Starring Tracy Beaker

by Jacqueline Wilson

  'You haven't got a boyfriend, have you, Cam?'

  I asked her, as she fixed me a fruit smoothie to take away the terrible taste of the potion.

  'A boyfriend?' said Cam, looking reassuringly surprised. 'Oh Tracy, don't you start.

  My mum always goes on at me whenever I see her.' She put on this piercing posh voice.

  'Haven't you met any decent men yet, Camilla?

  Mind you, I'm not surprised no one's interested.

  Look at the state of you – that terrible short haircut and those wretched jeans!'

  Cam poured herself a glass of wine and took several sips. 'Oh dear. Shut me up whenever I get onto the subject of my mum.' She shuddered dramatically. 'OK, how's about trying a plateful of

  cinnamon toast?'

  It was utterly yummy. I had six slices.

  I didn't get Cam's mum-phobia. I love talking about my mum. But then I've got the best and most beautiful movie-star actress for a mum. Maybe I wouldn't be anywhere near as keen 59

  if I had a snobby old bag for a mum like Cam.

  I usually hate it when Cam takes me back to the Dumping Ground but I was quite cool about it this evening because I had Mega Things to Do. I raided

  Elaine's art therapy cupboard

  (I'm ace at picking locks) and

  helped myself to lots of bright

  pink tissue paper and the best

  thin white card and a set of halfway-decent felt-tip pens.

  It wasn't really stealing. I was using them for dead artistic and extremely therapeutic purposes.

  I shoved my art materials up my

  jumper and shuffled my way up to my room and then proceeded to be Creative.

  I was still actively Creating when Jenny knocked on my door. She tried to come in but she couldn't, on account of the fact that I'd shoved my chair hard against it to repel all intruders.

  'What are you up to in there, Tracy? Let me in!'

  'Do you mind, Jenny? I'm working on something dead secret.'

  'That's what I was afraid of! What are you doing? I want to see.'

  60

  'No, you mustn't look. I'm making Christmas presents,' I hissed.

  'Ah!' said Jenny. 'Oh, Tracy, how lovely. I'm sorry, sweetheart, I'll leave you alone. But it's getting late. Switch your light out soon, pet.'

  She went off down the corridor humming

  'Jingle Bells', obviously thinking I was making her Christmas present. I'd have to get cracking now and make her something. Ditto Mike. Ditto Elaine. And ditto Cam, of course, though I would have liked to give her a proper present. Still, I had to have my priorities. Mum came first.

  I wrapped the lipstick in pink tissue. Then I cut out a rectangle from the cardboard, drew a pair of smiley pink lips and carefully printed in tiny neat letters:

  I stuck the label on the first packet and then made three more. I drew two hands on the second label and printed:

  I stuck this label on the wrapped hand lotion.

  On the third label I drew a big pulsing heart and printed:

  Then I wrapped up the beautiful heart necklace, taking care not to twist the red ribbon, and stuck the label on the pink tissue parcel.

  Three presents wrapped and labelled. Just one to go! It took the longest though, because I had to annotate the

  book of A Christmas Carol. I drew me dressed up as Scrooge

  inside the front cover, with a

  special bubble saying, 'Bah!

  Humbug!' I drew me dressed up as Scrooge inside the back cover too, but this time I was taking a bow

  at the end of my performance.

  There were lots of clapping

  hands and speech bubbles saying

  HURRAY! and MAGNIFICENT! and

  WELL DONE, TRACY! and THE

  GREATEST PERFORMANCE EVER! a n d

  A TRUE STAR IS BORN!

  63

  I wrote on the title page:

  You don't have to read all this book, You just have to come and watch me act Scrooge in 'A Christmas Carol', 7pm on Wednesday 20 December at Kinglea

  Junior School!!! I will dedicate my performance to YOU, the best mum in the whole world ever.

  All my love

  Then I wrapped A Christmas Carol and worked on the last label. I drew the book, scrunching up the title really small so it would fit, and underneath I printed:

  Then I sat for a long time holding all four pink parcels on my lap, imagining my mum opening them and putting on her lipstick, rubbing in her hand lotion, fastening the heart necklace, looking at the messages in the book. I imagined her jumping in her car and driving directly to see her superstar daughter. She'd be so proud of me she'd never ever want to go away without me.

  65

  The next morning I cornered Jenny in her office and asked if she had a big Jiffy bag so I could send my presents to my mum.

  'It's a little bit early to send your Christmas presents, isn't it, Tracy?' Jenny said.

  'No, no, these are before Christmas presents,'

  I said. 'We have to send them off first thing on Monday morning. First class.'

  'OK. First thing, first class. I suppose I'm paying the postage?' said Jenny.

  'Yes, and can you write on the Jiffy bag Urgent!

  Open Immediately! Look,

  maybe 7'd better do it,'

  I said.

  'I think I can manage

  that, Tracy,' said Jenny.

  'You are sure you've got

  my mum's right address?'

  I asked anxiously.

  They don't let me have

  it now on account of the fact that I tried to run away to find her. They won't let me have her phone number either. It is bitterly unfair, seeing as she's my mother. I have had major mega strops about it, but they won't give in.

  'Don't worry, Tracy, I've got your mum's address,' said Jenny.

  'It's just that it's ultra important. I need her to come and see me in the school play,' I said.

  'I'm so glad you've been picked for the play, Tracy. You will take it seriously, won't you? No messing around or you'll spoil it for everyone.'

  'Of course I'm taking it seriously, Jenny,' I said, insulted.

  I was taking it very very very seriously – unlike some people. We had a play rehearsal every lunch time and half the kids mucked about and ate their sandwiches as they mumbled their lines. The carol singers sang off-key and the extra ghosts whimpered rather than wailed and the dancers kept bumping into each other and Weedy Peter kept forgetting his lines. He even forgot which was his lame leg, limping first on his left leg and then on his right.

  'You are just so totally useless, Peter. How can you possibly keep forgetting "God bless us every 67

  one"?' said Justine Big-Mouth Littlewood. She seized hold of

  him and made like she was

  peering into his ear. 'Yes,

  just as I thought. You've

  not got any brain at all.

  It's just empty space

  inside your niddy-noddy

  head.'

  I was thinking on similar

  lines myself, but when I saw

  poor Peter's face crumple I felt furious with her.

  'You leave Peter alone, Justine Great-Big-Bully Littlewood. He's doing just fine – unlike you! I've never seen such a pathetic ghost in all my life. You're meant to be spooky but you couldn't scare so much as a sausage.'

  Miss Simpkins clapped her hands. 'Hey, hey, girls! Calm down now. Concentrate on the play,' she said. 'Justine, you could put a little more effort into your Marley portrayal. Tracy, maybe you could try a little less. You're a splendid Scrooge but you don't need to furrow your brow and scowl quite so ferociously, and I think spitting at people when you say 68

  "Bah! Humbug!" is a little too emphatic, plus I don't think the caretaker would approve of you dribbling all over the stage.'

  'I'm simply getting under the skin of my character, Miss Simpkins,' I said.

  She wasn't listening. She was busy sheph
erding the spare ghosts into a haunting formation.

  'Yeah, you get under everyone's skin, Tracy Beaker,' hissed Justine Make-No-Effort-At-All Littlewood. 'You're like a big pus-y pimple.'

  Louise giggled. 'Watch out or we'll squeeze you!' she said.

  I gave her a shove. She shoved me back.

  Justine shoved too, harder. I was a bit off balance, hunched up in crabbed Scrooge mode. I ended up on my bottom.

  They laughed. I tried

  not to cry because it hurt

  so much. Not that I ever

  cry, of course.

  But sudden shocks to my system occasionally bring on an attack of my hay fever. It wasn't just bumping my bum. It was the fact that Louise was being so horrible. I was used to Justine Mean-Mouth Littlewood being foul to me, but it was so unfair that Louise was ganging up with her against me.

  Louise had always been my friend. Now I didn't have any friend at all apart from Weedy Peter, and he barely counted.

  'She's crying! You baby!' said Justine Mockingbird-Big-Beak Littlewood.

  'Why don't you fight back, Tracy?' said Louise, looking uncomfortable.

  'She's lost her bottle,' said Justine Hateful-Pig Littlewood. 'Boo-hoo, boo-hoo, baby! Does little diddums wants her mumsy to kiss it better?

  Only dream on, diddums, cause Mumsy isn't ever ever ever going to come.'

  'I'll show you if I've lost my bottle,'

  I said, struggling to my feet.

  I went push punch

  whack kick! Justine

  reeled backwards,

  her big nose all

  bloody after intimate

  contact with my fist.

  At that precise moment Mrs Darlow

  the headteacher came through the swing doors to see how the Christmas play was progressing. For a split second we were all stopped in our tracks, as if we'd been Paused. Then we were Fast Forwarded into alarming and ear-splitting action.

  Justine started screaming. Louise did too, though I didn't even touch her. Peter started wailing. Some of the little kid dancers and carol singers started whimpering. Miss Simpkins looked like she wanted to burst into tears too.

  She rushed over to Justine and picked her up and peered at her bloody nose.

  71

  Mrs Darlow marched over to

  me, snorting through her nose.

  'Tracy Beaker, how dare you

  attack another pupil! How many

  times have I got to tell you that I will not have fighting in my school?'

  'But Mrs Darlow, it wasn't exactly my fault. I didn't start it,' I protested.

  I wasn't going to tell tales on Justine Scarlet-Fountain-For-A-Nose Littlewood, but I felt I needed to indicate that I'd been Severely Provoked.

  Mrs Darlow clapped her hands at me to shut me up. 'In my experience it's always your fault, Tracy Beaker,' she said.

  This was profoundly unfair. I wished I had enough bottle left to push punch whack kick Mrs Darlow. I wanted to see her sprawling on her back,

  arms and legs flung out,

  skirts up, knickers

  showing.

  It was such a bizarre image that I couldn't help sniggering. This was fatal.

  'How dare you act as if this is a laughing matter! I'm tired of your temper tantrums. You're going to have to learn your lesson once and for all. You will not take part in the school play this Christmas!'

  'But I have to be in the play, Mrs Darlow. I'm Scrooge. I'm the main part!'

  'Not any more,' said Mrs Darlow.

  'But my mum's coming to see me!' I said. 'I've written and told her all about it and she's coming specially.'

  'I can't help that, Tracy Beaker. You're not taking part in the school play and that's that.'

  I lost it then. Totally utterly out-of-it lost it.

  I opened my mouth and started

  yelling. Miss Simpkins put

  her arm round me but I

  shook her off. Peter

  clasped my hand but I

  wrenched it free. I lay

  down, shut my eyes

  and shrieked. And

  shrieked and shrieked

  and shrieked.

  Eventually someone hoicked

  me up and carted me off to

  the sickroom. I opened my

  eyes momentarily. Justine Hate-

  Her-Guts Littlewood was sitting

  on a chair with her head back, a

  big wodge of tissues clutched to her bleeding nose. I closed my eyes and carried on shrieking.

  I heard murmurings and mutterings. When I next opened my eyes I couldn't see Justine. I didn't know what had happened to her. I didn't care. I wished everyone in the whole world would disappear. Everyone except my mum.

  I thought about Mum getting her

  Christmas presents, looking at her copy of A Christmas Carol, dressing up in her prettiest clothes and tying her heart necklace round her neck, rubbing

  her hand lotion on her slim fingers and applying her new lipstick into a shiny pink smile. I saw her

  arriving at the school on 20

  December, sitting right at the front ready to watch me act. Only I wouldn't be in it. I wouldn't be in it. I wouldn't be in it.

  74

  I shrieked some more, even though my throat ached and my head thumped and I was burning hot and wet with sweat. I knew it was time to stop howling but I couldn't. I tried clamping my mouth shut but the shrieks built up inside and then came shouting out louder than ever. It was so scary that I started shaking. I couldn't stop.

  I was cursed like a creature in a fairy tale, condemned to scream for all eternity.

  Then I felt new hands on my shoulders and Jenny's familiar firm voice.

  'Easy Tracy. It's OK. I'm here now. They sent for me. Now stop the noise.'

  'I . . . can't!' I shrieked.

  'Yes, you can. Take deep breaths. In. And now out. That's the ticket. Don't worry, I've got you. You're stopping now, see?'

  I clung to Jenny like a little

  toddler. She knelt down and

  rocked me while I nuzzled into

  her shoulder.

  'OK now?' she said eventually.

  'No!' I paused. I opened my eyes

  and blinked hard, peering around

  the room.

  'Justine?' I whispered.

  75

  'She's been taken to hospital,' said Jenny, sighing.

  'Oh!'

  I started shaking again. What had I done? I'd only bopped her on the nose. I'd done that several times before and she'd never been hurt enough to go to hospital. What if I'd hit her so hard her entire nose had burst and now she just had a big bloody blob in the middle of her face? What if her whole head had exploded and now they were trying to stitch all the bits back together again?

  I hated Justine and I always would but I didn't want her to be seriously hurt. What if she didn't get better? What if she bled so much she died? I pictured her lying there limp and white in hospital, doctors and nurses and Louise and Justine's dad gathered round her bedside.

  I saw her funeral, all the Dumping Ground kids trailing along in black behind her hearse.

  I saw Louise weeping, carrying a huge wreath.

  76

  I tried to tell her I was sorry, but she turned on me and told me I was a murderer. Everyone started murmuring the awful word – Murderer, murderer, Tracy Beaker is a murderer – and then I heard sirens and a whole squad of police cars arrived and the police leaped out and ran towards me brandishing their truncheons and I started to run in terror, screaming—

  'Tracy! Don't start again,' said Jenny. 'I'm sure Justine is OK. Well, she's not, her poor nose bled horribly and you are going to be severely punished for it, my girl, but I don't think there's any long-term harm. Mrs Darlow is worried you might have broken Justine's nose, but I think she's over-reacting a little. Now, I'm going to take you back home. You need to calm down in the Quiet Room. Then we'll talk things over and see what we can do.'

&nb
sp; I let her steer me out of the room and down the corridor. The bell had gone for play time and there were hordes of kids milling up and down, staring staring staring.

  'Look at Tracy Beaker!'

  'What's the matter with Tracy Beaker?'

  'Hey, someone said she's had this ginormous tantrum and screamed her head off.'

  77

  'She screamed all sorts of bad words at Mrs Darlow!'

  'She attacked Justine Little wood and she's been rushed to hospital in an ambulance!'

  'She punched Mrs Darlow right on the nose!'

  'She's not allowed to be in the school play any more!'

  I moaned and snorted and sniffled. Jenny gave me a gentle push past them all, out through the doors and across the playground. I started shivering and shaking, knuckling my eyes to try to dry them up.

  I hated it that so many of them had seen me in a state. It's different at the Dumping Ground.

  Everyone understands that looked-after kids are a bit like fireworks with very short fuses. Beware matches! Some of us just do a little fizz and whizz when someone sets them off. Weedy Peter's mini-tantrums are like little kiddy sparklers. Some of us explode loudly like bangers, but it's all over 78

  quickly without too much show. And some of us are like mega rockets and we soar and swoop and explode into a

  million stars.No prizes for guessing which firework I fit.

  They don't get it at school.

  They especially don't get

  me. I didn't mind them

  knowing I'd socked

  Justine. I rather liked

  it that they thought I'd

  punched Mrs Darlow.

  But I hated them all

  seeing me in such a state,

  all blood, sweat and tears.

  I didn't mind the blood, I didn't mind the sweat, but Tracy Beaker doesn't cry. Ever. Not publicly, anyway.

  The mini van was a very private place. And so is the Quiet Room. And my bedroom. Jenny said I could come down to tea but I didn't fancy the idea.