Starring Tracy Beaker Read online

  'I can see him! There's my dad! My dad's right at the front! Hey, Dad, Dad, here I am!'

  Then all the children rushed to the gap in the curtains, sticking their heads out and peering.

  All the children except me.

  I hung back. I thought of all those chairs, row after row to the back of the hall. I thought of my mum. I willed her to be sitting there right at the 136

  front, but not next to Justine's dad. I wanted her to be there so much it was as if I had laser eyes that could bore right through the thick crimson velvet. There she was, sitting on the edge of her seat, smiling, waving, her pink heart gleaming round her neck . . .

  I had to have one little look. Just to make sure.

  I elbowed Justine Big-Bottom Littlewood out of the way and put one eye to the gap between the curtains. The hall was absolutely heaving, with almost every seat taken. I saw all the parents and the wriggly little brothers and sisters. I saw Jenny and Mike. I saw Elaine. She'd taken off her antlers but she had a sprig of mistletoe tied rakishly over one ear (who would want to kiss Elaine?). I saw Cam shunting along the front row, finished with her make-up session, every last member of the cast pansticked into character. I saw Justine's awful dad with his gold medallion and his tight leather jacket. I saw everyone . . .

  except my mum.

  I looked right along every single row. She wasn't there. She wasn't in the front. She wasn't in the middle. She wasn't at the back.

  Maybe she'd got held up. She'd be

  jumping out of her stretch limo

  right this minute, running

  precariously in her high heels,

  teeter-tottering up the school

  drive and now here she

  was . . .

  Not yet.

  Any second now.

  I stared and stared and stared.

  Then I felt a hand on my shoulder.

  'Get into place on stage, Tracy.

  We're about to start,' Miss Simpkins said softly.

  'But my mum hasn't come yet! Can't we wait five minutes more? I don't want her to miss the beginning.'

  'We'll wait one minute then. You go and settle yourself in your counting-house chair. I'll go and get the carol singers assembled. Then we'll have to start, sweetheart.'

  'I can't. Not without my mum.'

  'You're going to have to, Tracy. The show must 138

  go on,' said Miss Simpkins.

  I didn't care about the

  show now. There wasn't any

  point acting Scrooge if my

  mum couldn't see me. I

  clutched my chest. It really

  hurt. Maybe it was my

  heart breaking.

  'I couldn't act to save my

  life,' I said.

  'What about acting to save

  my life?' said Miss Simpkins. 'And what about Cam? What about little Peter and all the children who signed his petition? You can't let them down, Tracy.'

  I knew she was right. I swallowed very very very hard to get rid of the lump in my throat. I blinked very very very hard to get rid of the water in my eyes. I took a deep deep deep breath.

  'Bah!' I said. 'Humbug!'

  Miss Simpkins gave me a thumbs-up and then beetled off to cue the carol singers. I sat in my chair, hunched up. They started singing 'Once in Royal David's City'. I started singing my own mournful little version:

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  'Once in poxy London city

  Stood a lowly primary school

  Where this girl waits for her mother To come and see her act the fool.

  Carly is that mother wild

  Tracy Beaker is that child.'

  Then the curtains parted with a swish, the lights went on dimly to show my candle-lit counting house, and I

  sat tensely in my chair,

  scowling.

  I hated the noise of the

  chirpy carol singers. All their mums and dads were watching

  them, oohing and aahing and

  whispering, 'Ah, bless.'

  My mum wasn't there. She

  couldn't be bothered to come, even though I'd bought her all those presents. She didn't care tuppence about me.

  Well, I didn't care tuppence about her. I didn't care tuppence about anyone. I stomped to the side of the stage and shook my fist at the carol singers as they all cried, 'Happy Christmas!'

  'Bah!' I said. 'Humbug. Be off with you!'

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  I felt as if I'd truly turned into Scrooge. My nephew came to wish me Merry Christmas and I sent him off with a flea in his ear. I didn't want to make merry with him. I bullied my stupid clerk Bob Cratchit, and then had a bite to eat. I ate my chicken drumstick like a finicky old man, and when one of the little kids played being a dog on all fours I

  snatched the bone away and shook

  my fist at him. He growled at me

  and I growled back. I heard

  the audience laugh.

  Someone whispered,

  'Isn't that Tracy

  Beaker a proper

  caution!'

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  Then I went to bed and Justine Enemy-For-Ever Littlewood clanked on stage as Marley's Ghost, the coffin bandage round her head, her long chain trailing keys and padlocks and coinboxes.

  Justine's ridiculous dad started

  clapping wildly before she'd so much as opened her mouth and Justine

  Utterly-Unprofessional Littlewood

  totally forgot she was Marley's Ghost.

  She turned and waved excitedly at

  her father, just like a five-year-

  old in her first Nativity play.

  I gave a gasp to remind Justine she was there to spook me out and give me a warning. Justine shuffled towards me unwillingly, still peering round at her dad. Her chain tangled around her feet. She wasn't looking where she was going. Recipe

  for disaster!

  Justine tripped

  over her own

  padlock and went

  flying, landing

  flat on

  her face.

  She lay there, looking a total idiot. Her face was all screwed up. She was trying not to cry.

  My chest hurt. I knew just how she felt, falling over and making such a fool of herself in front of her dad. I reached out a shaking hand.

  'Is it you, Jacob Marley, my old partner? It can't be you, because you're as dead as a doornail.' That was in Miss Simpkins's script.

  Now it was time for a spot of improvisation. 'Yet it must be you, Marley. You were unsteady on your feet in your last few years on earth – and you're unsteady now in your present spirit situation.

  Allow me to

  assist you,

  old chap.'

  I took hold of Justine and hauled her up. The audience clapped delightedly because I'd saved the situation.

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  'Pray tell me why you're fettered,' I said, following the script again.

  'I wear the chain I forged in life,' said Justine, pulling herself together. She sounded pretty miserable, but that was in character.

  Then I was visited by Louise as the Spirit of Christmas Past. She'd put her own make-up on over Cam's so she looked more like she was going out clubbing than off haunting mean old men, but at least she didn't fall over.

  We acted out the bit where little

  boy Scrooge was sent to a horrible boarding school and told he couldn't ever go home. It was a bit like me being sent off to the Dumping Ground.

  I thought about Mum sending me

  there and not coming back to fetch me.

  Not even coming today, when I was starring as Scrooge. Tears rolled down my cheeks. I don't ever cry. But I wasn't being Tracy Beaker; I was acting Scrooge, and doing it so well I heard

  several snuffles in the audience.

  They were moved to tears too

  by my brilliant performance!

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  I had a chance to blow my nose on my nightshirt hem while everyone danced at the Fezziwigs' party. Then the cur