“You look … nice, Tracy,” he said.
But I knew he was lying. It was no use kidding myself. It was obvious I looked like a total idiot. Jenny's pretty laid back about appearances but even she looked shocked at the sight of me. And it looked like all that effort was for nothing, because she didn't seem to have the woman writer person with her after all.
I've seen women writers on talk shows on TV. They're quite glamorous, like movie stars, with glittery dresses and high heels and lots of jewelry. They look a bit like my mom, only nowhere near as pretty, of course.
The woman with Jenny looked like some boring social worker or teacher. Scruffy brown hair. No makeup. Scrubby T-shirt and rumpled jeans. A bit like me on an off day, grown up.
I decided to slink back to my bedroom. It seemed sensible to steer clear of Adele anyway. But Jenny caught hold of me by the back of my sweater.
“Hang around, Tracy. I thought you wanted to meet Cam Lawson.”
“Who?” I said.
“You know. The writer. I told you,” Jenny said through her teeth. Then she lowered her voice even more. “Why are you wearing your winter sweater when it's boiling hot today? And what on earth have you done to your face?”
“She thinks she looks pretty,” said Justine, and she clutched Louise and they both shrieked.
“Pipe down, you two,” said Jenny. “Tracy. Tracy!” She hung on to me firmly, stopping me from barging over to that stupid pair of titterers so that I could bang their heads together. “Leave them, Tracy. Come and meet Cam.”
I wanted to meet this Cam (what sort of a silly name is that?) even though she didn't look a bit like a proper writer, but I sort of hung back. I'm usually the last person to feel shy, but somehow I suddenly didn't know what to say or what to do. So I growled something at Jenny and twisted away from her and stood in a corner by myself, just watching.
Peter came trotting after me. Justine and Louise were still having hysterics at my appearance. You could tell they'd actually got over the giggles by this time, but Justine kept going into further false whoops and Louise was almost as bad.
“Don't take any notice of them,” Peter whispered.
“I don't,” I said angrily.
“I like your sweater,” said Peter. “And your makeup. And the new hairstyle.”
“Then you're crazy. It's a mess. I'm a mess. I look like a mess on purpose,” I said fiercely. “So you needn't feel sorry for me, Peter Ingham. You just get out of here and leave me alone, right?”
Peter fidgeted from one foot to the other, looking worried.
“Get out of here, you stupid little creep,” I said.
So of course he did leave then. I wondered why I'd said it. Okay, he is a creep, but he's not really that bad. I'd said he could be my friend. And it was a lot better when he was with me than standing all by myself, watching everyone over on the other side of the room clustered around this Cam person calling herself a writer.
She's a weird sort of woman, if you ask me. She was chatting away and yet you could tell she was really nervous inside. She kept fidgeting with her pen and notebook and I was amazed to see she bites her nails! She's a great big grown-up woman and yet she does a dopey kid's thing like that. Well, she's not great big, she's little and skinny, but even so!
My mom has the most beautiful fingernails, very long and pointy and shiny. She polishes them every day. I just love that smell of nail polish, that sharp
smell that makes your nostrils twitch. Jenny caught me happily sniffing nail polish one day, and do you know what she thought? That I was inhaling it, like sniffing glue. Did you ever? I let her think it too. I wasn't going to tell her I just liked the smell because it reminds me of Mom.
I'll tell you another weird thing about Cam Whatsit. She sat on one of our rickety old chairs, her legs all draped around the rungs, and she talked to the children. Most adults that come here talk at children.
They tell you what to do.
They go on and on about themselves.
They talk about you.
They ask endless stupid questions.
They make personal comments.
Even the social workers do it. Or they strike this special nothing-you-can-say-would-shock- me-sweetie pose and they make stupid statements.
“I guess you're feeling really angry and upset today, Tracy,” they twitter, when I've wrecked my bedroom or got into a fight or shouted and sworn at someone, so that it's obvious I'm angry and upset.
They do this to show me that they understand. Only they don't understand peanuts. They're not the ones in foster care. I am.
I thought Cam Thing would ask questions and take down case histories in her notebook, all brisk and organized. But from what I could make out over in the corner she had a very different way of doing things.
She smiled a bit and fidgeted a lot and sort of checked everybody out, and they all had a good stare at her. Two of the little kids tried to climb up onto her lap because they do that to anyone who sits down. It's not because they like the person, it's just they like being cuddled. They'd cry to cuddle with a cross-eyed gorilla, I'm telling you.
Most strangers to children's homes get all flattered and make a great fuss of the little kids and come on like Mary Poppins. This Cam seemed a bit surprised, even a bit put out. I don't blame her. Little Wayne in particular has got the runniest nose of all time and he likes to bury his head affectionately in your chest, wiping it all down your front.
Cam held him at arm's length, and when he tried his burrowing trick she distracted him by giving him her pen. He liked flicking the catch up and down.
She let little Becky have a ride on her foot at the same time so she didn't feel left out and bawl. Becky kept trying to climb up her leg, pulling her jeans up. Some of Cam's leg got exposed. It was a pretty lousy sort of leg if you ask me. A bit hairy, for a start. My mom always shaves her legs, and she wears sheer pantyhose to show them off. This Cam had socks like a schoolgirl. Only they were quite funny, brightly patterned socks. I thought the red-andyellow bits were just squares at first, but then I got a bit closer and saw they were books. I wouldn't mind having a pair of socks like that myself, if I'm going to write all these books.
She's written books, this Cam. The other kids asked her and she told them. She said she wrote some stories but they didn't sell much so she also wrote some romantic stuff. She doesn't look the romantic type to me.
Adele got interested then because she loves all those soppy love books and Cam told her some titles and the boys all tittered and went yuck yuck and Jenny got a bit annoyed but Cam said she didn't mind, they were mostly yucky but she couldn't help it if that's what people liked to read.
Then they all started talking about reading. Maxy said he liked this book Where the Wild Things Are because the boy in that is called Max, and Cam said she knew that book and she made a Wild Thing face and then everyone else did too.
Except me. I mean, I didn't want to join in a dopey game like that. My face did twitch a bit but then I remembered all the makeup and I knew I'd look really stupid.
Besides, I'd got her figured out. I could see what she was up to. She was finding out all sorts of things about all the kids without asking any nosy questions. Maxy went on about his dad being a Wild Thing. Adele went on about love, only of course real life wasn't like that, and love didn't ever last and people split up and sometimes didn't even go on loving their children.
Even little creepy Peter piped up about these books by Catherine Cookson that his granny used to like, and he told Cam how he used to read them to her because her eyes had gone all blurry. And then his eyes went a bit blurry too, remembering his granny, and Cam's hand reached out sort of awkwardly. She didn't quite manage to hold his hand, she just sort of tapped his bony wrist sympathetically.
“My granny's dead too. And my mom. They're both together in heaven now. Angels, like,” said Louise, lisping a bit.
She always does that. Puts on this sweet little baby act when there are grown-ups a
bout. Like she was a little angel herself. Ha. Our little Louise can be even worse than me when she wants. She's had three foster placements, no, was it four? Anyway, none of them worked out. But Louise always swore she didn't care. We used to have this pact that we'd do our best not to get fostered at all and we'd stay together at the Home till we got to be eighteen and then we'd get them to house us together. In our own modern apartment. We'd got it all planned out. Louise even started thinking about our furniture, the ornaments, the posters on the walls.
And then Justine came and everything was spoiled. Oh, how I hate that Justine Littlewood! I'm glad I broke her silly Mickey Mouse alarm clock. I'd like to break her into little bits and all.
Anyway, Louise lisped on about angels and I'll give that Cam her due, she didn't go all simpering and sentimental and pat Louise on her curly head and talk about the little darling. She stayed calm and matter-of-fact, and started talking about angels and wondering what they would look like.
“That's simple, Miss. They've got these big wings and long white nighties and those gold plate things stuck on the back of their heads,” said Justine.
“Draw one for me,” said Cam, offering her pen and notebook.
“Okay,” said Justine, though she can't draw to save her life. Then she had a close look at the pen in her hand. “Here, it's a Mickey Mouse pen. Look, Louise, see the little Mickey. Oh, Miss, where did you get this pen? It's great! I love Mickey, I do. I've got this Mickey Mouse alarm clock, my dad gave it to me, only some pig broke it deliberately.” Justine looked over her shoulder and glared at me.
I glared back, pretending I couldn't care less. And I couldn't. My face started burning, but that was just because of my mohair sweater.
Justine drew her stupid angel and Cam nodded at it.
“Yes, that's the way people usually draw angels.” She looked at Louise. “So is this the way you imagine your mom and your granny?”
“Well, sort of,” said Louise.
“Is that the sort of nightie that your granny would wear? And what about the halo, the gold plate part. Would that fit neatly on top of her hairstyle?”
Louise giggled uncertainly, not sure what she was getting at.
“You draw me what you think your mom and granny look like as angels,” said Cam.
Louise started, but she can't draw much either, and she kept scribbling over what she'd done.
“This is silly,” she said, giving up.
I knew what Cam was getting at. I'd have done a really great drawing of Louise's mom and granny in natty angel outfits. Like this.
“I'll draw you an angel, Miss,” said Maxy, grabbing at the pen. “I'll draw me as an angel and I'll have big wings so I can fly like an airplane, y-e-e-eo-o-o-w, y-e-e-e-o-o-o-w.” He went on making his dopey airplane noises all the time he was drawing.
Then the others had a turn, even the big ones. I got a bit nearer and craned my neck to see what they'd all drawn. I didn't think any of them was very inspired.
I knew exactly what I'd draw if she asked me. It wouldn't be a silly old angel.
Then Cam looked up. She caught my eye. She did ask me.
“Have a turn?” she said, totally casual.
I gave this little shrug as if I couldn't care less. Then I sauntered forward, very slowly. I held out my hand for the pen.
“This is Tracy,” said Jenny, poking her big nose in. “She's the one who wants to be a writer.”
I felt my face start burning again.
“What, her?” said Justine. “You've got to be joking.”
“Now Justine,” said Jenny. “Tracy's written pages and pages in her Life Book.”
“Yeah, but it's all rubbish,” said Justine, and her hand shot out and she made a grab underneath my sweater, where I was keeping this book for safety. I lashed out at her but I wasn't quick enough. She snatched the book from me before I could stop her.
“Give that back!” I shrieked.
“It's rubbish, I tell you—listen,” said Justine, and she opened my book and started reading in a silly high-pitched baby voice: “ ‘Once upon a time there was a little girl called Tracy Beaker and that sounds stupid and no wonder because I am stupid and I wet the bed and—Ooooowwww!’ ”
Things got a bit hazy after that. But I got my book back. And Justine's nose became a wonderful scarlet fountain. I was glad glad glad. I wanted her whole body to spout blood but Jenny had hold of me by this time and she was shouting for Mike and I got hauled off to the Quiet Room. Only I wasn't quiet in there. I yelled my head off. I went on yelling when Jenny came to try and calm me down. And then Jenny went away and someone else came into the room. I wasn't sure who it was at first because when I yell my eyes screw up and I can't see properly. Then I made out the jeans and the T-shirt and the shock of hair and I knew it was Cam Whosit and that made me burn all over until I felt like a junior Joan of Arc.
There was me, throwing a hairy fit, and there was her, standing there watching me. I don't care about people like Jenny or Elaine seeing me. They're used to it. Nearly all children in foster care have a screaming session once in a while. I have them more than once, actually. And I usually just let it rip, but now I felt like a total raving loony in front of her.
But I didn't stop yelling, all the same. There was no point. She'd already seen me at it. And heard me too. She didn't try to stop me. She wasn't saying a word. She was standing there. And she had this awful expression on her face. I couldn't stand it. She looked sorry for me.
I didn't like that. So I told her to go away. That's putting it politely. I yelled some very rude words at her. And she just sort of shrugged and nodded and went away.
I was left screaming and swearing away, all by myself.
But I'm okay now. I'm not in the Quiet Room anymore. I stayed in there ever such a long time and I even had my dinner in there on a tray but now I'm in my bedroom and I've been writing and writing and writing away and it looks like I can't help being a writer. I've written so much I've got a big lump on the longest finger of my right hand. You look.
I used to play this crazy game with my fingers. I'd make them into a family. There were Mommy Finger and Daddy Finger, big brother Freddy Finger, pretty little Pinkie Finger, and Baby Thumbkin. I'd give myself a little puppet show with them, making them jump about, and I'd take them for walks up and down the big hill of my leg and I'd tuck them in for the night in my hankie.
Baby Camilla used to like that game ever so much. I'd give the Finger family different squeaky voices and I'd make them talk to her and take turns tapping her tiny little nose and she'd always chuckle so much her whole body jumped up and down. I really miss Camilla.
Hey. Sudden thought. Cam. Is Cam short for Camilla?
I was delighted at breakfast to see that Justine has a swollen nose and a Band-Aid.
The swollen nose matches her swollen head. Justine Littlewood thinks she's really it. And she isn't. I truly don't get what Louise sees in her. If I were Louise I'd much sooner be Tracy Beaker's best friend.
What really gets me is that I was the one who palled up with Justine first. She turned up at the Home one evening, all down and droopy because her mom had gone off with some guy and left Justine and her two little brothers and her dad to get on with it. Only her dad couldn't get on with it, and the kids got taken into foster care. The brothers got into a short-term foster home because they were still nearly at the baby stage and not too much bother. But Justine didn't get taken in too, because they thought she'd be difficult.
I generally like kids who are difficult. And I thought I liked the look of Justine. And the sound of her. Because after the first droopy evening she suddenly found her tongue and she started sounding off at everyone, getting really touchy and swearing. She knew even more swear words than I do.
She was like that all week but she shut up on Sunday. Her dad was supposed to see her on Sunday. She was sitting waiting for him right after breakfast, though he wasn't supposed to be coming till eleven o'clock. Eleven came and went. And
twelve. And then it was lunchtime and Justine wouldn't eat her chicken. She sat at the window all afternoon, not budging.
My tummy went tight whenever I looked at her. I knew what it was like. I used to sit like that. Not just here. I used to wait at both my crummy foster homes. And the children's homes in between. Waiting for my mom to come.
But now I've got myself organized. No more dumb sitting around for me. Because my mom's probably too far away to come on a quick visit. Yeah, that's it, she's probably abroad somewhere, she's always loved traveling.
She's maybe in France.
Or Spain—she likes sunshine.
What am I thinking of? She'll have gone to the States. Maybe Hollywood. My mom looks so great she'd easily get into the movies.
You can't hop on a bus and visit your daughter when you're hundreds and thousands of miles away in Hollywood, now can you?
All the same, even though I don't sit waiting, I always get a bit tingly when there's a knock at the door. I hold my breath, waiting to see who it is, just in case …
So I could understand what old Justine was going through. I didn't try to talk to her because I knew she'd snap my head off, but I sort of sidled up to her and dropped a lollipop on her lap and backed away. It wasn't exactly my lollipop. I'd snagged several from little Wayne. His dopey mom is younger than Adele and she hasn't got a clue about babies. Whenever she comes she brings Wayne lollipops. Well, they've got sticks, haven't they? We don't want little Wayne giving himself a poke in the eye. And he normally drools so much that if you add a lot of lollipop-lick as well he gets stickier than superglue. So it's really a kindness to steal his lollipops when he's not looking.
“But why did you want to give one to that Justine?” Louise asked. “She's horrible, Tracy. She barged right into me on the stairs yesterday and she didn't even say she was sorry, she just called me a very rude word indeed.” Louise whispered it primly.
The Story of Tracy Beaker Page 4