyhose to show them off. This Cam had socks like a schoolgirl. Only they were quite funny, brightly patterned socks. I thought the red-andyellow bits were just squares at first, but then I got a bit closer and saw they were books. I wouldn't mind having a pair of socks like that myself, if I'm going to write all these books.

  She's written books, this Cam. The other kids asked her and she told them. She said she wrote some stories but they didn't sell much so she also wrote some romantic stuff. She doesn't look the romantic type to me.

  Adele got interested then because she loves all those soppy love books and Cam told her some titles and the boys all tittered and went yuck yuck and Jenny got a bit annoyed but Cam said she didn't mind, they were mostly yucky but she couldn't help it if that's what people liked to read.

  Then they all started talking about reading. Maxy said he liked this book Where the Wild Things Are because the boy in that is called Max, and Cam said she knew that book and she made a Wild Thing face and then everyone else did too.

  Except me. I mean, I didn't want to join in a dopey game like that. My face did twitch a bit but then I remembered all the makeup and I knew I'd look really stupid.

  Besides, I'd got her figured out. I could see what she was up to. She was finding out all sorts of things about all the kids without asking any nosy questions. Maxy went on about his dad being a Wild Thing. Adele went on about love, only of course real life wasn't like that, and love didn't ever last and people split up and sometimes didn't even go on loving their children.

  Even little creepy Peter piped up about these books by Catherine Cookson that his granny used to like, and he told Cam how he used to read them to her because her eyes had gone all blurry. And then his eyes went a bit blurry too, remembering his granny, and Cam's hand reached out sort of awkwardly. She didn't quite manage to hold his hand, she just sort of tapped his bony wrist sympathetically.

  “My granny's dead too. And my mom. They're both together in heaven now. Angels, like,” said Louise, lisping a bit.

  She always does that. Puts on this sweet little baby act when there are grown-ups a