The Dare Game

by Jacqueline Wilson

  said Football, but this time he dribbled the ball carefully round the furniture, keeping up a running commentary all the time:

  'Yeah, our boy's got the ball again, ready to save the day . . . yes, he intercepts the ball brilliantly, heading it s-t-r-a-i-g-h-t' (he took aim as he gabbled and suddenly kicked it hard against the wall) 'into the net! Yes!' (He punched the air.) 'I've never seen such a brilliant goal.'

  'Sad,' I said to Alexander, shaking my head.

  'You wait till I'm famous,' said Football, kicking the ball in my direction. Aiming at me, rather than to me.

  But I'm no weedy Alexander. I stood my ground and kicked it straight back. 'Wow!

  Tracy's a gutsy little player!' I commentated.

  'I bet I'm heaps more famous than you anyway.'

  'Women footballers are rubbish,' said Football.

  'I'm not going to be a footballer, you nutcase. I'm going to be a famous actress like my mum.'

  114

  'Now who's sad?' Football said to Alexander. He bounced the ball near him.

  Alexander blinked nervously. 'You going to be a famous actress too?' Football asked him unkindly.

  'He could easily get to be famous,' I said.

  'He's dead brainy. Top of everything at school. He could go on all the quiz shows on the telly and know every single answer. Only you'd better have a special telly name.

  Alexander isn't exactly catchy. How a b o u t . . .

  Brainbox?'

  I was trying to be nice to him but I didn't seem to have the knack. Alexander winced at the word.

  'They call me that at school,' he said mourn-fully. 'And other stuff. And my dad calls me Mr Clever Dick.'

  'He sounds a right charmer, your dad,' I said.

  'My dad's the best ever,' said Football, kicking his ball from one foot to the other.

  'I haven't got a dad so I don't know whether he's the best or the worst,' I said. I've never really fussed about it. I never needed a dad, not when I had a mum. I needed her.

  'My mum's going to take me to live at her 115

  place,' I told them. 'It's

  dead luxurious, all gilt and

  mirrors and chandeliers

  and rich ruby red upholstery.

  And she's going to buy me

  new clothes, designer stuff,

  and new trainers and

  a brand new computer and

  my own telly and a video and

  a bike and pets and we're going on heaps of trips to Disneyland and I bet we won't even have to queue because my mum's such a famous actress.'

  'What's her name then?' Football demanded.

  'Carly. Carly Beaker,' I said proudly.

  'Never heard of her,' said Football.

  I thought quickly. I had to shut him up somehow. 'That's not her acting name.'

  'Which is?'

  'Sharon Stone.'

  'If your mum's Sharon Stone then my dad's Alan Shearer,' said Football.

  Alexander's head jerked. 'Your dad's Alan Shearer?' he piped up. 'No wonder he's good at football.'

  Football shook his head pityingly. 'I 116

  thought he was supposed to be bright?' he said. 'Anyway, my dad's better than Alan Shearer. We're like that, my dad and me.' He linked his stubby fingers to show us. 'We do all sorts together. Well. We did.'

  Significant past tense.

  'He's got this girlfriend,' said Football. 'My mum found out and now my dad's gone off with this girlfriend. I don't blame him. My mum just nags and moans and gives him a hard time. No wonder he cleared off. But he says it doesn't mean we're not still mates.'

  'So your dad doesn't live with you any more?' said Alexander, sighing enviously.

  'But we still do all sorts of stuff together,'

  said Football, kicking the ball about again.

  'We always go to the match on Saturdays.

  Well, Dad couldn't make it this time. And last time. But that's because he's still, like, sorting out his new life – he's taking me next time, he's promised.' He stepped on the ball and patted his pockets, bringing out a cigarette-lighter. 'Look!'

  I looked. He didn't produce the packet of fags to go with it.

  'Let's have a smoke then,' I said. I like the way my mum holds her hand when she's got a 117

  fag lit – and the way her lips purse as she takes a long drag.

  'I don't smoke, it's bad for my football, right?' said Football. 'No, this is my dad's lighter. See the make?' He held it out so we could admire it. 'It's not one of your tacky throw-away sort. It's gold.''

  'Solid gold!' Alexander whispered.

  'Well. Plated. Still cost a fortune. It's my dad's most precious possession. His mates gave it to him for his twenty-first birthday.

  He's never without it, my dad.'

  'He seems to be without it now,' I chipped in.

  'That's the point,' said Football.

  'He's given it to me.' He flicked it on and off, on and off, on and off. It was like watching those flashing Christmas tree lights.

  'You'll be waving it around at a rock concert next,' I said.

  'You shut your face,' said Football, irritated that I wasn't acting dead impressed. 'You haven't even got a dad.' He kicked the ball hard. It bounced on the television set and ended up inside it.

  'I wish I didn't have a dad,' said Alexander, 118

  standing up and attempting repairs. 'Or I wish my dad would go off with a girlfriend.

  I wish wishes would come true. What would you wish for?' He looked shyly at Football.

  'That you and your dad could be together?'

  'Yeah,' said Football, looking amazed that Alexander could possibly have sussed this out. 'And to play for United,' he added.

  'What about you, Tracy?' asked Alexander.

  'I don't want a dad,' I said quickly.

  'What about your mum?' Alexander persisted. 'Would you wish you and your mum could be together?'

  'That would be a totally wasted wish, wouldn't it, because I'm going to be with her anyway.'

  But I'll still wish it even so. Let me be with my mum. Let me be with my mum. I'm wishing with all my heart. And my lungs and my liver and my bones and my brains. All the strings of my intestines are tied in knots I'm wishing so hard.

  119

  Wishes come true. My fairy godmother has been working overtime! She made it come true.

  I spent the whole

  weekend with my

  mum and it was

  WONDERFUL and

  she says she wants me to

  go and live with her for

  ever and ever and ever, just as soon as Elaine gets it all sorted out officially.

  Elaine didn't think my mum would turn up.

  She didn't say anything, but I'm not daft. I could tell. Cam dumped me off at Elaine's office. She said she would wait with me if I wanted but I didn't want. It's kind of weird being with Cam at the moment. She's still not making a big fuss and begging me not to go.

  Though I heard her crying last night.

  I heard these little muffled under-the-duvet 121

  sobs – and I suddenly couldn't stand it and stumbled out of bed and went running across the hall. I was all set to jump into bed with Cam and give her a big hug and tell her . . .

  Tell her what? That was the trouble. I couldn't tell her I wouldn't go because I've got to go. My mum's my mum. Cam isn't anybody.

  Not really. And I've known my mum all my life while I've only known Cam six months.

  You can't compare it, can you?

  So I didn't go and give her a cuddle. I made out I needed a wee and went to the bathroom.

  When I padded back the sobs had stopped.

  Maybe I'd imagined them anyway.

  I don't know why I'm going on about all this sad stuff when I'm HAPPY HAPPY HAPPY. My mum didn't let me down. She came for me at Elaine's.

  She was a little bit late, so that I had to keep going to the toilet and Elaine's bottom lip started bleeding

  because she'd
nibbled it so

  hard with her big bunny teeth

  - but then suddenly this taxi

  drew up outside and my mum

  got out and she came running

  in on her high heels, her

  122

  lovely blonde hair bouncing on her shoulders, her chest bouncing too in her tight jumper, and she clutched me tight in her arms so that I breathed her wonderful warm powdery smoky smell and then she said all this stuff about over-sleeping and missed trains and I didn't take any of it in, I was just so happy she was really there.

  Though I didn't exactly act happy.

  'Hey, hey, don't cry, kid, you're making my jumper all soggy,' Mum joked.

  'I'm not crying. I never cry. I just get this hay fever sometimes, I told you,' I said, helping myself to Elaine's paper hankies.

  Then Mum whisked me off and instead of bothering with boring old buses and trains we got into the taxi and drove all the way home.

  To Mum's house. Only it's going to be my house now.

  It was miles and miles

  and miles and it cost

  a mega-fortune but

  do you know what

  my mum said? 'Never mind, darling, you're worth it!'

  I very nearly had another attack of hay fever. And my mum didn't just fork out for the 123

  longest taxi ride in the world. Just wait till I write about all the presents! She's better than a fairy godmother! And her house is like a fairy palace too, even better than I ever imagined.

  OK, it's not all that wonderful outside.

  Mum lives in this big block of flats on an estate and it's all car tyres and rubbish and scraggy kids outside. Mum's flat is right on the top floor and the lift swoops up faster than your stomach can cope. That's why I suddenly felt so weird – that and the pee smell in the lift. I got this feeling that the walls of the lift were pressing in on me, squashing me up so small I couldn't breathe. I wanted someone to come and hoick me out quick and tuck me up tight in my black bat cave. I didn't give so much as a squeak but Mum saw my face.

  'Whatever's up with you, Tracy? You're not scared of a lift, are you? A big girl like you!'

  She laughed at me and I tried to laugh too but it sounded more like I was crying. Only of course I don't ever cry. But it was all OK the minute I stepped out of the smelly old lift and into Mum's wonderful flat.

  It's deep red – the carpet and the velvet curtains and the cushions, just as I'd hoped.

  124

  The sofa is white leather – s-o-o-o glamorous

  – and there's a white fur rug in front of it. The first thing Mum made me do was take my shoes off. I didn't notice the amazing twirly light fitting and the pictures of pretty ladies on the walls and the musical globe and the china figures at first because my eyes just got fixated on the sofa. Not because of the white leather. Because there was a

  pile of parcels in one

  corner, done up in pink

  paper with gold ribbon.

  'Presents!' I breathed.

  'That's right,' said Mum.

  'Is it your birthday,

  Mum?'

  'Of course it isn't, silly. They're for you!'

  'It's not my birthday.'

  'I know when your birthday is! I'm your mum. No, these are special presents for you because you're my own little girl.'

  'Oh Mum!' I said – and I gave her this big hug. 'Oh Mum, oh Mum, oh Mum!'

  'Come on then, don't you want to open them?'

  'You bet I do!' I started tearing the paper off.

  125

  'Hey, hey, that cost ninety-nine pence a sheet. Careful!'

  I went carefully, my hands trembling. I opened up the first parcel. It was a designer T-shirt, specially for me! I ripped off my own boring old one and squeezed into my BEAUTIFUL new status symbol.

  'I could have got you a size or two bigger. I keep forgetting how big you are,' said Mum.

  'Give it here, I'll change it for you.'

  'No, no! It's wonderful! It's exactly the right size. Look, I can show my belly button and look dead

  sexy!' I did a little dance to

  demonstrate and Mum creased up

  laughing.

  'You're a right little card, Tracy!

  Go on then, open the rest of your pressies.'

  She gave me a fluffy pink rabbit. It's lovely if you like cuddly toys. Elaine

  would die for it. I decided

  to call it Marshmallow. I

  made it talk in a shy little

  lispy voice and Mum laughed

  again and said I was as good as

  any kid on the telly.

  126

  The next present was a H-U-G-E

  Box of white chocolates. I ate two straight off, yum yum, slurp slurp.

  I wanted Mum to have one too

  but she said she was watching

  her figure, and they were all

  for me and I could eat as

  many as I liked. So I ate another two, yum yum, slurp slurp, same as before – but I started to feel a bit sickish again. They were WONDERFUL chocolates, and I bet they were mega-expensive, but somehow they weren't quite the same as Smarties. I know they'll be my favourites when I'm a bit older.

  The last present wasn't for when I'm older.

  It was the biggest and Mum had left the price on the box so I knew it was most definitely the most expensive, amazingly so.

  It was a doll. Not just any old doll, you understand. The most fantastic curly-haired Victorian doll in a flowery

  silk costume, with her own

  matching parasol clutched in

  her china hand.

  I looked at her, holding the

  box.

  'Well?' said Mum.

  127

  'Well. She's lovely. The loveliest doll in the whole world,' I said, trying to make my voice as bouncy as Football's ball, only it kind of rolled away from me and came out flat.

  'You used to be such a dolly girl, even though you were a fierce little kid,' said Mum.

  'Remember I bought you that wonderful big dolly with golden ringlets? You totally adored her. Wouldn't let her go. What did you call her? Rose, was it? Daffodil?'

  'Bluebell.'

  'So here's a sister for Bluebell.'

  'That's great, Mum,' I said, my stomach squeezing.

  'You've still got Bluebell, haven't you?' said Mum, squinting at me.

  'Mmm,' I said. My tummy really hurt, as if this new doll had given it a hard poke with her pointy parasol.

  'So did you bring her with you?' Mum persisted, lighting another cigarette.

  'Give us a fag, Mum, go on, please,' I said, to try to divert her.

  'Don't be so daft. You're not to start smoking, Tracy, it's a bad habit.' She started off this really Mumsie lecture and I dared breathe out. But my mum's not soft. 'So where 128

  is she then? Bluebell?' she persisted.

  'I . . . I don't know,' I said. 'You see, the thing is, Mum, I had to leave her in the Children's Home.'

  'They wouldn't let you take your own dolly?'

  'She got a b i t . . . broken.'

  'You broke your doll?'

  'No! No, it wasn't me, Mum, I swear it. It was one of the other kids. They poked her eyes out and cut off all her ringlets and scribbled on her face.'

  'I don't believe it! That place! Well, I'll get on to Elaine the Pain straight away. That doll cost a fortune.'

  'It happened years ago, Mum.'

  'Years ago?' Mum shook her head. It was like she couldn't get her time scales right. She kept acting like she'd only popped me in the Children's Home last Tuesday when I've actually been in and out of care since I was little.

  My folder's this thick.

  'Oh well,' said Mum. 'Anyway. You've got a new dolly now. Even better than Bluebell.

  What are you going to call this one? Not a daft name like Marshmallow this time. She's a beautiful doll. She needs a proper name.'

  129

  'I'll call he
r . . . ' I tried hard but I couldn't come up with anything.

  'What's your favourite name? You must have one,' said Mum.

  'Camilla,' I said without thinking.

  Mum stood still.

  BIG MISTAKE.

  'That woman's called Camilla, isn't she?'

  said Mum, drawing hard on her cigarette.

  'No, no!' I gabbled. 'She's Cam. She never gets called Camilla. No, Mum, I like the name Camilla because there was this little girl in the Children's Home, she was called Camilla.'

  I was telling the truth. I used to love this little kid Camilla, and she liked me too, she really did. I could always make her laugh. I just had to pull a funny face and blow a rasp-berry and Camilla would gurgle with laughter and clap her pudgy little hands.

  Camilla's been my favourite name for ages, long long before I met Cam. Cam never gets called Camilla anyway. She can't stand it. She thinks it sounds all posh and pretentious. I tried hard to get Mum to believe me.

  'Camilla,' Mum said, like it was some particularly smelly disease. 'Your favourite name, eh? Do you like it better than Carly?'

  130

  'Of course not,' I said. 'Carly's the best ever name, obviously, because it's yours. But I can't call the doll Carly because you're Carly.

  Hey, maybe she should be called Curly?' I scooped the doll out of her box and shook her so that her ringlets wiggled. 'Yeah, Curly!'

  'Careful! You'll muck those eyes up too!'

  Mum took the doll from me and smoothed her satin skirts.

  'It wasn't me that poked her eyes out.'

  'Even so, you must play with her gently.'

  Mum handed her back to me.

  I held her at arm's length, not quite sure what to do with her. 'Hello, Curly. Little girly Curly. Curlybonce!'

  'That's not a very nice name. She's a very special collector's doll, Tracy. Don't you like her ringlets?'

  'Yes, they're lovely.'

  'It's about time we tried to do something with your hair. Come here.' She fiddled in her handbag and brought out a little hairbrush.

  'Right!' She suddenly attacked my head.

  'O-w-w-w-w-w!'

  'Keep still!' said Mum, giving me a little tap with the brush.

  'You're pulling my head off!'

  131