The Jacqueline Wilson Christmas Cracker Read online

  Elaine the Pain came calling halfway through. She cowered backwards, covering her ears, but when Jenny and Mike explained (having to bellow a bit), she clapped her hands excitedly and went prancing around congratulating everyone on their team spirit.

  ‘It reflects the very essence of Christmas, loving and sharing and caring,’ she said, jamming her reindeer antlers on her head and rushing around giving everyone a little pat on the back.

  It’s a wonder Elaine Ridiculous Reindeer Pain didn’t make them think: What on earth am I doing scrubbing away when I could be watching the telly or playing on my Xbox or simply lounging on my bed picking my nose because I definitely don’t love Tracy Beaker and I don’t care tuppence about her and I certainly don’t want to share her stupid punishment. But somehow they took no notice and carried on dusting and scrubbing and scouring and hoovering. I felt as if all the dirty grubby grimy greasy little bits of me were getting a clean and polish too. Maybe they did like me just a little bit after all.

  I still had some stuff left over from my raid on the art cupboard. That night I laboured long and hard over a big card. I drew the Dumping Ground and all of us guys outside, armed with dusters and brushes and mops. I even drew Justine properly, though it was very tempting to cross her eyes and scribble little bogeys hanging from her nose. I put me in the centre with a big beaming smile. I drew little rays of sunshine all round my picture and then I printed at the top in dead artistic rainbow lettering:

  I crept downstairs and stuck it on the table so that everyone would see it at breakfast time. I snaffled half a packet of cornflakes and an orange so I could have breakfast in my room. I didn’t want to be hanging around when they saw the card. It would be way too embarrassing. I wasn’t used to acting all mushy and saying thank you. I’d have to watch it. I was used to being the toughest kid on the block. It would be fatal to soften up now.

  I tried hard to be my normal fierce and feisty self at school. I summoned up all my energy to cheek the teachers and argue with the kids but it was hard work. I found myself sharing my chocolate bar with Peter in the playground and picking up some little kid who’d fallen over and kicking someone’s ball straight back to them, acting like Ms Goody-Goody Two Trainers instead of the Tough and Terrible Tracy Beaker.

  When everyone went to rehearse A Christmas Carol I wondered which of the Three Stooges Miss Simpkins had picked as Scrooge. I couldn’t help being glad that they were all pretty useless.

  Halfway through the first lesson in the afternoon Mrs Darlow sent for me.

  ‘Oh, Tracy,’ said Miss Brown sorrowfully. ‘What have you been up to now?’

  ‘Nothing, Miss Brown!’ I said. ‘I’ve been a positive angel all day.’

  Miss Brown didn’t look as if she believed me. I couldn’t really blame her. She wasn’t to know I was this new squeaky-clean sweet-as-honey Beaker.

  I plodded along to Mrs Darlow’s study, wondering if she was going to blame me for someone else’s misdemeanour. Maybe she’d think I’d written the very very rude rhyme in the girls’ toilets. Maybe she’d think I’d superglued some teacher’s chair. Maybe she’d think I’d climbed up the drainpipe after a lost ball and pulled the pipe right off the wall in the process. I had done all these things in the past, but not recently.

  Still, I would doubtless be blamed. I sighed wearily and knocked on Mrs Darlow’s door, deciding that there was no point protesting my total innocence to such a grim and unforgiving woman. She was doubtless preparing to Punish Tracy Beaker Severely. I saw her selecting her whippiest whip, her thumb crunchers, her nose tweakers, clearing her desk of superfluous paperwork so she could stretch me across it as if I was on a torture rack. I’d crawl out of school lashed into bloody stripes, thumbs mangled, nose pulled past my chin, stretched out and out and out like elastic.

  Mrs Darlow was wearing her severest black trouser suit. She sat at her desk, her chin in her hands, frowning at me over the top of her glasses.

  ‘Come and sit down, Tracy Beaker,’ she said.

  She always says my name in full, though there isn’t another Tracy in the whole school.

  ‘How are you today?’ she enquired.

  ‘Not especially happy, Mrs Darlow,’ I said.

  ‘Neither am I, Tracy Beaker, neither am I,’ she said. She took hold of a large wad of paper scribbled all over with lots of names. ‘Do you know what this is?’

  I paused. I had a feeling that it wasn’t the time to say ‘pieces of paper’.

  ‘I don’t know, Mrs Darlow’ seemed a safer bet. I truly didn’t know. The handwriting wasn’t mine. It was all different writing, some neat, some scrawly, in black, blue, red – all the colours of the rainbow.

  ‘This is a petition to reinstate you as Scrooge in the school play,’ said Mrs Darlow.

  ‘Oh goodness! Peter’s petition!’ I said.

  ‘Are you sure you didn’t put him up to it, Tracy Beaker?’

  ‘Absolutely not!’ I said. ‘But he’s got heaps and heaps of signatures!’

  ‘Yes, he has. Though I’ve scrutinized every page, and some of the signatures are duplicated – and I’m not sure Mickey Mouse, Homer Simpson, Robbie Williams and Beyoncé are actually pupils at this school.’

  My mouth twitched. I was scared I was going to get the giggles, and yet my eyes were pricking as if I had a bout of hay fever coming on. All those signatures! I thought of Peter going round and round and round the whole school with his petition and all those kids signing away, wanting me in the play.

  ‘Peter’s obviously a very kind friend,’ said Mrs Darlow.

  ‘Yes, he is,’ I said humbly.

  ‘I’m rather impressed by his initiative and perseverance. When he delivered the petition this morning he was trembling all over, but he still made his own personal impassioned plea. He stated – accurately – that there is no other girl remotely like you, Tracy Beaker.’

  I smiled.

  ‘He meant it as a compliment. I didn’t,’ said Mrs Darlow. ‘I felt very sorry for poor Peter when I told him that it was highly unlikely I would change my mind, even though I was very impressed by his petition.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said, slumping in my chair.

  ‘Then I had a visit from Miss Simpkins at lunch time. She’s already tried to plead your cause, Tracy Beaker. She’s told me that your appalling assault wasn’t entirely unprovoked. However, I’ve explained to her that I can never condone violent behaviour, no matter what the circumstances.’

  I sighed and slumped further down the chair.

  ‘However . . .’ said Mrs Darlow.

  I stiffened.

  ‘Miss Simpkins invited me along to rehearsals. The play itself is progressing perfectly. Everyone’s worked very hard. I watched Gloria and Emily and Amy play Scrooge, one after the other. They tried extremely hard. In fact I awarded them five team points each for endeavour. Unfortunately though, none of the girls is a born actress, and although they tried their best I could see that their performances were a little . . . lacking.’

  I clenched my fists.

  ‘Miss Simpkins stressed that your performance as Scrooge was extraordinary, Tracy Beaker. I am very aware that this is a public performance in front of all the parents.’

  ‘My mum’s coming,’ I whispered.

  ‘It is a showcase event, and therefore I want everything to be perfect. I don’t want all that hard work and effort to be wasted. I’ve decided to reinstate you, Tracy Beaker. You may play Scrooge after all.’

  ‘Oh, Mrs Darlow! You are a total angel!’ I said, sitting bolt upright and clapping my hands.

  ‘I’m not sure you’re going to think me so totally angelic by the time I’ve finished, Tracy Beaker. I said violent behaviour can never be condoned. You must still be severely punished in some other way.’

  ‘Any way, Mrs Darlow. Be as inventive as you like. Whips, thumbscrews, nose tweakers, the rack. Whatever.’

  ‘I think I’ll select a more mundane punishment, Tracy Beaker, though the nose tweaker sounds tempting,�