The Jacqueline Wilson Christmas Cracker

by Jacqueline Wilson

  Elaine the Pain came calling halfway through. She cowered backwards, covering her ears, but when Jenny and Mike explained (having to bellow a bit), she clapped her hands excitedly and went prancing around congratulating everyone on their team spirit.

  ‘It reflects the very essence of Christmas, loving and sharing and caring,’ she said, jamming her reindeer antlers on her head and rushing around giving everyone a little pat on the back.

  It’s a wonder Elaine Ridiculous Reindeer Pain didn’t make them think: What on earth am I doing scrubbing away when I could be watching the telly or playing on my Xbox or simply lounging on my bed picking my nose because I definitely don’t love Tracy Beaker and I don’t care tuppence about her and I certainly don’t want to share her stupid punishment. But somehow they took no notice and carried on dusting and scrubbing and scouring and hoovering. I felt as if all the dirty grubby grimy greasy little bits of me were getting a clean and polish too. Maybe they did like me just a little bit after all.

  I still had some stuff left over from my raid on the art cupboard. That night I laboured long and hard over a big card. I drew the Dumping Ground and all of us guys outside, armed with dusters and brushes and mops. I even drew Justine properly, though it was very tempting to cross her eyes and scribble little bogeys hanging from her nose. I put me in the centre with a big beaming smile. I drew little rays of sunshine all round my picture and then I printed at the top in dead artistic rainbow lettering:

  I crept downstairs and stuck it on the table so that everyone would see it at breakfast time. I snaffled half a packet of cornflakes and an orange so I could have breakfast in my room. I didn’t want to be hanging around when they saw the card. It would be way too embarrassing. I wasn’t used to acting all mushy and saying thank you. I’d have to watch it. I was used to being the toughest kid on the block. It would be fatal to soften up now.

  I tried hard to be my normal fierce and feisty self at school. I summoned up all my energy to cheek the teachers and argue with the kids but it was hard work. I found myself sharing my chocolate bar with Peter in the playground and picking up some little kid who’d fallen over and kicking someone’s ball straight back to them, acting like Ms Goody-Goody Two Trainers instead of the Tough and Terrible Tracy Beaker.

  When everyone went to rehearse A Christmas Carol I wondered which of the Three Stooges Miss Simpkins had picked as Scrooge. I couldn’t help being glad that they were all pretty useless.

  Halfway through the first lesson in the afternoon Mrs Darlow sent for me.

  ‘Oh, Tracy,’ said Miss Brown sorrowfully. ‘What have you been up to now?’

  ‘Nothing, Miss Brown!’ I said. ‘I’ve been a positive angel all day.’

  Miss Brown didn’t look as if she believed me. I couldn’t really blame her. She wasn’t to know I was this new squeaky-clean sweet-as-honey Beaker.

  I plodded along to Mrs Darlow’s study, wondering if she was going to blame me for someone else’s misdemeanour. Maybe she’d think I’d written the very very rude rhyme in the girls’ toilets. Maybe she’d think I’d superglued some teacher’s chair. Maybe she’d think I’d climbed up the drainpipe after a lost ball and pulled the pipe right off the wall in the process. I had done all these things in the past, but not recently.

  Still, I would doubtless be blamed. I sighed wearily and knocked on Mrs Darlow’s door, deciding that there was no point protesting my total innocence to such a grim and unforgiving woman. She was doubtless preparing to Punish Tracy Beaker Severely. I saw her selecting her whippiest whip, her thumb crunchers, her nose tweakers, clearing her desk of superfluous paperwork so she could stretch me across it as if I was on a torture rack. I’d crawl out of school lashed into bloody stripes, thumbs mangled, nose pulled past my chin, stretched out and out and out like elastic.

  Mrs Darlow was wearing her severest black trouser suit. She sat at her desk, her chin in her hands, frowning at me over the top of her glasses.

  ‘Come and sit down, Tracy Beaker,’ she said.

  She always says my name in full, though there isn’t another Tracy in the whole school.

  ‘How are you today?’ she enquired.

  ‘Not especially happy, Mrs Darlow,’ I said.

  ‘Neither am I, Tracy Beaker, neither am I,’ she said. She took hold of a large wad of paper scribbled all over with lots of names. ‘Do you know what this is?’

  I paused. I had a feeling that it wasn’t the time to say ‘pieces of paper’.

  ‘I don’t know, Mrs Darlow’ seemed a safer bet. I truly didn’t know. The handwriting wasn’t mine. It was all different writing, some neat, some scrawly, in black, blue, red – all the colours of the rainbow.

  ‘This is a petition to reinstate you as Scrooge in the school play,’ said Mrs Darlow.

  ‘Oh goodness! Peter’s petition!’ I said.

  ‘Are you sure you didn’t put him up to it, Tracy Beaker?’

  ‘Absolutely not!’ I said. ‘But he’s got heaps and heaps of signatures!’

  ‘Yes, he has. Though I’ve scrutinized every page, and some of the signatures are duplicated – and I’m not sure Mickey Mouse, Homer Simpson, Robbie Williams and Beyoncé are actually pupils at this school.’

  My mouth twitched. I was scared I was going to get the giggles, and yet my eyes were pricking as if I had a bout of hay fever coming on. All those signatures! I thought of Peter going round and round and round the whole school with his petition and all those kids signing away, wanting me in the play.

  ‘Peter’s obviously a very kind friend,’ said Mrs Darlow.

  ‘Yes, he is,’ I said humbly.

  ‘I’m rather impressed by his initiative and perseverance. When he delivered the petition this morning he was trembling all over, but he still made his own personal impassioned plea. He stated – accurately – that there is no other girl remotely like you, Tracy Beaker.’

  I smiled.

  ‘He meant it as a compliment. I didn’t,’ said Mrs Darlow. ‘I felt very sorry for poor Peter when I told him that it was highly unlikely I would change my mind, even though I was very impressed by his petition.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said, slumping in my chair.

  ‘Then I had a visit from Miss Simpkins at lunch time. She’s already tried to plead your cause, Tracy Beaker. She’s told me that your appalling assault wasn’t entirely unprovoked. However, I’ve explained to her that I can never condone violent behaviour, no matter what the circumstances.’

  I sighed and slumped further down the chair.

  ‘However . . .’ said Mrs Darlow.

  I stiffened.

  ‘Miss Simpkins invited me along to rehearsals. The play itself is progressing perfectly. Everyone’s worked very hard. I watched Gloria and Emily and Amy play Scrooge, one after the other. They tried extremely hard. In fact I awarded them five team points each for endeavour. Unfortunately though, none of the girls is a born actress, and although they tried their best I could see that their performances were a little . . . lacking.’

  I clenched my fists.

  ‘Miss Simpkins stressed that your performance as Scrooge was extraordinary, Tracy Beaker. I am very aware that this is a public performance in front of all the parents.’

  ‘My mum’s coming,’ I whispered.

  ‘It is a showcase event, and therefore I want everything to be perfect. I don’t want all that hard work and effort to be wasted. I’ve decided to reinstate you, Tracy Beaker. You may play Scrooge after all.’

  ‘Oh, Mrs Darlow! You are a total angel!’ I said, sitting bolt upright and clapping my hands.

  ‘I’m not sure you’re going to think me so totally angelic by the time I’ve finished, Tracy Beaker. I said violent behaviour can never be condoned. You must still be severely punished in some other way.’

  ‘Any way, Mrs Darlow. Be as inventive as you like. Whips, thumbscrews, nose tweakers, the rack. Whatever.’

  ‘I think I’ll select a more mundane punishment, Tracy Beaker, though the nose tweaker sounds tempting,�
�� said Mrs Darlow. ‘And appropriate in the circumstances, as you hit poor Justine on her nose. However, I’m not sure the school’s petty cash can quite cover an instrument of torture. We are already well stocked with cleaning implements so we will stick with those.’

  ‘Cleaning implements, Mrs Darlow?’ I said. ‘Oh no! I’ve already had to clean the entire Dumping Ground – I mean, the Home. You’re not asking me to clean the whole school?’

  ‘As if I’d ask you to do that!’ said Mrs Darlow. ‘I might not be angelic, but I am reasonable. I think I shall just ask you to clean the hall floor. If we’re having all these guests then we can’t have the setting looking downright scruffy. I’d like you to stay after school for half an hour every evening and polish up the parquet. It will not only enhance the look of the school, it will also act as a channel for your aggression.’

  ‘My aggression’s already been thoroughly channelled, Mrs Darlow,’ I said. ‘But all right, I will. I’ll polish the whole hall until we can all see straight up our skirts, just so long as my mum will be able to see me act Scrooge.’

  I don’t know if you’ve ever done any serious polishing? Your hand hurts, your arms ache, your neck twinges, your back’s all bent, your knees get rubbed raw, even your toes get scrunched up and sore. Think of the size of a school hall. Think of me.

  Long long long did I labour. Dear old Peter and some of the other kids tried to sneak into the hall to help me out, but Mrs Darlow didn’t appreciate this kind of caring and sharing teamwork.

  ‘It’s Tracy Beaker’s punishment, not yours. I want her to labour on her own!’ she said.

  So labour I did, but I kept a copy of the play in front of me as I polished. I went over and over my lines in my head.

  It was actually quite a good way of learning them, rubbing a long line of shiny wood while muttering a long line of Scrooge-speak. Every time I dipped my cloth into the polish I went, ‘Bah! Humbug!’ Whenever I finished a whole section I said Tiny Tim’s ‘God bless us, every one.’ By the time I’d polished the entire hall floor I not only knew my lines, I knew everyone else’s too.

  I couldn’t wait till Wednesday, the day of our performance. I was in a fever of impatience, positively burning up all over, so much so that Jenny caught hold of me at breakfast and felt my forehead.

  ‘Are you feeling OK, Tracy? You’re very flushed.’

  ‘Oh, Tracy, you’re not ill, are you?’ said Peter. He shivered. ‘I feel ill. I hardly slept last night and when I did I kept dreaming I was standing on the stage all alone and people kept shouting rude things to me. I wish wish wish I didn’t have to act. I’m simply dreading tonight. What if I forget what to say?’

  ‘You’ll be fine, Pete. You won’t forget. And if you do, just look at me and I’ll whisper them for you,’ I said.

  ‘Yeah, the one and only Big-mouth Beaker,’ sneered Justine.

  She didn’t look too well herself. She was very pale, with dark circles under her eyes.

  ‘You look like Marley’s Ghost already, without bothering with make-up,’ I said. ‘Getting worried you’ll be rubbish?’

  ‘Absolutely not.’ Justine paused. ‘What about you, Tracy? Are you getting worried? Worried your mum might not turn up to watch you? Ha, that’s a laugh. Your mum’s as rarely sighted as the Abominable Snowman.’

  There was a sudden silence. Everyone stopped chomping their cornflakes.

  ‘Justine, button that lip!’ said Mike.

  ‘Tracy, don’t start anything!’ said Jenny.

  I wasn’t going to show Justine Spooky-Spectre Littlewood she could rattle me. I smiled at her, teeth clenched. I felt my tummy clenching too, into a tight little ball. Mum would come, wouldn’t she? She’d surely want to see me act the leading part in our school play. She’d want to sit right in the middle, surrounded by happy clapping parents, all of them saying, ‘That Tracy Beaker’s a great little actress. I wonder where she gets that from?’ Then they’d look round and spot Mum, all glamorous and gorgeous, and go, ‘She must be Tracy’s mum. Oh my goodness, of course! She’s the movie star Carly Beaker!’

  She’d be there tonight, clutching her copy of A Christmas Carol, wearing her lipstick and her hand cream and her heart necklace. She’d have to come when I’d tried so hard with her presents. She’d want to give me a big hug and kiss and clap till her hands smarted, and then she’d sweep me off for ever because she was so proud of me.

  ‘Dream on, Tracy,’ Justine Poison-Mouth Littlewood muttered.

  The fist inside my tummy squeezed tighter. Was it all a daydream? Was I really just kidding myself?

  ‘My mum is coming, just you wait and see,’ I said.

  ‘I’ll be waiting – and we’ll all be seeing,’ said Justine About-To-Get-Her-Nose-Punched-Again Littlewood. ‘We’ll see my dad sitting there clapping away, but whoops, there’ll be this empty seat right in the middle of the row where Mother Beaker’s bottom should be, only she can’t be bothered to come and see her only daughter – and who can blame her when she’s as bonkers and batty and totally bananas as Tracy Beaker—’

  I leaped up but Jenny caught hold of me and Mike hustled Justine out of the room.

  ‘Cool it, Tracy,’ said Jenny.

  I couldn’t cool it. I was burning up, about to erupt like a volcano. But then Peter clutched my hand.

  ‘Take no notice of Justine. She’s just jealous because you’re such a brilliant actress and everyone signed my petition because they all know the play wouldn’t work without you. And if you say your mum’s coming, then of course she will. You always know everything, Tracy.’

  I took a deep deep deep breath and then squeezed his hand.

  ‘That’s right, Peter,’ I said. ‘Thanks, pal. Don’t fret. I wouldn’t let a sad twisted girl like Justine wind me up.’

  Jenny gave me a quick hug. ‘Well done, girl.’

  ‘Jenny?’ I took another even deeper deeper deeper breath. ‘I know my mum’s coming, and I sent her all the details and all this stuff, but I don’t suppose she’s been on the phone just to confirm she’s coming?’

  ‘You know I’d have told you, Tracy.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, well . . . As if she needs to tell us. I mean, we can just take it as read, can’t we?’ I said.

  ‘I’m coming,’ said Jenny. ‘And Mike. We’re getting extra help here just so we can watch you. Elaine’s coming. Don’t pull that face, Tracy! Cam’s coming. It will be wonderful if your mum comes too, but you’ll still have lots of people in the audience absolutely rooting for you. OK?’

  It wasn’t OK at all. This was Careworker Evasive-Speak. I couldn’t take it as read that my mum was coming.

  I knew that.

  I didn’t want to know.

  I tried very very very hard indeed to take it as read. It was as if it was printed everywhere and I was literally reading it over and over again. I stared round the kitchen and saw it spelled out in spaghetti shapes all round the walls.

  I went to the toilet and I saw it scribbled all over the door.

  I went to school in the minivan and I saw it flash up on the dashboard.

  I looked out of the window and saw it on all the posters in town.

  I got to school and it was chalked on the blackboard.

  I stood in assembly and it shone above the stage.

  The words flashed on and off in my mind all day long like little fairy lights.

  I couldn’t concentrate on a thing in class. I thought Henry the Sixth had eight wives, I couldn’t even do short division, let alone long, I ran the wrong way in the obstacle race in PE, I coloured Santa’s beard scarlet on my Christmas card. Luckily Miss Brown just laughed at me.

  ‘I know you’ve got other things on your mind today, Tracy. Good luck with the play tonight. I’m so looking forward to it.’

  But I didn’t have the play on my mind. I couldn’t get it in my mind. We had a last rehearsal at lunch time, gabbling through our lines one last time. I stumbled and stuttered and couldn’t remember a thing.

 
; ‘I don’t know what’s gone wrong, Miss Simpkins!’ I said frantically. ‘I’m word perfect, I know I am. I could chant the whole play backwards yesterday, I swear I could.’

  ‘I knew Tracy Beaker would mess up royally,’ Justine whispered to Louise, though it was a loud enough whisper for me to hear.

  ‘It’s simply last-minute nerves, Tracy,’ said Miss Simpkins. ‘You’ll be fine tonight. Don’t worry about it.’

  She was doing her best to be reassuring – but she looked worried. I could see her thinking, Oh my Lord, I’ve gone out on a limb to keep problem kid Tracy in the play and now she can’t even say a simple line! What have I done? I must keep smiling, stay calm. I’m not going to panic. I’ll just tell the kid she’ll be fine tonight.

  For the first and only time in my life I was in total agreement with Justine Smug-Slug Littlewood. It looked like I was going to mess up royally.

  We didn’t go home for our tea. All the children in the cast had a packed picnic on my wondrously polished hall floor. If I’d been my usual self I’d have been incensed. They were spilling sandwich crumbs and scattering crisps all over the place. One of the kids even poured a carton of sticky squash all over my floor! But I was in such a state I barely noticed. I couldn’t even eat my picnic. My egg sandwich tasted of old damp flannel, my crisps stuck in my throat, my yoghurt smelled sour.

  ‘Eat up, Tracy. You’re going to be burning up a lot of energy tonight,’ said Peter. ‘Here, do you want half my special banana sandwich? Hey, you can have all of it if you like.’

  ‘Thanks, Pete – but no thanks,’ I said.

  I sat and brooded, snapping all my crisps into tiny golden splinters. I didn’t know what to do. I so so so wanted my mum to come and see me, but did I really want her to see me standing sweating on stage, mouth open, but no words whatsoever coming out?