Who Ate All the Pies?

by Helena Pielichaty

  In the end Megan, Lucy and Gemma were my top three, with Megan just pipping Lucy to the top. I was glad Amy would never see my sheet. If I could have given her marks for being the prettiest or having the best accessories she’d have won by a mile, but as it was meant to be about actual skill…

  Anyway, this was how my final scores looked:

  I trundled downstairs, feeling pleased with myself. I wanted to show my scoring system to Dad, and I wouldn’t mind Tracie having a peep, too – as long as she promised not to tell her fan club!

  My hand was on the kitchen-door handle when I stopped. I could hear Dad and Tracie on the other side, their voices raised. “What else could I do?” Dad was saying. “It’s what we’ve always done, since she was little. It’s tradition.”

  I frowned. Were they talking about me?

  “But it’s got to stop! You know it has!” Tracie said.

  “Oh, lighten up, love! One lot of fish and chips isn’t the end of the world.”

  “And what else?”

  “A few chocolate éclairs.”

  “Andy!”

  “What?”

  “Do you know the fat content of fish and chips and ‘a few’ chocolate éclairs?” Her voice had a cold edge to it I’d never heard before.

  “Oh, come on, Tracie, for Pete’s sake. One step at a time, eh?”

  “You haven’t said anything to her, have you?” Tracie asked.

  “I didn’t want to upset her.”

  “But you promised! You know talking about food is better coming from you than me.”

  “I know, but…”

  “She never listens to me. I suggested she take some fruit to school the other day and you’d think I’d asked her to jump off a cliff!”

  My heart was thudding in my chest. I felt sick. So that’s what this was all about – she was putting me on a diet! Putting me on a diet so I would be as bony as her. Well, I didn’t want to be as bony as her. I wanted to be round and cuddly like my dad. No matter what she thought, or what stupid names stupid people like Smelly Shell called me.

  There was a long silence on the other side of the door. Then Tracie mumbled something I couldn’t hear and Dad said in a low voice that he’d wash up, and Tracie told him not to bother – she needed something to do.

  I agreed with Tracie totally; she did need something to do. Like butting out of my business for a start. I turned and headed back upstairs.

  7

  I kept out of Tracie’s way as much as I could for the rest of the weekend. Most of the time I stayed in my room or hid behind a book. On Sunday evening I made my packed lunch for Monday so I could avoid her at breakfast.

  I felt churned up inside. So that was how she’d felt about me all along. She thought I ate too much. She thought I was a blob. She was just as bad as Shell – except at least Shell called me names to my face. This was worse. Shell was the opposition. Tracie was meant to be on my side.

  I couldn’t even complain to Dad about it; there was no point. He’d only go all pathetic and say he didn’t want to take sides. It was at times like this when I wished I had brothers or sisters to turn to, but I didn’t. Instead I had Lauren.

  On Monday morning we were sitting under the willow arch at break, and Lauren listened while I ranted on about Tracie.

  “It’s begun, then,” she said.

  “What has?”

  Lauren plucked at something stuck to her sweatshirt. “She’s starting to take over.”

  “Is she?”

  “Yup. She wants your dad to herself, see.”

  I felt my skin tingle all over. That was my worst nightmare: Mum left when I was just a baby because she wasn’t cut out for “the stress of family life” – and now Dad was getting taken away.

  “’Fraid so,” Lauren continued. “It happened to my cousins when my Uncle Liam remarried. You watch. At first they’re all lovey-dovey and sucking up to you – Tracie’s done that bit, hasn’t she?”

  “She has been pretty kind, so far,” I admitted.

  “Mmm. Well, that’s step one – then step two starts.”

  “Step two?”

  “Step two’s where they start criticizing and trying to dictate the little things, right, like what food you can eat and what clothes you can wear and that…”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “After that is step three. You don’t want to get to step three.”

  “Why? What’s step three?” I could hardly breathe.

  Lauren looked at me from behind the special blue glasses she wore for her dyslexia. “Boarding school.”

  “Boarding school?”

  “That’s what happened to my cousins.”

  “Really?”

  “Really. And you don’t want to go to boarding school. It’s nothing like Hogwarts.”

  “No?”

  “There’s no Sorting Hat. Nothing.”

  “Right.”

  “Watch out for the little things, Hol. That’s my tip.”

  “I will,” I said. “I will.”

  I knew Dad and Tracie would never send me to boarding school – we didn’t have enough money, for a start. I was less sure about the little things, though. I would definitely be watching out for the little things.

  8

  The first little thing came before training the very next day. “I’ll pick you up, Holly,” Tracie said as she dropped me off at the ground. “See you out here at half-seven, OK?”

  “Why isn’t Dad picking me up?” I asked, immediately suspicious. Dad’s a lorry driver and I knew he’d only got deliveries in Birmingham and Tamworth that day. No long-distance drops.

  “I thought we could have a little chat. Is that OK?”

  “What about?” I asked.

  She looked uneasy. “I’d prefer to talk about it later.”

  I scowled. “Well, if this is what I think it’s about, you can get lost!” I told her, and slammed the car door hard.

  I walked briskly across to the practice pitch, feeling so angry. A little chat! You know what you can do with that little chat, Tracie – take it for a little walk over a little cliff!

  Hannah was standing by the goalposts, surrounded by the rest of the team. At first I presumed they were all crowding round her to hand in their voting slips, but when I got closer I realized from the buzz of conversation that something else was going on.

  “Is it broken?” Petra was asking.

  “No, no, just heavily bruised.”

  “So are you out for the rest of the season?” Jenny-Jane wanted to know.

  “Probably, but we’ve only one match left. It’s no biggie.”

  Nudging my way between Amy and Gemma, I could see that Hannah was on crutches, her left foot heavily bandaged.

  She grinned at me. “Hi, Holly. I was just explaining about my ankle. I’ve sprained it.”

  “Oh no. How?” I asked.

  “I fell awkwardly on it during our match on Sunday. It means I’m not going to be able to train properly with you tonight, and Katie’s had to work…”

  “So is there no training, then?” I asked, dreading the thought.

  “Don’t panic! There’s training, but not as we know it. I’m just waiting for Bev to arrive.”

  “Bev the stoppy-starter?” Dylan asked.

  “Bev the referee,” Hannah corrected, before sending Megan to ask her Auntie Mandy, the clubhouse manager, if it was OK to go up. “We’re using the function room tonight,” she explained.

  Two minutes later there was a whistle from the upstairs window. “Ready when you are!” Megan called.

  Upstairs, there was a mad rush as everyone tried to get nearest to Hannah. Dylan and Daisy managed to bag either side of one long crimson seat. They looked like little blonde bookends. I sloped in last, perching on the far end of a corner seat with Lucy and Tabinda.

  When we’d all settled, Hannah began. “OK, girls, I’d planned on doing this at the beginning of next season, but now’s as good a time as any. We’re going to talk about something vital
to every footballer…”

  “That’s easy. A cool haircut,” Amy said.

  I laughed. Maybe a bit too loudly, but I was grateful to Amy for cheering me up. A cool haircut! Classic Amy!

  “Close,” Hannah said. “Healthy eating.”

  I felt as if I’d had a bucket of iced water thrown over me. What? Of all the things I didn’t want to talk about! There were groans from loads of the others too, which surprised Hannah as much as me.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked, her eyes wide.

  “We’re doing that at school,” Tabinda told her; “it’s all we hear about from Mr Glasshouse in assembly.”

  “Food is made up of protein, carbohydrates, fat, vitamins and minerals,” Petra recited.

  “Make sure you eat five portions of fruit and veg a day…” Lucy continued.

  “Drink plenty of water,” Nika chipped in.

  “Too much junk food makes your nose drop off,” Eve added. We all stared at her. “OK, I made that up.”

  Ha! So that was where Tracie had got the diet idea from. Mowborough Primary. I might have known.

  Hannah waggled her bandaged foot. “Well, sorree for wasting your time here, experts. Looks like I asked poor Bev to leave work early for nothing.”

  “What does she do?” Daisy asked.

  “She’s a sports nutritionist. One of the best; she works with top athletes and teams to help them plan their diets.”

  “Wicked job!” Megan said.

  “It is,” Hannah agreed. “And we’ll hear all about it any minute now.”

  That’s when I decided “we” wouldn’t include me. “I need the toilet,” I said. “Anyone know where it is?”

  “Through there,” Megan said, directing me to the other side of the room.

  I hurried across the function room, ignoring the wooden dance floor with the glitter ball dangling over it. Glitter ball! There’d been one of those at the wedding. That could just drop to the floor and smash into a thousand pieces, for a start!

  9

  In the Ladies I headed for the end cubicle and sat on the toilet, staring at the door. It wasn’t a very interesting door. Just a plain cream colour with a dull metal lock. I turned and stared at the wall on my right instead. This was only slightly more interesting. The wall was papered with one lot of ghastly floral print separated from another lot of ghastly floral print by one of those wide borders running through the middle. Someone had torn a bit of the border off. Without thinking, I began picking at the loose edge with my nail. This was cool. I could sit here for an hour picking wallpaper, easy.

  I’d managed to create a perfect cumulonimbus shape in the border when an unexpected banging on the door made me jump.

  “Hols? Are you OK?” Megan asked.

  “Yeah, I’m fine.”

  “Bev’s here.”

  “I’ll be out in a bit,” I said, but I couldn’t keep the quiver out of my voice or the sudden tears from prickling my eyes. I wiped them away hastily. Dumb tears. Where had they come from?

  “Hols?”

  “Mmm?”

  “You sound funny.”

  “I’m … er … not feeling well. Gut rot.”

  “Oh.”

  “Don’t wait for me. I don’t know how long I’ll be.”

  “OK.”

  I let out a long sigh and waited to hear the outer door bang so I could get back to my paper-picking.

  Instead Megan called my name again. “Hols?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You’re not … um … hiding, are you?”

  “Hiding? Why would I be hiding?” I said. My voice all croaky.

  She hesitated. “I just wondered. What with the session being about eating. I mean, I know you’re a bit self-conscious about … er … stuff like that.”

  I jutted out my jaw. No prizes for guessing who’d told her that! “I don’t know what you mean,” I said. “I’m not self-conscious about anything.”

  “Everybody’s self-conscious about something,” Megan said. “I’m self-conscious about my hair. I get called Ginger Nut all the time and it drives me mad. Like, dur – original! I’m thinking of dyeing it black.”

  I leaned forward and pulled the door open. “But I like your hair. It’s a beautiful colour. And so curly.”

  Megan, leaning with her back against the sink, pulled a face. “It’s all right, I suppose. I’d love it to be more like yours, though.”

  “Mine?”

  “More a wee bit wavy than too crazy curly.”

  “Oh.”

  “And Eve hates her feet.”

  “Sorry?”

  “Eve hates her feet. Her mum told my mum.”

  “Her feet?”

  “They’re a size seven already. She thinks she’ll have to wear boats for shoes by the time she starts secondary.”

  “I’ve never noticed she’s got big feet.”

  “Exactly. We don’t notice each other’s faults, do we. Just our own.”

  “I guess.”

  Megan glanced towards the outer door, then stepped a little closer. “Look, I heard what that number 5 said on Saturday … the pie thing…”

  I felt myself go hot and cold at the same time. “It’s just a football chant. Players get called stuff like that all the time,” I blustered.

  “I know,” Megan said, twisting a friendship bracelet round and round her wrist, “but it’s still not nice. I was well angry! I was going to go up to her and say something, but you seemed so calm I thought I’d take your lead and ignore her too – but I felt bad all weekend.”

  I stared at her. “Why?”

  “Why? ‘Cos I’m the captain and I should have stuck up for you.” She blinked, and for a second I thought she was going to well up. “I let you down and I’m really sorry.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” I mumbled.

  “It does. What sort of captain doesn’t stick up for her players?”

  “You’re a great captain,” I said. “I’d follow you anywhere.”

  “In that case,” she said softly, “follow me into the function room.”

  I hesitated. “What if everybody stares?”

  “Why would they stare? All they know is I’ve gone to fetch you from the toilets. They’re probably still rearranging the furniture and stuff.”

  Still I hesitated.

  Megan lunged forward and grabbed my arm, pulling me out of the cubicle. “Come on, Woolcock. It’s not all about you, you know! This’ll be interesting. Trust me.”

  So I followed her, because you don’t disobey your captain.

  10

  Megan was right. Bev was still unloading folders from a huge briefcase and getting organized, so I knew I hadn’t missed anything. Nobody was giving me knowing looks or sidelong glances, but Tabinda gave me a smile and hitched up when I took my place, as if nothing had happened. Megan sat back down with Petra without batting an eyelid. I relaxed. I could do this. I could listen to Bev for an hour and a bit on the subject of healthy eating.

  She began by looking round at us all. “Before I start, I want to say I was really impressed with you on Saturday. Not just for being so disciplined against Foulers United – as Lutton Ash should be called – but for wanting to play football. Participating in regular exercise is so important at your age. You can’t imagine how much your body will thank you for being sporty when you’re older, so well done you!”

  Everyone sat up that little bit straighter.

  Bev lifted a laminated A4 sheet from the table in front of her and held it face down on her lap. “OK, let’s kick off. First of all, when I talk about healthy eating, I’m not talking about low-calorie, sugar-free, no-fat, eat-only-boiled-cabbage and other dumb diets. Forget all that…”

  Ha! I thought. In your face, Tracie!

  “I’m talking about choosing the right things to eat at the right time to fit in with your body’s needs that day. For instance, hands up, how many of you don’t have breakfast before a match?”

  I cheated and kept my hand down
because I guessed from Bev’s tone that having no breakfast wasn’t the right thing to do. Megan, Jenny-Jane and Gemma had theirs in the air, though.

  “No good, you guys,” Bev said with a shake of her head.

  “But I get so nervous,” Megan explained.

  Bev sighed. “I know. I used to be the same when I played, but you should try to have something. It doesn’t have to be massive. Beans on toast, Weetabix, just a banana if you can’t face much – but if you don’t have anything you’ll run out of steam halfway through the game. You have to give your body some fuel to run off, just like petrol in a car.”

  I thought back to my rumbling stomach during the Lutton Ash match and to how tired I’d been at training last week. I could see her point.

  “And tell me, afterwards, are you famished?” she asked them.

  They all nodded, and Gemma revealed that her mum always told her she needed a trough, not a plate. Gemma Hurst. Our star player ate like a pig!

  “That’s the trouble,” Bev continued. “You get over-hungry. Your body goes into starvation mode and doesn’t want you to stop filling.”

  “Then the petrol spills all down the side of the car and makes such a mess!” Daisy said.

  “Well, in a way,” said Bev, nodding, “except the food spills inside the body and your poor old digestive system has to deal with the overload. Speaking of which, have a look at this guy.” She held up the sheet from her lap.

  It showed a powerfully built swimmer, his arms outstretched as if he’d just won a race, his face lit up in triumph. He had broad, toned shoulders but his waist tapered right in and his stomach was as flat and hard as an iron.

  “Introducing Michael Phelps, the American Olympian, also known as the human dolphin. This is what he eats for breakfast when he’s training. Here goes …” – Bev paused for effect, like my teacher does when he reads a really sad bit in Private Peaceful out to us in class – “… three fried-egg sandwiches, toast, an omelette, porridge, three pancakes and two cups of coffee.”