The Story of Tracy Beaker Read online

  “Um. Did she really say that?” I said, giggling. “Oh, she's not so bad, really. And anyway, I didn't give her the red lollipop. I saved that for you.”

  “Thanks, Trace,” said Louise, and she beamed at me.

  Oh, we were like that in those days.

  I kept an eye on Justine. She didn't budge for a good half hour, letting the lollipop lie in her lap. And then I saw her hand creep out. She unwrapped it and gave it one small suspicious lick, as if I'd poisoned it. But it must have tasted okay because she took another lick, and then another, and then she settled down for a good long suck. Lollipops can be very soothing to the stomach.

  She didn't say thank you or anything. And when she eventually had to give up waiting and go to bed she stalked off by herself. But the next day at breakfast she gave me this little nod. So I nodded back and flicked a cornflake in her direction and she flicked one back, and we ended up having this good game of tiddlyflakes and after that we were friends. Not best friends. Louise was my best friend. Ha.

  She moaned at first.

  “Why do we have to have that Justine hanging around us all the time?” she complained. “I don't like her, Trace. She's really tough.”

  “Well, I want to be tough too. You've got to be tough. What do you mean? I'm tougher than Justine,” I said, sticking my chin out.

  “You nut job,” said Louise.

  It started to get to me, though. I started swearing worse than Justine and Jenny got really mad at me because Maxy started copying me and even little Wayne would come out with a real mouthful when he felt like it.

  So then I started the Dare Game. I've always won any dare. Until Justine came along.

  I dared her to say the rudest word she could think of when the vicar came on a visit. And she did.

  She dared me to go out in the garden stark naked. And I did.

  I dared her to eat a worm. And she did.

  She dared me to eat a worm.

  I said that wasn't fair. She couldn't copy my dare. Louise opened her big mouth and said I hated worms. “Then I dare her to eat two worms,” said Justine. So I did.

  I did. Sort of. It wasn't my fault they made me sick. I did swallow them first. Justine said I just spat them out right away but I didn't.

  I thought hard. I happen to be a crack hand at skateboarding. Justine's not much good at getting her balance and her steering's rotten. So I fixed up this skateboard assault course around the garden, with sloping benches and all sorts of things. And I dared Justine to take a chance on it. So she did.

  She fell over a lot. But she kept getting up and going on. So I said she was disqualified. But Louise said Justine should still win the bet if she completed the course. And she did.

  Then Justine dared me to climb the tree at the end of the garden.

  So I did.

  It wasn't my fault I didn't get all the way to the top. I didn't ask that stupid Mike to interfere. But Justine said I'd lost that dare, and Louise backed her up. I couldn't believe my ears.

  Louise was my friend.

  We couldn't do any more dares because Jenny PUT HER FOOT DOWN. You don't argue when she does that.

  The next day Justine's famous dad put in an appearance at long last. Justine had gone on and on about how good-looking he was, just like a pop star, and he actually had an evening job singing in pubs, which was why he couldn't be at home to look after her and her brothers. Well, you should have seen him. Starting to go bald. Pot belly. Medallion on a chain around his neck. He wasn't quite wearing a frilly shirt and bell-bottoms, but almost.

  You wouldn't catch me wanting a dad like that. But Justine gave a weird little whoop when she saw him and jumped up into his arms like a great big baby. He took her on some dumb outing and when she got back she was all bubbly and bouncy and showing off this … this present he'd bought her.

  I don't know why, but I felt really annoyed with Justine. It was all right when she didn't get a visit, like the rest of us. But now I kept picking on her and saying silly sniggery things about her dad. And then she burst into tears.

  I was a bit shocked. I didn't say anything that bad. And I never thought a really tough girl like Justine would ever cry. I don't ever cry, no matter what. I mean, my mom hasn't managed to come and visit me for donkey's years and I don't even have a dad, but you won't catch me crying.

  And then I got another shock. Because Louise turned on me.

  “You are horrid, Tracy,” she said. And then she put her arms right around Justine and gave her a big hug. “Don't take any notice of her. She's just jealous.”

  Me, jealous? Of Justine? Of Justine's dopey dumb dad? She had to be joking.

  But it didn't look like she was joking. She and Justine went off together, their arms around each other.

  I told myself I didn't care. Although I did care a little bit then. And I did wonder if I'd gone over the top with my remarks. I can have a very cutting tongue.

  I thought I'd smooth things over at breakfast. Maybe even tell Justine I hadn't really meant any of it. Not actually apologize, of course, but show her that I was sorry. But it was too late. I was left all alone at breakfast. Louise didn't sit next to me in her usual seat. She went and sat at the table by the window—with Justine.

  “Hey, Louise,” I called. And then I called again, louder. “Have you gone deaf or something?” I yelled.

  But she could hear me all right. She just wasn't talking to me. She wasn't my best friend anymore. She was Justine's.

  All I've got is silly squitty twitty Peter Ingham. Oh, maybe he's not so bad. I was writing all this down when there was this tiny tapping at my door. As if some timid little insect was scrabbling away out there. I told this beetle to buzz off because I was busy, but it went on scribble-scrabbling. So eventually I heaved myself off my bed and went to see what it wanted.

  “Do you want to play, Tracy?” he said.

  “Play?” I said witheringly. “What do you think I am, Peter Ingham? Some kind of baby? I'm busy writing.” But I'd been writing so much my whole arm ached and my writing lump was all red and throbbing. Oh, how we writers suffer for our art! It's chronic, it really is.

  So I did just wonder if it was time for a little diversion.

  “What sort of games do you play, then, little Peetle-Beetle?”

  He blinked a bit and shuffled backward as if I was about to squash him, but he managed to squeak out something about paper games.

  “Paper games?” I said. “Oh, I see. Do we make a football out of paper and then give it a kick so that it blows away? What fun. Or do we make a dear little teddy bear out of paper and give it a big hug and squash it flat? Even better.”

  Peter giggled nervously. “No, Tracy, pen and paper games. I always used to play tic-tac-toe with my granny.”

  “Oh, gosh, how incredibly thrilling,” I said. Beetles don't understand sarcasm.

  “Good, I like tic-tac-toe too,” he said, producing a pencil out of his pocket.

  There was no deterring him. So we played paper games after that.

  I suppose it passed the time a bit. And now I've just spotted something. Right at the bottom of the page, in teeny tiny beetle writing, there's a little message. “I like you a lot, Tracy.” Guess what! I've got a letter! Not another soppy little message from Peter. A real private letter that came in the mail, addressed to Ms. Tracy Beaker.

  I haven't had many letters recently. Oh, there have been plenty of letters about me. Elaine's got a whole library of files on me. I secretly rifled through them and you should just see some of the mean, horrid things they say about me. I had a good mind to sue them for libel. Yeah, that would be great. And I'd get awarded all these damages, hundreds of thousands of pounds, and I'd be able to thumb my nose at Justine and Jenny and Elaine and all the others. I'd just clutch my lovely lollipop in my hot little hand and go off and …

  Well, I'd have my own house, right? And I'd employ someone to foster me. But because I'd be paying them, they'd have to do everything I said. I'd order them to make