The Jacqueline Wilson Christmas Cracker

by Jacqueline Wilson

  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 minivan 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.

  Mike brought a tray upstairs to my room.

  ‘Hey, Tracy. I know you’re in disgrace, but I wouldn’t want you to miss out on spag bol, and it’s particularly tasty tonight.’

  He thrust the tray under my nose. My nostrils prickled with the rich savoury smell, but I turned my head away.

  ‘I’m not really hungry, Mike,’ I said.

  ‘Miss Fussy-Gussy. I’ve slaved at the stove for hours so the least you can do is try a mouthful,’ said Mike, balancing the tray on my lap and twisting spaghetti round and round the fork.

  ‘Come on, sweetie. Here’s an aeroplane – wheee through the air and in it swoops,’ he said, guying the way he fed the very little kids in the Dumping Ground.

  I kept my lips clamped. I didn’t even smile at him. I didn’t feel in the mood for jokes (even sweet ones) or food (though spag bol was a special favourite).

  ‘Come on, Tracy. Even Justine hasn’t lost her appetite, yet she’s the girl with the poorly nose.’

  ‘Is she back from the hospital?’ I said.

  ‘Yep. Poor, poor Justine,’ said Mike.

  ‘Is her nose really broken?’ I whispered.

  ‘Broken right off,’ said Mike – but then he saw my expression. ‘Joke, Tracy. It’s fine. You just gave her a little nosebleed. But Jenny and I have got to put our heads together and find some suitable means of punishment. You’ve got to learn to handle your temper, Tracy, especially at school. Jenny and I are sick of apologizing to old Dragon Darlow. She’s always been a tad wary of all our kids – you in particular, Ms Biff and Bash Beaker. Every time you throw a wobbly at school you’re confirming all her prejudices.’

  ‘You can punish me any way you want,’ I said wanly. ‘You can beat me and starve me and lock me in the cupboard.’

  ‘There’s not much point,’ said Mike. ‘If I tried to beat you I’m sure you’d beat me right back. You’re already starving yourself going without your spag bol. And there’s no point shutting you in the art cupboard because I have a shrewd suspicion you know how to pick that lock already. No, I think we’ll have to come up with something more to the point.’

  ‘I told you, Mike, I don’t care. Mrs Darlow’s punished me already. She won’t let me be Scrooge any more and my mum won’t get to see me act,’ I said.

  Some drops of water dribbled down my face and splashed into the plate of spaghetti on my lap.

  ‘I know how tough that is, Tracy,’ Mike said, and he gave me a little hug. ‘I know how hard you’ve worked on your part, and I’m sure you’d have been the Scroogiest Scrooge ever. I think we both know that we can’t take it for granted that your mum can come to see you – but if she did just happen to be there she’d be so proud of you, sweetheart. All the kids think Mrs Darlow’s being very unfair. They say the play won’t be the same without you, Tracy.’

  ‘Who are you trying to kid, Mike?’ I said wearily, but I reached out and tried a very small forkful of spaghetti. It was still hot and surprisingly tasty.

  ‘I mean it, Tracy. Little Peter’s absolutely beside himself. He’s thinking of starting up some petition.’

  ‘Ah. Sweet,’ I said, trying another forkful. ‘Still, I bet Louise and Justine are thrilled to bits that I’m out of the play.’

  ‘Well, you’re wrong then, chum. I know you three aren’t the best of mates nowadays, but Louise seems quite uncomfortable about the situation. I think she feels she and Justine might just have provoked your sudden savage attack.’

  ‘Really?’ I said, starting to scoop up my spag bol enthusiastically. ‘What about Justine? What does she say?’

  ‘Well, she’s probably the only one of the kids who isn’t as yet a signed-up member of the Justice for Tracy Fan Club. That’s hardly surprising as her poor nose is still swollen and sore.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ I said insincerely.

  Mike ruffled my curls. ‘You’re a bad bad girl, little Beaker. We’re going to have to channel all that aggression somehow.’ That sounded ominous.

  I was right to be suspicious. The next morning Jenny and Mike cornered me as I came downstairs, head held high, determined to show everyone I was absolutely fine now, so long as everyone kept their gob shut about mums and plays and headteachers.

  I held my head a little too high, so I couldn’t see where I was going. Some stupid little kid had set a small herd of plastic dinosaurs to graze on the carpet at the foot of the stairs. I skidded and very nearly went bonk on my bum again, but this time my natural grace and agility enabled me to keep my footing – just.

  ‘Why don’t you make the kids clear up all their little plastic whatsits?’ I demanded.

  ‘Good point, Tracy,’ said Mike.

  ‘Maybe you’ll help us, Tracy,’ said Jenny. ‘It will make your job easier.’

  I paused. I eyed them suspiciously. ‘What job?’

  ‘We’ve thought of an excellent way to channel your aggression,’ said Mike.

  ‘Don’t think of this as a punishment, Tracy. It’s a positive way to make this a happy, clean and tidy home,’ said Jenny.

  The words clean and tidy reverberated ominously, scouring my ears.

  ‘Hey, you’re not plotting that I’m going to be, like, your cleaning lady?’ I said.

  ‘Quick off the mark as always, Tracy Beaker,’ said Mike.

  ‘We feel you’ll do an excellent job,’ said Jenny.

  ‘You can’t force me! There’s a law against child labour!’ I protested.

  ‘We’re not employing you, Tracy. We’re simply helping you manage your anger in a practical fashion.’

  ‘What sort of practical?’

  ‘You just have to tidy and dust and vacuum and clean the bathrooms and give the kitchen floor a quick scrub.’

  I thought quickly. ‘So how much are you going to pay me?’

  ‘Ah. Well, we thought you would want to do this first week as a trial run. If you want a permanent position after that I’m sure we could start financial negotiations,’ said Jenny. ‘Now, run and have your breakfast or you’ll be late for school.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘No buts, Tracy,’ said Mike firmly.

  I know when it’s a waste of Beaker breath pursuing a point. I stamped into the kitchen and sat down at the table. I shook cornflakes into a bowl so violently that they sprayed out onto the table. I poured milk so fiercely that it gushed like Niagara Falls and overflowed my bowl.

  They were all staring at me warily. Even Justine looked a little anxious. She kept rubbing her nose.

  ‘Are you OK, Tracy?’ Peter squeaked.

  ‘Do I seem OK?’ I snapped, slamming my spoon down.

  Peter jumped and the juice in his cup spilled onto the table.

  ‘For heaven’s sake, watch what you’re doing!’ I said, though I’d actually made much more mess myself. ‘I’m the poor cleaning lady now. I’ve got to mop up after all you lot, so watch out, do you hear me?’

  ‘I should think the people right at the end of the road can hear you,’ said Louise. ‘And don’t pick on poor little Peter. He’s started up a petition on your behalf: “Please let Tracy Beaker play Scrooge”. He’s going to get everyone to sign it.’

  ‘Shh, Louise. It’s a secret,’ said Peter, blushing.

  ‘Yes, like Mrs Darlow is going to be heavily influenced by Peter’s pathetic petition,’ I said.

  Then I saw his little face. Crumple time again.

  I felt so mean I couldn’t bear it, but I couldn’t say anything in front of the others. I just gobbled down my b
reakfast and then cleared off back to my room to collect my school bag and stuff. I listened out for Peter. I caught him scuttling back from the bathroom, toothpaste round his mouth.

  ‘Hey, Peter!’ I hissed.

  He jumped again, his tongue nervously licking the white foam off his lips.

  ‘Come in my room a second,’ I commanded.

  Peter caught his breath. He backed into my bedroom obediently and stood with his back against my Vampire Bat poster, his fists clenched, as if he was facing a firing squad.

  ‘It’s OK, Peter,’ I said. ‘I’m not going to beat you up.’

  ‘I’m sorry if I annoyed you with my petition idea. I know it’s a bit silly and maybe pointless but I felt so bad about you not being in the play any more and I just wanted to do something.’

  ‘I was just being a bad-tempered pig at breakfast. I didn’t mean to get cross with you, Pete. I think your petition’s a lovely idea. Nobody’s ever put me in a petition before. I still don’t see that it will achieve anything, but I think it’s ever so sweet of you. You’re a very special friend. Thank you. Ever so much.’

  Peter still didn’t move but he went raspberry-red and blinked at me rapidly.

  ‘Oh, Tracy,’ he said. I gave him a little pat on the head. He tried to give me a big hug but I wasn’t prepared to go that far.

  ‘Hey, watch out, you’re wiping toothpaste all over me. Come on, we’ll be late for school.’

  ‘So can I carry on with my petition?’

  ‘Feel free. Though I doubt you’ll get many people to sign it on account of the fact that I’m not the most popular girl in the school. Um . . . have the kids here really signed it?’

  ‘Yes, all of them. Well, Justine hasn’t quite managed to get round to it yet, but I’ll keep badgering her.’

  ‘Oh, Peter, you couldn’t badger anyone!’

  ‘You wait and see, Tracy. I’ll get the whole school to sign the petition. You have to be in the play. You’re totally brilliant at acting Scrooge.’

  ‘You’re wasting your time, Pete, but thanks anyway,’ I said. ‘It’s great that you’ve got such faith in my acting abilities. Tell you what, when I’m grown up and a famous movie star just like my mum, I’ll let you be my agent, OK?’

  This perked him up no end but it had the opposite effect on me. Just mentioning my mum made me want to start howling again. But I had to go to school and control all emotion. Yesterday I’d screamed and shrieked. Today I was going to be calm and in control to show everyone that Tracy Beaker is One Tough Cookie, able to cope with incredible public humiliation without turning a hair.

  It wasn’t as easy as that. I jumped out of the Dumping Ground minivan and walked into school as nonchalantly as possible, but everyone in the playground turned and stared and pointed at me. A group of little kids actually stood round me in a circle as if they could turn me on like a television and watch The Tracy Beaker Freak Show.

  The kids staring at me wasn’t the worse part. It was the teachers. They were crazily kind to me. Miss Brown actually hovered by my desk when she was collecting up maths homework and said softly, ‘How are you doing, Tracy?’

  ‘Not too good, Miss Brown,’ I muttered.

  ‘I don’t suppose you managed to do your maths homework last night?’

  ‘I was kind of Otherwise Engaged,’ I said.

  ‘Oh well. Not to worry. You can do it in your lunch hour.’

  ‘OK, I’ve got all the time in the world in my lunch hour now,’ I said, sighing heavily.

  The lunch hour was dreadful. Peter and Louise and Justine and all the other kids in A Christmas Carol rushed off to the hall to rehearse . . . without me.

  I stayed in the classroom all by myself and did my maths homework. The inky numbers on my page kept blurring and blotching, as if they were being rained on. I used up two tissues and my sleeve mopping up.

  I whizzed along to the cloakroom just before the start of afternoon school to splash cold water on my face – and bumped into Miss Simpkins. She had Gloria Taylor, Emily Lawson and Amy Jellicoe with her. They were all looking up at her hopefully, eyes huge like puppies in Battersea Dogs Home, going, Pick me, Miss Simpkins.

  ‘Oh, Tracy,’ said Miss Simpkins. She waved her hand at Gloria and Emily and Amy. ‘Run along, girls. I’ll let you know tomorrow,’ she said.

  They each gave me a pitying glance and then ran off obediently.

  ‘They’ve been auditioning for Scrooge, haven’t they?’ I said flatly.

  ‘Yes, they have,’ said Miss Simpkins. She lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘And they all tried their best, but strictly between you and me, Tracy, they’re rubbish compared to you.’

  ‘So which one are you going to pick, Miss Simpkins?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said, sighing. ‘It’s such a big part and there’s hardly any time left to learn it. Gloria’s the only girl who could learn it all by heart, but she runs through it like a railway station announcer, with no expression whatsoever. Emily can at least act a little, but she can’t remember two consecutive lines so she’d have to have the script in her hands the whole time and that would spoil things.’

  ‘So are you going to choose Amy for Scrooge?’

  ‘Amy is so sweet and soft and shy she can barely make herself heard and she can’t act bad-tempered to save her life. She just doesn’t convince as Scrooge.’

  ‘Whereas I can act bad-tempered till the cows come home,’ I said.

  ‘Yes! You were my magnificent Scrooge,’ she said, sighing.

  ‘Until Mrs Darlow spoiled everything,’ I said.

  ‘No, Tracy. Until you spoiled everything,’ said Miss Simpkins. ‘Although I know you were severely provoked. I’ve tried explaining the circumstances to Mrs Darlow – in vain, I’m sorry to say.’

  ‘Well. Thank you, Miss Simpkins,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry I mucked it all up.’

  ‘It seems a shame you’ve got to pay so dearly for it,’ said Miss Simpkins.

  ‘You don’t know the half of it,’ I said darkly. ‘I’m paying for it with knobs on, even back at the Home. I’m acting as an unpaid skivvy clearing up after all the kids. Isn’t that unbelievably unfair? I think you should report them to the NSPCC, OK?’

  ‘I’ll think about it,’ said Miss Simpkins, but she was struggling hard not to laugh.

  I certainly didn’t feel like laughing when I came home utterly exhausted from school to have Jenny hand me the hoover and Mike thrust the mop and bucket at me.

  I’d been secretly hoping that this was one big bluff. I was outraged to realize they really meant to go through with it.

  ‘Let me have my tea first, for pity’s sake,’ I said.

  I took my time munching my banana wholemeal sandwich and my handful of nuts and my orange and my apple juice. (Oh for the days of unhealthy eating when we wolfed down crisps and chocolate and cakes and Coke.) Then I stomped off to my room to change out of my school uniform and put on my oldest jeans and faded T-shirt.

  I stopped to look at the postcard from Mum on my notice board. I suddenly felt so sad I had to lie on my bed with my head under my pillow just in case anyone overheard my sudden attack of hay fever. I was still feeling sniffly when I trailed down the stairs, sighing considerably. No one was around to hear me. The other kids all seemed to be whispering together in the kitchen. It was all right for some Ugly People. Poor little Cinderella Beaker had to stay home and tackle all the chores.

  I picked up the hoover, switched it on and started shoving it backwards and forwards across the hall. It was so heavy, so clumsy, so awkward. My arms were aching and my back hurt from bending over already and yet I’d only done one weeny patch of carpet. I had the whole huge Dumping Ground to render spotless. I banged the hoover violently into the skirting board and gave it a kick.

  I was only wearing soft shoes. It hurt horribly. I switched the hateful hoover off and doubled up, nursing my poor stubbed toes.

  I heard more whisperings and gigglings.

  ‘Shut up, you lot!’ I
snarled.

  Peter popped his head round the kitchen door.

  ‘Tracy, are you OK?’

  ‘I’m absolutely in the pink,’ I said sarcastically. ‘In the rose-pink, salmon-pink, petunia-pink – not. How do you think I feel, knowing I’ve got the tremendous task of cleaning up the Dumping Ground single-handed?’

  ‘Not quite single-handed,’ said Peter. ‘Come on, gang!’

  All the kids suddenly sprang out of the kitchen into the hall. Peter stood in front, jersey sleeves rolled up his puny little arms, a tea towel tied round his waist like a pinny. They were all clutching dusters and mops and brushes and pans. Louise was there, her long hair tied up in a scarf. Justine sloped out last, wearing Mike’s stripy cooking apron and wielding a scrubbing brush.

  ‘We’re all going to do the cleaning,’ said Peter. ‘It seemed so horribly mean that you had to do it all, so we’re helping out. It’ll be fun!’

  ‘Not my idea of fun, you little runt,’ said Justine, juggling her scrubbing brush.

  Louise caught it and held onto it. ‘It was just as much our fault as yours, Tracy,’ she said. ‘We all got mad, so Peter’s right, we should all channel our aggression into housework.’

  ‘So OK, troops, let’s get cracking!’ Peter said. He looked at me. ‘OK, Tracy?’

  For once I was totally speechless. I just nodded very hard and blinked very hard and hoped very hard that I wouldn’t utterly disgrace myself and howl. We let funny little Peter order us around, telling each of us what to do, because it was easier than us big ones arguing about it. We put radios playing the loudest rock and rap music in every corner of the Dumping Ground and then set to with a vengeance.