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  ‘Are you?’ said Alexander, as if I’d said ‘I’m going to help myself to another Jaffa Cake’.

  ‘What do you mean “are you”? That’s a bit of a limpy wimpy response. Why aren’t you, like, “Wow, Tracy, you lucky thing, how fantastic, super-duper mega-whizzo brilliant”?’

  Alexander stood to attention. ‘Wow, Tracy. You lucky thing,’ he said obediently. Then he paused. ‘What else was it?’ He was acting like he didn’t think I was the luckiest kid in the whole world.

  ‘Look, you haven’t seen my mum.’ I wished I had a photo to show him. ‘She looks totally fantastic. She’s really really beautiful, and she wears these wonderful clothes, and her hair and her make-up are perfect. She made me up too and styled my hair and I looked incredible.’

  There was a very rude snort from the living room where Football was obviously flapping his ears, listening to every word.

  I marched in to confront him, Alexander shuffling after me. Football dodged back and shielded his face, pretending to be dazzled. ‘Here’s Tracy the Incredible Beauty!’ he said, fooling about.

  I gave him an extra withering look. ‘You can scoff all you like, but maybe I’ll take after my mum and end up looking just like her,’ I said.

  ‘And maybe that’s a little fat piggy flying through the air,’ said Football.

  Alexander’s head turned, mouth open, looking for the flying pig.

  ‘My mum’s given me all these presents too,’ I said. ‘Heaps and heaps.’

  ‘Whoops! There’s a whole herd of piggies flying past,’ said Football.

  Alexander blinked and then got it at last and chortled loudly.

  ‘It’s true! She’s spent a fortune on me. She’s given me everything I could ever want.’

  ‘What, the computer? And the rollerblades and the mountain bike?’ said Football, starting to look impressed at long last.

  I hesitated. ‘She’s giving me all those later, when I’m living with her.’

  ‘Aha!’ said Football.

  ‘But she’s already given me this new T-shirt. Look, it’s designer, none of your market copy rubbish either, look at the label.’

  ‘Cool,’ said Football.

  ‘And she gave me this enormous box of chocolates, so many I couldn’t possibly eat them all.’

  ‘Well, maybe you could pop them in our fridge,’ said Alexander, still giggling weakly. ‘We’re a bit short on provisions at the moment.’

  ‘Yeah, well, they’re fresh cream, and when I got them back to Cam’s they’d gone a bit funny-tasting so we had to throw them out. But I’ve still got the box. I’ll show you it if you don’t believe me, Football. And my mum gave me heaps of other stuff too, the most fantastic cuddly toys and a special collector’s doll, an actual modern antique that costs hundreds of pounds.’

  ‘A doll?’ said Football.

  ‘Well, it’s more like a giant ornament. I tell you, it’s simply beautiful. My mum’s the greatest mum in all the world.’

  Alexander was looking serious again, his eyes beady.

  ‘What?’ I said.

  ‘She can’t really be the best mum, not if she left you,’ he said. ‘I think if you leave your little girl it makes you a bad mum.’

  ‘She couldn’t help it,’ I said quickly. ‘It was just the way things were. She had things to do. And she had this really gross boyfriend. She didn’t have any option. She thought I’d be fine in the Children’s Home.’

  ‘I thought you hated it,’ said Alexander. He was really starting to get on my nerves.

  ‘I got along OK,’ I said fiercely.

  ‘Not till Cam came along,’ Alexander persisted. ‘What about Cam, Tracy?’

  ‘What about her?’ I said, sticking my face into his and baring my teeth. I was very nearly tempted to bite. ‘My mum says she can’t really care about me. She’s just fostering me for the money.’

  ‘You can’t be easy to foster, Tracy,’ said Alexander, backing away from me. But he still wouldn’t shut up. ‘I think she’s fostering you because she likes you. Don’t you like her?’

  ‘She’s all right,’ I said awkwardly. ‘Anyway she can’t like me all that much or she’d fight harder to keep me, wouldn’t she?’

  Alexander deliberated. ‘Maybe she’s just trying to fit in with what you want because she likes you lots and lots.’

  ‘Maybe you should just shut up and mind your own business,’ I said. ‘What do you know anyway, Alexander-the-totally-teeny-tiny-gherkin.’

  I gave him a push and waved at Football. ‘Come on, let’s play footie then. I’ll give you a real game.’

  Football stopped staring and sprang into action. He passed the ball to me and I kicked it so hard it bounced back off the opposite wall, hit the sofa, and then ricocheted straight into the television set.

  ‘That’s the second television gone for a burton – and it takes ages to make,’ Alexander wailed.

  ‘You and your stupid cardboard rubbish. Let’s clear it all out the way,’ I said, giving the crumpled cardboard another kick for good measure.

  Alexander looked as if he was about to cry. I don’t know why. I wasn’t kicking him. But when Football caught on and got ready for a major WRECK-THE-JOINT I diverted him upstairs where it wouldn’t matter so much. Alexander hadn’t attempted any Interior Design – but there were old boxes to kick to bits and a filthy old mattress to jump on.

  Alexander came trailing upstairs after us and stood anxiously in the doorway, not daring to join in. I felt mean, but I still couldn’t forgive him for being so obstinate about my mum.

  Football went into Major Demolition Mode for a minute or two and then decided to take a rest.

  ‘You think it’s great I’m going to live with my mum, don’t you, Football?’ I said. ‘Hey, don’t lie on the mattress, you’ll get fleas.’

  ‘Yuck!’ said Football, leaping up again. ‘Yeah, I think it’s good about your mum, seeing as she’s going to be giving you all them presents. You’ve got to look out for number one, Tracy. Go for what you can get and the one who’ll give you the most.’ He kicked his ball against the wall and then jumped up and headed it expertly back again. ‘Wow! Did you see that?’ He waved his arms in the air, showing off like mad.

  ‘It’s not just the presents and stuff,’ I said. ‘It’s because she’s my mum.’

  ‘Mums are rubbish,’ said Football.

  ‘You wouldn’t say that about dads!’

  ‘Yes I would,’ said Football, and this time he kicked the ball so dementedly it veered off the wall and smashed the opposite window. It disappeared out of sight.

  ‘Whoops!’ said Football.

  ‘I think maybe that’s enough wrecking,’ I said.

  ‘Watch that broken glass, Football,’ said Alexander. ‘You’ll cut yourself.’

  ‘What are you doing, you nutter?’ I said, as Football opened the window, spraying more glass all over the place.

  ‘We need a dustpan and brush,’ said Alexander. ‘Maybe I can devise something out of cardboard?’

  ‘You and your daft bits of cardboard,’ I said. ‘Hey, Football, what are you doing now?’

  Football was climbing out of the window!

  ‘I’m getting my ball back,’ said Football, peering out. ‘It hasn’t come down. It’s stuck up on the guttering, look!’

  ‘Football, get back!’

  ‘It’s terribly dangerous, Football!’

  ‘Not the drainpipe!’

  ‘You’re far too big. Don’t!’

  Football did. He reached for the drainpipe. It wobbled and then started to buckle. Football let go sharpish.

  ‘Get back in, Football,’ I said, clawing at his ankles.

  He kicked my hands hard – and then leapt.

  I screamed and shut my eyes. I waited for the crash and thump. But there wasn’t one.

  Alexander was making little gaspy noises beside me. ‘Look at him!’ he whispered.

  I opened my eyes and stared in disbelief. Football had leapt across a si