‘It was – when – Tracy – knocked me – over. My leg!’ Alexander gasped.
‘Oh help!’ I said. ‘Stand up, Alexander, and let me have a look.’
‘I can’t. I really can’t.’
I bent over him. I saw his leg. ‘Oh no, Alexander! I’ve really hurt your leg! It’s all bendy. How terrible! What am I going to do?’
‘I think – better – get me – to hospital,’ Alexander mumbled.
I tried to help him up. Alexander groaned with the pain.
‘Here, I’ll carry you. Come here, little guy. Don’t worry, I’ll be ever so gentle,’ said Football, putting Alexander over his shoulder in a fireman’s lift.
‘Oh Alexander,’ I said, holding his hand. ‘Please be all right. I can’t stand it if I’ve hurt you. You’re my best friend in all the world. Please please please get better!’
Alexander’s Real Home
WE TOOK ALEXANDER to hospital. Football was willing to carry him the whole way but I still had some money from Mum’s wallet so we took a taxi.
The taxi driver sighed when he saw Alexander. ‘You kids been rough-housing?’ he said, shaking his head.
Alexander looked delighted to be thought capable of roughing up a house. He was very brave. He was obviously in terrible pain, his face greeny-white, his fringe sticking to his sweaty forehead, but he didn’t cry at all.
We waited with him at the hospital until he was whisked away in a wheelchair to the X-ray department.
‘We’d better get going then,’ said Football. ‘They’ve phoned for his parents. I don’t fancy meeting up with them. Especially the dad.’
‘But we’ve got to wait to see if Alexander’s all right!’
‘Of course he’ll be all right. He’s in hospital,’ said Football. He looked round the bleak orange waiting room and shuddered. ‘I hate hospitals. They give me the creeps. I’m off.’ He stood up. ‘Come on, Tracy.’
‘No. I’m waiting.’
‘He’ll be all right. It’s just a broken leg. The nurse said.’
‘How would you feel if you’d “just” broken your leg, Football?’ I asked.
‘Well. It would be tragic for me, seeing as it would affect my game. But Alexander’s hardly going to bother, is he?’ Football sat down again, sighing. ‘I hate hospitals.’
‘So you keep saying.’
‘The way they look. All them long corridors and lots of doors with scary things going on behind them.’
‘So close your eyes.’
‘I can still smell I’m in hospital.’ He sniffed and pulled a terrible face. ‘It’s making me feel sick.’
‘How do you think Alexander feels behind one of the scary doors?’ I said severely.
Football hunched down lower on his plastic chair. ‘He’s a weird little chap,’ he said. ‘He breaks his leg – well, you break it for him – and he hardly makes a sound. I’ve seen really tough nuts in agony on the football pitch, effing and blinding, even sobbing. Not old Alexander. He’s really . . . brave?’
‘I didn’t mean to break his leg!’
‘Yeah, I know, but I still think it’s mad to hang around here. His mum and dad aren’t going to be too pleased with you.’
‘It was just one little push. I wasn’t trying to hurt him, I was simply trying to get him out the way. I can’t bear it that it’s all my fault.’ I started crying, snivelling and snorting like a baby – even though I never ever cry.
Football looked all round, embarrassed. ‘Don’t, Tracy, people are staring,’ he hissed, giving me a nudge.
I went on crying noisily.
‘Here, haven’t you got a hankie?’
I shook my head, past caring that I had tears dripping down my face and a very runny nose.
Football darted across the room. I thought it had got too much and he was running away – but he dashed into the toilet and came back with a wad of loo-roll.
‘Here,’ he said, dabbing at my face. ‘Don’t cry so, Tracy. It wasn’t really your fault at all. It was mine. I was the one who really lost it back at the house. I was out my mind setting all that stuff on fire.’ He paused. ‘Do you think I’m really crazy, Tracy?’
‘Yes!’ I said, blowing my nose. Then I relented. ‘No, not really. Just a little bit bonkers.’
‘Do you think I should get some kind of treatment?’
‘You’re fine, Football. It’s Alexander we’ve got to worry about right now. I just don’t get it. One little push, he falls over and breaks his leg. Yet when he falls off the roof he doesn’t so much as break his big toe. He bobs up again as right as rain. He’s a marvel, little Alexander.’ I gave my face another mop. ‘He is going to be all right, isn’t he, Football?’
‘Of course he is. It’s only a broken leg.’
‘Yes, but it might have been badly broken. It looked all funny and sticky-out in the wrong place. What if they can’t set it properly? What if infection sets in? And his leg goes all mouldy and maggoty and has to be cut off?’
‘Shut up, Tracy. That couldn’t happen. Could it?’
‘We didn’t even notice. We were too busy fighting,’ I wailed.
‘You’re a fierce little fighter, Tracy,’ said Football.
‘I’m going to give up fighting now. I hate it that Alexander got hurt.’
I sighed, wondering exactly what they were doing to Alexander. Football sighed too. We took it in turns. I fidgeted. Football fidgeted.
I stood up to stretch my legs – and nearly bumped into a couple who came rushing into the waiting room. The man was very big and bossy-looking with a briefcase. The lady was small and timid with a little twitchy mouse face. I didn’t need three guesses to work out who they were. I whizzed back to my seat sharpish.
‘I believe our son Alexander has been brought into Casualty,’ the man said to a nurse.
‘Please can we see him? Is he really all right?’ the woman said, nearly in tears.
They were led along the corridor. Football let out a huge sigh. So did I.
‘Time to get going, Tracy,’ said Football.
I knew it was the wisest option. But I had to wait to see if Alexander was all right, even if it meant being beaten up by Briefcase Guy for injuring his son. Maybe I almost wanted to get into serious trouble with Alexander’s parents. I felt I deserved it.
Football thought this was crazy – but he stayed too.
We waited and we waited and we waited. And waited some more. And then suddenly we heard Alexander’s little piping voice nattering nineteen to the dozen and there he was in the wheelchair being pushed by his dad, with his mum running along beside him. His leg was propped up and covered in plaster.
‘Alexander! How are you?’ I said, charging up to him.
‘Tracy! And Football! You waited for me all this time!’ Alexander said excitedly. ‘Mum, Dad, these are my friends.’
‘Alexander’s been telling us all about you,’ said his mum.
‘Yes, we should really give all of you a severe telling-off,’ said his dad ominously.
‘I told you we should have scarpered,’ Football muttered.
‘It was my fault,’ I said. I meant to sound bold and brave but my voice went all high and squeaky so they didn’t hear me properly.
‘It’s very silly to play truant. I’m sure you’ll be in as much trouble with your schools as Alexander is with his,’ said his dad, wagging his finger at Football and me. ‘But I suppose I’m pleased you’ve all made friends. Alexander’s always found it so hard to make friends because he’s so shy.’
‘You’ve been such good friends too,’ said his mum. ‘Alexander’s told us all about his accident – how you were so kind and sensible when he tripped over. Other children might have run away and left him but you picked him up and looked after him and got him to the hospital. We’re so grateful to you.’
Football and I shifted from one foot to the other. We looked at Alexander. He grinned back at us.
‘Alexander’s our best ever friend,’ I said.
>
‘Yeah. He’s our mate,’ said Football. ‘So – you’re OK now, right?’
‘Does he look all right?’ I said, elbowing Football impatiently.
Football shrugged. ‘I suppose that sounded a bit dumb,’ he admitted. ‘Seeing as he’s in plaster almost up to his bum. Hey, poetry again!’
‘You didn’t sound at all dumb, Football,’ said Alexander. ‘Well, you couldn’t literally sound dumb, but anyway. I am OK now. I’ve just fractured my tibia.’
‘But you’ve hurt your leg!’ said Football.
‘Ultra-dumb!’ I said. ‘The tibia’s a bone in his leg. And you’ve got a bone in your head, Football.’
‘But you won’t have to stay in a wheelchair for ever?’ said Football.
‘Oh no, dear,’ said Alexander’s mum. ‘This is just while we’re in the hospital. Alexander should be able to hobble about, using a crutch.’
‘But I won’t be able to walk properly for six whole weeks until the plaster comes off,’ said Alexander.
‘Six whole weeks! That’s awful,’ said Football.
‘No, it’s not, it’s brilliant,’ said Alexander, eyes shining. ‘I won’t be able to play games.’
‘Really, Alexander,’ said his dad, sighing impatiently.
‘I’d die if I couldn’t play football for six weeks!’ said Football. ‘I’ve been doing my nut stuck here for hours and hours not being able to kick my ball about.’
Alexander’s dad nodded approvingly. ‘How on earth did you two boys become chums?’ he said.
‘Do you go to Alexander’s school?’ his mum asked.
‘They don’t go to school, that’s the point,’ said Alexander’s dad. ‘What do your parents say?’
Football stuck out his lip. ‘They don’t care. Not my mum.’ He paused. ‘Nor my dad.’
Alexander leaned forward. ‘I’m sorry I threw your precious lighter away, Football. Maybe you’ll be able to find it in the garden.’
‘Maybe. Still. It don’t really matter. My dad’s thrown me away, hasn’t he?’
‘What about you, Curly?’ said Alexander’s dad to me. ‘Surely your mother and father worry themselves sick about a little girl like you roaming the streets?’
‘I haven’t got a dad. And . . . and I don’t expect I’ll see much of my mum now,’ I mumbled.
‘Tracy’s fostered,’ Alexander explained.
They all stared at me. It’s a wonder they didn’t try to pat me on the head. I glared back.
‘How about coming home with us for tea?’ said Alexander’s mum. ‘You too, dear,’ she added, nodding at Football a little warily.
‘Yes, do come,’ Alexander begged. ‘My mum’s mega-good at baking. Can we have chocolate cake, Mum?’
Football seemed keen on the idea. His own tea was usually just a trip down to the chippie. I was equally happy to go along with things seeing as I was starving hungry (it seemed months since I’d munched my Big Mac) and I didn’t have any home of my own to go to.
We helped Alexander out onto the hospital steps. His dad went to get the car and his mum returned the wheelchair to the ward. Football and I supported Alexander, one on either side.
‘You’re a real gem for not telling your mum and dad it was all my fault,’ I whispered, and I gave him a quick kiss on the cheek.
‘It was my fault really,’ said Football. ‘I kept picking on you. But I won’t any more, I swear.’
I could feel Alexander trembling. His face was peony red. ‘You’re both really my friends? You’re not kidding me? This is so great!’
‘You’re great. Alexander the Great. Though you’re also crazy, because your so-called friends have broken your leg,’ I said.
‘Yeah, you’ve had to spend hours and hours in hospital,’ said Football.
‘I like it in hospital,’ said Alexander. ‘It’s been ever so interesting. The doctor showed me the X-ray and explained all about bones and it was fascinating. I think I might be a doctor when I grow up. So I suppose I’d really better stop bunking off school or I won’t pass my exams. You have to get top grades to do Medicine. And school won’t be anywhere near as bad if I’m off games for six whole weeks. Then you’ll just have to push me hard again, Tracy, so I can break my other leg.’
‘It was only a little push!’
‘I know. I fell awkwardly. I am awkward. That’s why I’m so useless at football. My legs don’t work the right way.’
‘Your head’s fine though,’ said Football. ‘Here, maybe I’ll train you to do my famous Bonce-Buster so you can head the ball into the back of the net, easy-peasy.’
‘That would be great,’ said Alexander.
‘That would be a blooming miracle,’ I said.
Alexander and Football seemed to be bonding like Superglue. They chatted together in the car all the way to Alexander’s home.
It was a huge house, one of those big black and white ones with criss-cross windows and neat little trees in tubs on either side of the front door. We hadn’t realized quite how posh Alexander is. Things got even ritzier inside, with polished wood everywhere and matching sofas and chairs so vigorously tidied with cushions at exact angles that I only dared perch on the end of a hard chair with red and white stripes like toothpaste. Football stayed in the middle of the carpet standing on the outside edge of his trainers, his ball clasped close to his chest.
Alexander’s mum got Alexander tucked up on an armchair with his bad leg propped on a footstool, and then she went away to make us all tea.
Alexander’s dad gave us another one of his lectures about bunking off school and it all got seriously heavy and Alexander’s face was as white and stiff as his plaster and Football rested his chin on his ball and I slid down the red and white stripes till my bottom was off the seat altogether. But then Alexander’s mum came darting back with juice and homemade chocolate chip cookies which livened things up a little. I thought this was tea but it turned out this was just to keep us going until she’d cooked the real tea. She wanted Football and me to ring home to explain we were out for tea so no-one would worry. Football said his mum was at work so she wouldn’t know – and added under his breath that she couldn’t care less anyway.
‘And what about your foster mother, Tracy, dear?’ said Alexander’s mum.
‘She won’t worry either, honestly,’ I said firmly, though Alexander frowned at me.
Football had to drop his football to cope with his juice and cookie. His ball started rolling away so he gave it a nifty little kick up onto his trainer and back again.
‘That was neat footwork, lad,’ said Alexander’s dad.
‘Football’s brilliant at football, Dad,’ said Alexander proudly.
‘I’m not bad,’ Football mumbled, surprisingly bashful.
Alexander’s dad started talking soccer-speak and after a few sentences Football joined in, and even demonstrated a few of his party tricks.
‘Ooh dear, you will watch the ornaments, won’t you?’ said Alexander’s mum, rushing back with bowls of crisps and saucers of Smarties.
‘How about if we nip out into the garden, lad?’ said Alexander’s dad.
They went out through the French windows and almost immediately they were kicking the ball backwards and forwards like old pals.
Alexander peered at them a little wistfully. ‘My dad likes Football,’ he said.
‘He likes you too, Alexander. Underneath.’
Alexander frowned and shook his head.
‘Well, your mum definitely likes you.’
Alexander gave a little nod.
‘And Football likes you. And I like you lots and lots. You do know that, don’t you, Alexander?’
He seemed to. His head was bobbing about like he was little Noddy. ‘I like you too, Tracy,’ he said. ‘And Football likes you ever so. He wants you to be his girlfriend.’
‘Well. I’m not so sure about that,’ I said. ‘I might be his girlfriend. But I’ll be your girlfriend too. If you want.’
‘I do want! And �
�� and your mum maybe can’t always like you, but Cam does. It sounds like she really really cares about you.’
‘No she doesn’t. Anyway. I’ve blown it with her.’
I let myself think properly about Cam. All the stuff we did together. Daft things – like we’d dance to Top of the Pops and we’d shout out silly answers to the quizzes and we’d invent all sorts of new rude funny things to happen in all the soaps. And at night Cam would always tuck me up and ruffle my hair. And if I got scared at night – a bad dream or something – I could always go and climb into her bed. She’d moan and go, ‘Oh Tracy Fidget Bottom,’ but she’d still cuddle me close. And though her food was so boring and healthy she took me to McDonald’s too. And when I didn’t get invited to Roxanne’s party at school Cam said we could have our own private party just us two instead and we even had birthday cake.
It wasn’t all Party Time of course. She could get dead narked sometimes and do a real moody on me – but then I suppose I could get a bit stroppy at times too. She didn’t ever leave me alone at home. She didn’t go off with any men. And one time when she was going to this very special concert with Jane and Liz and another friend was looking after me, Cam cancelled because I had this stomach upset. Imagine, she gave up going to a concert to mop up all my sick.
We got on OK, Cam and me. Like real friends. Sisters. Almost . . . almost like she was my mum.
It was weird. Alexander’s mum fixed us this most magnificent tea ever, with pizza triangles and quiche fingers and little sausages and amazing chocolate cake and a sponge with pink icing too and ice cream with special strawberry sauce – but when it was in my mouth it all tasted like Alexander’s cardboard.
I couldn’t chew properly because I had this big lump in my throat.
I wanted to go home.
Home Sweet Home
SO I DID go home. Alexander’s dad insisted on driving me back to Cam’s. He took Football too and they were still so busy nattering about football that they didn’t notice I was getting quieter and quieter until I said nothing at all for the last five minutes.
Dare Game Page 12
