‘What’s what like? Hey, give me a go at heading it, eh?’
‘You’ve got to be joking!’
‘You’re so mean! I got you your rotten ball back.’
‘I don’t think it’s mine anyway.’ Football caught it and swivelled it around. ‘I had my name inked on it, plus a dire warning of what I’d do if anyone got their dirty mitts on it.’
‘So it’s really not yours?’
‘Never mind. It’s actually in better nick. I’d really hammered my last one.’
‘Then it’s just as much mine as yours – so give it here!’
‘OK, OK, I’ll play five minutes’ footie with you – after you tell me what it’s like to be in care.’
‘What do you want to know for?’
‘Because my mum keeps threatening stuff, see – and then I’ve got this social worker—’
‘So have I. Elaine the Pain!’ I pulled a face.
‘What did you get up to then, a little kid like you?’
‘I’ve been up to all sorts,’ I boasted.
‘But you haven’t really been in trouble with the old Bill. I have. Lots,’ said Football, swaggering.
‘Yeah well. I’ve been too clever to get caught,’ I said.
‘So what is it like? Do they really beat you with wet towels so you don’t get bruises? And do the older ones bash the little ones up and stick their heads down the toilets? And do the boys have to wear short trousers even in winter so they’re a laughing stock? My mum says—’
Aha! I decided to wind him up just a tiny bit. ‘That’s right! Only it’s far worse,’ I said. ‘The food’s awful, all these meat loaves made of cow’s nostrils and uddery bits, so you get mad cow disease as well as being sick. And if you’re sick at a meal they pile it up on a plate and make you eat it.’
Football was staring at me, eyes popping, mouth open, like he was about to be sick himself. I could have nicked his ball – my ball – there and then, but this seemed like more fun. I went on elaborating and he carried on drinking it all in and it wasn’t until I invented this torture chamber where they keep you handcuffed in the dark and let live rats run all over you and burrow down beneath your underwear that he suddenly twigged.
‘You’re having me on!’ he said. He stared at me, his face scrunching up. I decided I might have to back off sharpish. But then this weird spluttery noise started up. Old Football was laughing!
‘You’re a weird little kid! OK, OK, I’ll play footie with you. But just for five minutes, right?’
He went into his house to put on a T-shirt. He left the door ajar so I followed him in. It wasn’t much cop at all. The carpet was all fraying at the edges and covered in bits. I could see why his mum had nagged on about the vacuuming. It looked like the whole house needed spring-cleaning. There were scuffs and marks all over the walls – obviously traces of Football’s football.
He was in his living room, shoving his feet into his trainers. ‘Here, you. I didn’t ask you in.’
‘I know. But I’m dead nosy. Seeing as I haven’t got a real home.’
Football’s certainly wasn’t my idea of home sweet home. Yesterday’s takeaways were congealing on trays by the sofa. The ashtray was so full it was spilling over and the whole room smelt stale. It was empty too. Well, there was a sofa and chairs and the telly, but that was about it. Cam’s got all her cushions and patchwork and plants and pictures all over the walls and books in piles and little ornaments and vases of dried flowers and windchimes and notebooks and painted boxes and this daft old donkey she had when she was little. She said I could have Daisy if I wanted. I said I wasn’t a silly little kid who played with toy animals. Cam said good, because she was a silly little woman who still liked cuddling up with Daisy when she was feeling dead depressed and she didn’t really want to give her away.
I’ve tried hanging onto the old donkey once or twice, when Cam’s not around. Daisy’s got this old soft woolly smell, and the insides of her big ears are all velvety.
You can’t cuddle up with anything at all in Football’s house. Maybe Football doesn’t mind. He’s certainly not a cuddly kind of guy.
We played football out in the street. It was great for a bit.
But then these other guys came sloping past and Football acted like I was this little bee buzzing in his ear. He swotted me away and started playing football with these other guys.
‘Hey, what about me?’ I demanded indignantly.
‘You push off now,’ Football hissed out the side of his mouth, like he couldn’t even bear to be seen talking to me.
‘OK, OK. But you give me back my ball. I found it. And you said it wasn’t yours.’
I got into a bit of an argument about it. Football and his new mates won.
I decided I didn’t want to play footie with him if he were the last guy in the world. In fact, I’d gone off the game altogether so there was no point taking my ball with me. So I didn’t insist.
I sloped off to the old house to see Alexander. I needed to see if he’d followed my advice and learned to stick up for himself.
Tracy and Alexander’s Home
I LET MYSELF in the back window and noted straight away that someone had been making serious improvements in the kitchen. There was a big bottle of mineral water standing on the draining board, with a label saying THIS IS THE TAP. So I drank a little ‘tap’ water because Football (and the ensuing dispute) had been thirsty work. I slurped a little down my T-shirt but there was a clean towel hanging on a hook so I could mop myself up. A cardboard box was stacked in a corner with another label: THIS IS THE FRIDGE. I inspected the ‘fridge’ contents with interest. I discovered two rounds of tuna sandwiches, a packet of cheese and onion crisps, a Kit-Kat and an apple. Plus a giant pack of Smarties!!! I helped myself to a handful or two because I’d already burnt up a lot of energy that morning. I was all set to share my own refreshments – only I’d somehow or other eaten them up. Still, I was sure Alexander would be happy to share his refreshments with me.
‘Alexander?’ I called. It came out indistinctly, because my mouth was full. I tried again, louder. ‘Alexander?’
I heard a little mousy squeak from the living room. Alexander was sitting cross-legged on a little rug in front of another cardboard box. There was a drawing of smiley Blue Peter presenters on the front and another label: THIS IS THE TELEVISION.
‘It seems to be on permanent freeze-frame,’ I said wittily.
Alexander seemed unusually immobile too, hunched up with his chin on his chest.
‘Are you OK?’ I asked, sitting down beside him.
‘Yes,’ he said. Then, ‘Well, no, not really.’
‘Ah,’ I said. ‘What’s up, then?’
Alexander sighed heavily. ‘Everything,’ he said sadly, and went back to watching the frozen TV programme.
‘How did you get on at school?’ I asked.
He didn’t react, though his eyes flicked backwards and forwards as if the presenters were really doing something on the screen.
‘You know, with the big bully boys in the showers?’
Alexander sighed again and slumped even further into his shoulders. ‘The entire school calls me Gherkin now.’
I couldn’t help spluttering. Alexander looked at me as if I’d kicked him.
‘Sorry. Sorry! It just . . . sounded funny.’
‘Everyone thinks it’s very funny. Except me.’
‘Oh dear. Well. Never mind.’
‘I do mind. Dreadfully.’
‘Still.’ I struggled hard to say something optimistic. ‘At least you won the dare. I dared you to do it, didn’t I? And you did. So you get to win that dare.’
‘Big deal,’ said Alexander.
I thought hard. ‘OK. You get to dare me now.’
‘I don’t really want to, thank you.’
I couldn’t believe his attitude. Didn’t he realize the potential of my offer??? ‘Go on, Alexander,’ I said impatiently, standing over him.
Alexander wriggled ba
ckwards on his bony bottom. ‘I can’t make up any dares,’ he said meekly. ‘You make one up, Tracy.’
‘Don’t be so wet! Come on. Dare me to do something really really wicked.’
Alexander thought hard. Then I saw light in his pale blue eyes. ‘All right. I dare you to . . . I dare you to . . . stand on your head.’
He just didn’t get it! But I decided to show willing. I spat on my hands and sprang forward. ‘Easy-peasy,’ I said, upside down.
‘Gosh! You’re really good at it.’
‘Anyone can stand on their head.’
‘I can’t.’
I might have known. I tried hard to show him. He was useless. He just crumpled in a heap whenever he tried to kick his legs up.
‘Watch me!’ I said, doing headstands and handstands and then a cartwheel round the room.
‘I can see your knickers,’ said Alexander, giggling.
‘Well, don’t look,’ I said breathlessly.
‘I can’t help it,’ said Alexander. Then he started singing this weird song about leaping up and down and waving your knickers in the air.
‘You what?’ I said, right way up again.
‘It’s a song,’ said Alexander. ‘My dad sings it when he’s in a good mood. Which isn’t often when I’m around.’ He sang it again.
‘Is that another dare?’ I said.
Alexander giggled.
‘Right!’ I said, and I whipped my knickers off and leapt up and down, waving them like a flag.
‘Tracy! Um! You are rude!’ Alexander spluttered, nearly keeling over sideways he was laughing so much.
I leapt right round the cardboard television, waving away, and pranced past the window.
‘Tracy! Get away from the window! Someone will see,’ Alexander screeched.
‘I don’t care,’ I said, bouncing up and down as if the bare floorboards were a trampoline. ‘Look at me, everyone! Look at m-e-e-e!’
A football suddenly came flying through the window and bounced right across the floor. Alexander must have seen it coming but he didn’t duck in time. It caught him bang on the bonce.
‘Ouch! A football!’ he said, rubbing his head.
‘My football,’ I said, retrieving it triumphantly.
‘Who on earth threw it in here?’ said Alexander.
I didn’t need three guesses. Football himself came climbing through the window. It’s a harder window to negotiate than the one in the kitchen at the back. He jumped down, lost his balance, stumbled forward . . . and landed on Alexander.
Alexander lay quivering, hands over his head.
‘You clumsy great oaf!’ I said to Football. ‘Are you all right, Alexander?’
‘No,’ said Alexander, whimpering.
Football picked him up and brushed him down. ‘Yes you are,’ he said firmly.
‘Bully,’ I said, bouncing the ball one-handed. ‘First you beat me up. And I’m a girl and I’m younger than you. And then you pick on a total wimp like Alexander.’
I was defending Alexander but he crumpled again at the word wimp. I sighed. There’s something about Alexander that kind of makes you want to bully him. Even though you know it’s mean.
‘Bully, bully, bully,’ I said, bouncing the ball in time.
‘Give me my ball back, kid,’ said Football.
‘It’s my ball.’
‘You gave it to me.’
‘And then I took it back. It’s my ball now. And this is my house and you’re not invited so you can just clear off. What are you doing following me, anyway?’
‘I didn’t follow you. I was just checking up on you. And it’s not your house.’
‘It is, it is, it is,’ I said, bouncing.
‘It’s my house too,’ said Alexander.
I smiled at him and bounced the ball to him. An easy-peasy bounce but he totally misjudged it. His hands closed on thin air and the ball bounced past. Football stuck out a paw and caught the ball.
‘Alexander!’ I said.
Alexander hung his head.
‘My ball now,’ said Football, smirking. He started bouncing so hard the cardboard furniture vibrated.
‘You’ll break the television,’ said Alexander.
‘You what?’ said Football.
‘You’re interfering with the reception, look,’ said Alexander.
I twigged that he was deliberately distracting him. I grinned – and as Football peered in disbelief at the cardboard box I whipped the ball from his arms. I used two hands – and Something fell on the floor. Football peered hard at the Something.
‘I’ve got the ball, I’ve got the ball’ I gabbled quickly, to distract him again.
This time it didn’t work. Football bent over, grinning, and picked up the Something with his thumb and forefinger. ‘What’s this, then?’ he said, grinning.
‘Nothing,’ I said. Though it obviously wasn’t Nothing. It was a pretty embarrassing Something.
‘It’s your knickers!’ Football chortled.
‘She’s been leaping up and down and waving her knickers in the air.’
‘Shut up, Alexander,’ I said furiously.
I snatched my knickers back and stuffed them in my pocket.
Football laughed loudly and made an extremely coarse remark. I told him to watch his mouth and he said I should watch his ball – as he knocked it out of my arms. He cheered himself wildly and then kicked the ball all round the living room, knocking the television over and severely denting the table.
‘Do you mind! This is my living room, not a football pitch,’ I said.
‘It’s my living room too,’ said Alexander, quickly dodging out of Football’s way.
‘I’ve got just as much right to be here as you have. And I say it’s not a dopey old living room, it’s a cracking indoor football pitch,’ 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.’
‘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 about . . . 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 mournfully. ‘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 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 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 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.’
Dare Game Page 6
