‘Sit down, Fifty,’ said Miss Walsh. ‘Is this true, Callum?’
‘No. I didn’t throw anything.’
Copper Pie leant over Callum’s desk and did a cutthroat sign. Callum pushed him away. It was all getting a bit stressy. I was pleased I couldn’t talk – it took away any responsibility to help. I looked at Miss Walsh to see what she was going to do. Nothing much, it seemed. Jonno leant over and tapped Copper Pie on the back. It meant, ‘He’s not worth the bother.’ Copper Pie sat back down.
Miss Walsh is useless at sorting out trouble. She writes the names of whoever’s involved in the sad-face column on the board and threatens that if they end up there twice more, they’ll see the Head. It doesn’t matter who’s right and who’s wrong. She says, ‘Three strikes and you’re out’, as if she’s an American baseball coach.
THREE STRIKES AND YOU’RE OUT
In baseball if you miss the ball three times, you’re out – it’s called a strikeout. 24 of the 51 American states decided to use that rule to deal with criminals. It’s called the Three Strikes Law. If someone is convicted three times for any offence, whether it’s shoplifting or murder, they get sent to prison. (Or in Miss Walsh’s case, sent out.)
Callum’s name went on the board, followed by Copper Pie’s. And then it was lunch.
The dinner ladies didn’t like us pointing so Fifty asked for our food. We sat at our favourite table in the corner. Fifty talked a bit, but getting no answers was boring so he went and sat on Ed’s table. We could hear them laughing while we sat in silence.
I slept with my eyes open all afternoon. Dull wasn’t the word, it was mind-numbing. The clock hands crawled round as though time had its brakes on. The only thing that kept me awake was the occasional bit of debris hitting the back of my head. I knew who was doing it, but I didn’t complain because I knew I’d end up in the sad-face column.
Two minutes before the bell, the Head came to see how we were doing. That’s what she said anyway. But I think, like Callum, she just wanted to enjoy the fact we couldn’t speak.
As soon as we were out of the playground, I said, ‘Remind me never to agree to a sponsored silence again.’
‘Same,’ said Fifty.
When I got home there was an empty cement bag on the table. On closer inspection I realised it was a cement bag that had been turned into a different kind of bag. Mum had been extra efficient.
‘Do you like it?’ she said.
‘Not much,’ I said. ‘But Bee will.’
‘As soon as I got your text about the party I knew where to go for a present. I was going to buy a recycled glass bracelet but I figured she might prefer the bag.’
‘You figured right. Thanks.’
I went to the cupboard to get some wrapping paper and a card from the stockpile. I chose one with a cupcake on it, scribbled inside and taped it to the pressie. I was ready. There was time for a lie down in my hammock. I swayed from side to side and thought about all the parties we’d been to.
TRIBERS’ FUNNIEST PARTIES
Animal party. Copper Pie was a meat-eating dinosaur and tried to eat the other animals.
Soft play. Someone was sick in the ball pit.
Harry Potter party. Copper Pie was Ron, Keener was a broomstick.
Bee’s recycling party. We made treasure boxes in her garden from junk.
Flo’s games party. She ran away with the middle of the pass-the-parcel.
Fifty’s go-karting party. He was too small so he had to watch.
‘Are you going to wear a shirt?’ Mum shouted up the stairs.
‘No need. It’s only tea,’ I shouted back. Every Christmas she buys me a stripy shirt, like a deckchair, that I have to wear to family dos. But I will never wear one in front of my friends. I was wearing my favourite Saltrock T-shirt – perfect for tuna with beans (Bee’s mum’s speciality) and a chocolate pudding. Or whatever we were having.
Top Tea
Fifty and Jonno were already sitting at the kitchen table drinking Coke when I pushed open the red door to Bee’s kitchen. I said, ‘Happy Birthday’ and gave Bee the present. She really liked it. Only Bee could get excited about a reused cement bag with a red strap. I didn’t want a Coke so I had orange juice. There was a checked cloth on the table and candles and eight places. Lily came next, then Copper Pie, then Bee’s dad, and then the twins. Bee’s brothers are old – university age, except they don’t go to university. They lived at Bee’s until Bee’s dad threw them out because they were too old to live at home. They live with a really cool actress now. I have no idea whether they have jobs, and I only know one of their names – Patrick. I hoped someone might say the name of the other one, because it’s embarrassing not knowing the name of one of your best friend’s family.
‘Louis, take the basket.’ Excellent. The other brother’s name was Louis. ‘Go ahead,’ said Bee’s mum as Louis put the basket of garlic bread on the table. It smelt lush. I waited for someone else’s hand to shoot out before I took a piece. Another basket followed. This time the bread had melted cheese on it. I stuck with the non-cheese. Melted cheese is too sticky. A bowl of mushrooms came next. Bee spooned some onto her plate.
‘Same,’ said Fifty. He held out his plate so we all did as well. Tasty! There were more and more bowls and plates and baskets coming all the time. There was also loads of noise from the mini-conversations going on round the table. It was much better than tea at my house. Bee’s mum and dad hovered by the cooker while we all ate. Bee’s brothers were funny. They teased her – something we’d never dare do. After a while the plates all got cleared. I felt quite full but I’d kept a space for pudding. But pudding didn’t come – more food came. This time it was a massive washing-up size bowl of pasta, that Bee’s dad smothered in parmesan cheese from a really cool silver grater with a handle, and a pot of some sort of meat and tomato stew and, Fifty’s favourite, some white beans.
‘We have to go, bambina,’ said Bee’s mum. She took out her lipstick and made her lips red without looking in a mirror. ‘We won’t be late. Patrick, Louis, look after our guests.’
The twins lifted their glasses and both said something that sounded Italian at the same time. Bee’s parents disappeared out of the kitchen door.
‘Your mum should be a chef,’ said Fifty. He was playing with the candles. Fire is his favourite thing, after sugar.
‘She was for a while,’ said Patrick. ‘When we had our own restaurant.’ I didn’t know they used to have a restaurant. I’ve never known what jobs Bee’s mum and dad did.
‘I wouldn’t mind being a baker,’ said Bee. ‘Making cakes and pastries.’
That started a whole long conversation that went round and round the table about things you could be, or couldn’t be, or wouldn’t be or might be. An Antarctic explorer, a professional football player, a newsreader, an actor, a writer, a surfer, a barrister, a bank robber, a tightrope walker.
‘Funny how no one wants to work in a supermarket,’ said Louis.
‘I’d rather be a bin man,’ said Copper Pie. ‘Finished by lunchtime.’
‘That’s what we should do,’ said Patrick. ‘Life on the bins.’
‘Do you work in a supermarket?’ Fifty asked Louis.
‘I do. And so does my brother.’ Louis slapped Patrick on the back. They laughed.
‘We should have stayed on at school and passed some exams,’ said Patrick.
‘Ignore them,’ said Bee. ‘They’re idiots.’ I didn’t want to ignore them, they were interesting. I could see that Jonno thought so too. (He’s an only child, which he hates, and his house is quiet and tidy, which he hates, and his parents are always moving house, which he hates. He’s always round at Bee’s.)
‘We’re going to be millionaires,’ said Patrick.
‘As soon as we get the right idea,’ said Louis.
‘We’re entrepreneurs,’ said Patrick.
‘Shelf-stacking’s not for ever,’ said Louis.
‘We hope.’ They said it together again, and laug
hed. They laughed almost all the time in fact. Being at Bee’s in the charge of her brothers was fun, better than laser tag or a football party.
‘Make way,’ shouted Louis. He was carrying a tray with even more food, but this time it really was pudding. We tried to clear a space but there were too many dishes and too many people passing them in too many different directions.
Bee took over. ‘Jonno, put the dirty plates by the sink. Fifty – you’re on knives and forks. Copper Pie, take the pasta bowl and put it by the cooker. Keener, can you take the big pot and put it on the cooker? I’ll put the sauce back in the fridge.’ We all did as we were told. It was worth it – Louis placed a massive pavlova filled with strawberries and fluffy white cream on the table, followed by a brown and yellow custardy-looking thing. (No prizes for guessing which one I wanted.)
Patrick picked up the whole pavlova, tipped the plate and pretended to let it slide into his mouth. Louis took it off him and started dishing out.
‘Leave room for the birthday girl’s birthday cake,’ he said. ‘The best is yet to come.’
We all groaned. Bee’s mum really knows how to cook. If we lived with Bee we’d all be the size of yetis. I loaded my spoon with equal amounts of meringue, cream and straw-berry, opened my mouth and scoffed. It was good. I was happy. The sponsored silence was no fun whatsoever but Bee’s last-minute party was great.
But unfortunately it was all about to go wrong – big time.
Slim, Bodger, Rasher and Teapot
The back door opened.
‘Hey, Slim,’ said Patrick. ‘Come and feast.’
Someone called Slim came in. He was skinny. ‘What’s happening?’ he said.
‘It’s Bee’s birthday.’
‘Happy birthday, Bee,’ said Slim.
Bee didn’t smile. I got the feeling Slim wasn’t her favourite person, or maybe she just didn’t want him at her party.
The conversation slowed down, partly because pudding was delicious, and partly because Patrick stayed over by the cooker chatting to Slim, who was eating the leftover meat stew straight from the pot with a serving spoon. There was a knock on the door and it opened again.
‘Hey, Bodger,’ said Patrick. In came someone called Bodger. He had hair redder than Copper Pie’s and curlier than Fifty’s, sticking out like a frill from under a blue and green stripy beanie.
‘Any left?’ said Bodger. There was nodding from Slim. They shared the serving spoon. Bee definitely wasn’t smiling.
‘OK, everyone,’ said Louis. ‘I think it’s cake time.’ He disappeared out of the door to the hall and came back a couple of minutes later with about fifty candles burning on top of a mound of chocolate. He started the singing.
‘Buon Compleanno a te,
‘Buon Compleanno a te,
‘Buon Compleanno cara Beatrice,
‘Buon Compleanno a te.
We all joined in, in English, except Patrick who was in a huddle with Bodger and Slim. Bee did one massive puff and blew all the candles out.
‘Are you cutting the cake, Bee?’ asked Louis.
‘Of course.’ Bee took the knife and started slicing. I didn’t think I was going to fit it in but the sponge bit was like eating a sweet cloud and the chocolate bit was heaven so I managed.
We’d been sitting at the table for ages so I was quite glad when Bee got up. She offered to help clear but Louis said he’d do it. Patrick seemed to have forgotten it was Bee’s birthday. We abandoned the kitchen for the comfy sofa in front of the telly. Five of us squashed on together which left Fifty to sit on the footstool.
Bee had chosen The Italian Job – the original version with the minis and the coach hanging over the cliff. It’s a Tribe favourite.
TRIBERS’ FAVOURITE FILMS
FIFTY: The Sound of Music (he knows all the words) and Bambi.
JONNO: The Great Escape, because he likes ‘The Scrounger’ and the blind man.
BEE: Free Willy, Hoot!, Eight Below. Anything to do with saving animals.
KEENER: Jaws, which is odd because he doesn’t like blood.
COPPER PIE: Sky Sports (clearly not a film), The Tooth Fairy (a bad film).
And Lily’s: The Princess Diaries (vomit).
While we were waiting for the play movie icon to come up, there was more knocking at the back door followed by at least one, maybe two, new voices. I looked over at Bee. She shrugged. ‘It was always like this when the twins lived here. Random people arriving and leaving and eating and sleeping and leaving hoodies and taking Dad’s coat and using all the loo roll. That’s why Dad made them leave.’
The beginning of the film shows Michael Caine leaving prison. It’s not noisy like it is later when there are car chases. We could hear Patrick and Louis and their mates shouting in the kitchen. We put up with it for a while but we couldn’t really hear, or concentrate on what was happening. Bee pressed pause and went to sort them out. We heard her giving them the Bee treatment. It works on us. She came back and pressed play. It was quieter for maybe ten minutes, but then they started laughing and yelling and there was some crashing and banging like chairs falling over and pans being dropped. Bee turned up the volume, but The Italian Job couldn’t drown out Slim and Bodger and whoever else was in Bee’s kitchen. She cranked it up again. It was no good. On top of everything else we could hear singing, the sort you’d hear at a football match. Bee paused it again. The noise was deafening. It sounded like there was at least a rugby team in there. And breaking glass! Maybe they were fighting . . .
‘I’ll come with you,’ said Jonno. ‘If that will help.’
‘Thanks,’ said Bee, ‘but they probably won’t take any notice. My brothers wouldn’t manage to behave properly even if someone like the Queen was here.’ It wasn’t like Bee to give in. I felt really bad for her. I mean, it was her birthday and her brothers were ruining the film, ruining the whole evening.
‘Come on, let’s go and talk to them,’ said Jonno. ‘It’s worth a try.’
Copper Pie got up and marched straight into the kitchen without waiting for anyone else. ‘Shut up!’ I heard him shout as I walked into the hall. ‘We’re trying to watch a film and all we can hear is you lot.’
For a moment there was complete and utter silence. It was almost funny. Like everyone had been waxworked.
‘Sorry,’ said a stranger who was helping himself to Bee’s birthday cake.
‘Maybe leave some cake, Rasher,’ said Louis. The stranger looked up at Bee and put what was left of the huge lump of cake in his hand back on the plate.
‘We were just chatting, Bee. We’ll be off out soon.’ Patrick gave Bee a cheesy smile. Bee didn’t smile back.
‘Don’t be a bore,’ said the fourth friend – who was posh. ‘It’s Friday night. And that’s the weekend. Yay!’
Louis tapped him on the shoulder. ‘Teapot, my sister’s not finding this funny and you’re not helping.’ (I know we’ve got odd nicknames but Slim, Bodger, Rasher and Teapot are totally stupid.)
‘Why don’t you leave now,’ said Bee. ‘We’ll be fine without you.’
‘But we’re babysitting,’ said Louis. ‘Mum said.’
‘You’re hardly looking after me, are you?’ There were tears in Bee’s eyes.
‘Time to go, everyone,’ said Louis. ‘Patrick, you go with the others and I’ll wait for Mum.’
‘Come with us. Bee’ll be fine, won’t you?’ said Patrick.
‘We can’t leave her. She’s eleven,’ said Louis. He waved his arm across the room. ‘They’re all eleven.’ Patrick didn’t look as if he cared whether we were eleven, or whether we were elves. He just wanted to go out. I decided the brothers (well him anyway) weren’t as nice as I thought.
Bodger, Slim and Rasher headed for the door.
‘Sorry,’ said Slim. ‘Just having a laugh.’
Teapot stayed where he was – leaning back on his chair with one foot resting on the edge of the table. Copper Pie kicked Teapot’s leg away and he nearly fell over backwards. ‘Steady on,�
� he said. (I thought people only spoke like that in old films.) Then he got up and left.
Louis followed them all out. ‘I’ll be back in a sec, Bee.’
The back door banged shut. Phew! Crisis over. The exact second I had that thought there were two quick hard knocks on the front door. Or maybe not . . .
Knock, Knock . . .
We all looked at each other. There were two more short sharp raps on the door. We did more looking.
‘It must be them,’ said Lily. ‘Mucking about.’
‘Must be,’ said Jonno.
‘Same,’ said Fifty.
‘So no point answering,’ said Copper Pie.
‘Unless it’s your mum,’ I said to Bee.
‘She has a key, Keener.’
Whoever was knocking definitely didn’t have a key. This time there were three raps.
‘I’d better get it,’ said Bee. ‘Maybe Patrick’s stuffed Louis in a tree or something.’ Not the first explanation I’d have thought of, but Bee knows her brothers better than we do.
Bee hurried to the door and we shadowed her. I don’t know why but I was a bit spooked. She opened the door.
‘You took your time —’ The person at the door stopped mid-sentence. Oh dear! It was Sergeant Farrow, dog-finder, little-sister-finder, and, at this moment, not the nice police-man we knew, but an angry-looking policeman. He had the same woman officer with him.
‘Hello,’ said Fifty.
‘Not you kids again,’ he said. Not pleased to see us was an understatement.
‘Is there a problem?’ said Jonno.
‘Yes, that is usually why we bang on doors at . . .’ He looked at his watch. ‘. . . ten o’clock at night.’
What had we done? The only thing I could think was that maybe The Italian Job was a 15 certificate and the TV licensing people had a monitor inside the telly and could see we were only eleven.
‘Are your parents in?’ said the woman police officer.
Bee shook her head. ‘But my brother’s here.’
Labradoodle on the Loose Page 6