The Dare Game

by Jacqueline Wilson

  'You're the greatest idiots,' said Alexander tearfully.

  'You always try to spoil everything, Alexander,' I said. 'Go on. It's your turn now. I dare you.'

  'No!'

  'Come on, you've got to, if I dare you.' I 205

  tried to pass him the lighter but he put his fists behind his back.

  ' I ' m not going to. It's mad and dangerous,'

  said Alexander.

  'He hasn't got the bottle,' said Football, sneering.

  'Go on, Alexander,' I said. 'You felt great last time after you jumped out the window.'

  Alexander shook his head violently. 'I was mad then. What if the mattress hadn't been there? I'd have been killed. I'm not taking any more chances.'

  'Coward! Chicken!'

  'Cluck cluck cluck!'

  'You can cluck and call me all the names you like,' said Alexander. 'I'm still not going to do it.'

  'Because you're too scared,' I said.

  'You're only doing it because you're scared,' said Alexander. 'Scared Football won't think you as tough as he is. Only he's scared too.'

  'I'm scared?' said Football, outraged. 'Who am I scared of, Gherkin?' He took the lighter from me and stood in front of Alexander, flicking it on and off, on and off. 'Am I scared of you, is that it? Or scared of skinny little 206

  Tracy? I'm not scared of anyone, you stupid jerk.'

  Alexander still didn't give up. 'You're scared your dad doesn't care about you any more, that's what you're scared of.'

  I couldn't help nodding. 'Ah! He's got you there, Football.'

  'No he hasn't. I'm not scared. I don't give a toss about my dad any more,' said Football.

  'Yes you do,' said Alexander relentlessly.

  'That's why you act crazy – because it's driving you crazy.'

  'You think you know it all but you don't know anything,' Football shouted. 'Now button that lippy little mouth of yours or I'll set light to you.'

  'You wouldn't dare!' Alexander squealed.

  'Shut up, Alexander,' I said.

  'I'll dare anything,' Football declared, waving his lighter round wildly.

  Alexander snatched a cardboard

  shelf and held it up like a shield.

  Football lunged forward, expecting Alexander to dodge backwards.

  Alexander stood still – and there was a sudden flare of flame. Alexander stared, open-mouthed, unable to move.

  207

  I snatched the sizzling cardboard, threw it to the floor, and stamped on it.

  'Stop it, Football!' I shouted. 'This is getting too scary now.'

  'You can't stop me. No-one can stop me,'

  said Football. 'I'll show you, Tracy Beaker. I'll show you, Gherkin.'

  'Why do you have to bully us? We're your friends,' Alexander said desperately.

  'I don't need no friends,' said Football.

  'No, Football, you can't say "no" friends because it's a double neg— aaaaah!'

  Alexander was cut off in mid-grammatical quibble because Football

  grabbed him by the front of his

  shirt with one hand. His other hand was still waving in the air,

  clutching the lighter. Alexander suddenly made a grab for it –

  snatched it – and then threw it

  wildly. It sailed right across the room and out the window.

  'My lighter! My dad's lighter!' Football yelled, letting go of Alexander in his shock.

  'Oh help! I didn't mean it to go out the window. I didn't know I could throw that far!'

  said Alexander.

  208

  ' I ' l l kill you, Gherkin!' said Football, his eyes popping, his face purple.

  'Run!' I yelled to Alexander. 'Get out the house, quick!'

  Alexander ran – but he wasn't quick enough. Football caught him before he was even out the door. He raised his big fist ready to give him a punch – but I got there first. I shoved Alexander as hard as I could out the way and grabbed Football from behind.

  'Don't you dare, you big bully!' I yelled.

  Alexander collapsed in a heap and started whimpering. Football and I took no notice, too busy fighting.

  'Get off, Tracy! Ouch! Don't you dare kick me!'

  'I'll dare anything, same as you! You think you're so big and tough but I'll show you!' I kicked him again, wishing my trainers were socking great Doc Martens.

  'You little whatsit!' said

  Football, nearly knocking

  me over.

  I hit out hard, catching him

  right where it hurts most.

  'Oooooomph!' said Football,

  doubling up. 'No wonder your mum doesn't 209

  want you. No-one could ever want you, Tracy Beaker.'

  'No-one wants you either! Especially not your precious dad. He doesn't give a toss about you. It's obvious.'

  'You shut up!' He wres-

  tled me to the floor.

  'You shut up, you stupid snot-nosed bully,' I

  gasped, kicking out

  from under him.

  'That's all you can

  do, isn't it? Hit out at

  people. You think you're so great but you're useless. You're even useless at football.'

  'Shut up or I'll bang your head on the floor!'

  'You try!'

  Football tried. It hurt like hell. So I spat hard. Upwards, right in his face.

  Football stared down at me, wondrously spattered. 'You wouldn't dare do that again!'

  I did.

  'You dirty little monkey!' he said, banging my head again.

  'It'll be right in your eye next!' I warned.

  'I'll spit right back, I'm warning you!'

  'Go on, then. I dare you!'

  210

  He dared all right. It was totally disgusting.

  I went to spit back but my mouth was too dry.

  'I've run out of spit! It's not fair. Wait!' I tried but only managed the merest dribble.

  'That was a bit pathetic!' said Football.

  'You just wait. Oooh! I keep blowing rasp-berries instead of spitting.'

  'Can't even spit!' Football jeered.

  'Just give me a few seconds.'

  'So I'm going to hang around waiting?' said Football, leaning back.

  'Come here, Football!' I commanded, trying to summon up more spit by smacking my lips and sucking in my cheeks.

  'You look like you're about to give me a great big kiss with your lips like that!'

  Football grinned.

  'Yuck!' I couldn't help giggling at the very idea.

  'You watch out or I'll kiss you!' said Football.

  'No you don't!' I said, trying to wriggle free.

  'Hey, come on, get off me, you big lump.'

  Football did as he was told this time. The fight was over.

  'I didn't hurt you, did I?' Football asked, picking me up and brushing me down.

  211

  'Oh no, whacking great kicks on the shin and bashes on the bonce don't hurt a bit!'

  'You twit,' said Football. 'Hey, we made a poem!' He looked at Alexander. 'And you're a nit! There. You're in the poem too. Hey, Gherkin, we've stopped fighting. You can get up now.'

  'It's OK, Alexander. Alexander? Are you all right?'

  'N-o-o-o!' said Alexander, still lying on the floor, his leg stuck out at an odd angle.

  'I didn't hurt you,

  did I?' said Football,

  looking stricken.

  '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.

  212

  'Here, I'll ca
rry 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!'

  213

  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.'

  215

  '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 shud-

  dered. '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.'

  216

  '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.

  217

  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 prop-218

  erly? 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.

  219

  '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.

  220

  '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 221

  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 frac-tured 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.

  222

  '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 223

  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.