‘What are you doing?’ said Fifty eventually. Trying not to breathe didn’t seem like a good answer so I gave him my best blank look.
‘You keep gasping,’ said Copper Pie.
‘Can’t you breathe properly?’ said Dad.
‘I’m fine,’ I said. Time to stop the breath-holding attempts.
‘Do you think she’ll come?’ said Jonno.
I don’t know, I thought. But I hope so.
‘Don’t know,’ said Copper Pie.
‘Hope so,’ said Fifty. They were stealing my thoughts again.
‘We should do what your mum says,’ said Jonno, looking at Fifty. ‘The visualising thing.’ It’s one of Fifty’s mum’s tricks to help people give up smoking, or be happier, or get thinner. It’s her job.
‘OK. Let’s do it,’ he said.
Dad looked completely confused so Fifty explained.
FIFTY’S MUM’S VISUALISING THING
The basic idea is that if you make a picture of what you want to happen in your head, you’re more likely to achieve it. It’s meant to work for job interviews or passing your driving test, things like that. If you can see yourself doing it you’re already training your brain to do it in real life. You have to close your eyes and forget everything else except the thing you want to visualise.
So, let’s try visualising . . . learning a difficult piece on the piano. You imagine walking up to the piano, sitting on the stool and finding the piece of music. You picture yourself playing the tune perfectly, hearing it in your head, maybe seeing the audience wowed by your performance. When it’s over, you stand up and close the lid before walking away. That’s really important – you have to start before the event and finish after it so you know how it feels before and after.
The only trouble is, it can’t make Bee come – it can only affect you, not other people you put in the picture with you. Sorry.
‘Let’s do it anyway,’ said Dad. ‘It’s better than waiting. And I’d like to have a go. I might introduce visualisation into our monthly sales meetings. Get everyone imagining the biggest deal ever.’
‘Just don’t tell Mum,’ I said. ‘She thinks it’s barmy.’ As soon as I said that I realised I shouldn’t have. I didn’t mean to blurt out what Mum thinks about Fifty’s mum’s flower potions and all the other therapies she uses. My mum likes Fifty’s mum, but she’s a doctor and doctors don’t believe in rose-flavour treatments or visualising. They think it’s witchcraft.
Dad saved me. ‘Your mum thinks a lot of things are barmy, including me. But remember, she doesn’t understand everything – she can’t catch a wave, can she?’ Everyone laughed, even Fifty. My mum on a surfboard wasn’t something you could easily visualise.
‘Come on, then,’ said Jonno.
‘OK. Everyone shut your eyes,’ said Dad. I shut my eyes and lay back on the grass. ‘Imagine you’re in Fifty’s garden, waiting for Bee.’
‘But we are,’ said Copper Pie.
‘Shut up,’ said Fifty. ‘You have to go along with it.’
Copper Pie shut up.
Dad carried on. ‘It’s warm and sunny, and you’re waiting for Bee to come to her surprise party. Picture the garden. The food’s ready, and there are drinks and a cake. Picture the food. Picture the cake. Picture the —’
Fifty interrupted. ‘Shall I take over?’ Dad was obviously no good.
‘OK. I’ll listen and learn.’
‘Get comfortable everyone.’
I already was, sun on my face, eyelids as heavy as if a hot water bottle was pressing on them. Fifty started off using a quiet, dreamy voice. He didn’t tell us to picture anything, or if he did, I didn’t notice. He took us all the way through from wondering whether Bee would come, to hearing a rustle by the Tribe flap, to her happy face when she saw the decorated hut. We ate the food and drank blackcurrant. It was time for the cake. ‘Happy Birthday to you.’ We bashed the piñata and scrambled about for the sweets. It was like a really nice dream . . .
Wake Up, Keener
Something touched my face. I sat up really quickly and opened my eyes. The sun was far too bright. I closed my lids and made two small slits so I could focus. Fifty’s face was a millimetre from mine. And he was laughing. And so were other people. I wiped my mouth. My chin was wet. I knew what that meant – I’d been dribbling in my sleep. Great! More teasing.
‘Wakey, wakey,’ said Fifty.
‘You’re just in time,’ said Dad. Just in time for what? The last thing I remembered was chasing round the garden to get the sweets from the piñata.
‘They should be here any second,’ said Fifty’s mum from behind me somewhere. Who should be here any second? I had lots of questions but I didn’t want to ask them because I knew I’d sound even more stupid than I felt.
‘Keener, night, night,’ said Probably Rose.
‘Clever girl,’ said Fifty.
‘Isn’t she?’ said Fifty’s mum, smiling at Rose.
‘Her talking’s really coming on,’ said Dad. I was grateful for the chat about Rose. I needed to work out what was real and what was dream, and fast. I glanced up at the Tribehouse – the star piñata was still hanging, un-whacked. That was a clue. I scanned the bodies: Fifty, Fifty’s mum, Probably Rose, my dad, Copper Pie, Jonno. There was still no Bee. Another clue.
‘Mum, what time was it when you said they were on their way?’ Fifty asked. My ears pricked up. Another clue – but who were they? Bee wasn’t they. Bee was she. I worked it out quite quickly considering the clever half of my brain was still somewhere else – someone was bringing Bee over.
The doorbell rang.
‘Well, go on,’ said Fifty’s mum. Fifty ran up the garden and let the kitchen door slam. There was a pause before we heard voices – man voices. Fifty appeared, followed by a tall body with its face in shadow – it was Patrick or maybe Louis. Followed by Louis, or maybe Patrick. That wasn’t what I was expecting.
‘Hello,’ shouted Fifty’s mum.
‘Hi,’ said one twin and then the other.
‘Hello, everyone,’ said Bee’s mum, who was carrying a big oval plate. Bee’s dad was there too. I waited for the next person to come through the doorway, which was bound to be Bee. Except there was no other person. Had they come to tell us Bee hated us? Had Bee sent them over to say we weren’t friends any more? If only I’d stayed awake I’d have known what was going on.
‘What’s going on?’ I said to no one in particular.
‘You’ve been abducted by aliens,’ said Fifty. ‘They’ve stolen the bodies of people you know to lure you into their world. The alien eel they placed on your earlobe is boring its way into your brain slowly taking over all your thoughts. Soon you won’t know who you are, or were. You will be theirs.’ Fifty is quite keen on making up ridiculous stuff. It’s quite annoying.
WEIRD THINGS TRIBERS’ THINK ABOUT
FIFTY: Crazy things happening, like time travel, or finding treasure, or a fairy in the Tribehouse. And making a huge fire that burns for days.
COPPER PIE: Food.
BEE: How to save all endangered species from extinction, and make people get rid of their massive cars, and stop litter and sea pollution, and on and on . . .
JONNO: What else might live in the rotting tree stump that he hasn’t seen yet.
KEENER: Worrying about what might go wrong (but trying not to).
‘Anyone normal going to fill me in?’
Jonno did. ‘Fifty’s mum told Bee’s mum all about the party. Bee’s mum said she’d think of a way to get Bee round here without ruining the surprise.’
‘And then we cooked up a plan,’ said Fifty’s mum, clearly excited. ‘As soon as Bee left the house to walk round here —’
‘We got in the motor and here we are,’ said Bee’s dad, finishing off the tale.
OK, I’d got it. It was still a surprise, but a bigger one: Tribers, Probably Rose, Fifty’s mum, my dad, Bee’s brothers, Bee’s mum and dad. Cool!
Bee’s Birthday Surprise . . . At Last
We heard footsteps and dogsteps coming along the path. We heard them stop. Doodle’s head came through the Tribe catflap first. He barked. Bee’s head followed and then stopped, half in, half out. She stayed half in, half out.
‘Get in here, Bee,’ said Jonno. ‘We’ve been working all day and waiting all evening.’
That did it. She shuffled forwards. When she was upright we all cheered. Her face went Keener’s-face colour – most unusual for cool-as-a-cucumber Bee.
‘Happy Birthday, Bee,’ said Fifty’s mum above the polka music or whatever it was. There was some random birthday-greetings shouting and then it was party time. It was like my dream, but better. We all sat round the rug and ate sandwiches, crisps, pork pies, vol-au-vents (Jonno said that’s what the pastry things were) and antipasto (Bee’s mum’s platter of meat and cheese and olives). The twins were funny, just like they were at Bee’s first birthday party, before the friends, the noise and the police. (And they apologised about Teapot, Rasher, Bodger and Slim.) You could tell Bee – the most important person – was really, really happy. There was no lost dog, her family were all together and not rowing, she wasn’t in the middle of a crisis, she was just having a good time with her family and her mates – chatting and laughing and being bossy.
‘Time to smack the star,’ said Dad. We all jumped up, ready to whack the piñata as hard as possible. The stick was a bit bendy but after a few goes we got the idea, but we couldn’t crack the clay. We whipped the star, but it would not give us the sweets. Dad had a go. Bee’s dad had a go. Patrick had a go, and nearly decapitated his mum. Louis had a go, and nearly decapitated himself. No way was that clay pot going to break. Until Copper Pie decided it was time to stop messing. He did the most enormous swing, and chucked the stick plus himself at the star. It gave a little. You couldn’t call it a crack, but there was a seam across the middle of the star.
‘My turn, I think,’ said Bee. We all stood in a ring and watched. Bee copied the Copper Pie method of piñata assassination. She swivelled round a couple of times like a hammer thrower and then let rip. It was very effective. She smashed the piñata into a zillion pieces. Sweets showered the garden like the best rainstorm ever. We all dived, and only just avoided crushing Probably Rose, who could suddenly walk much more quickly.
‘Don’t panic. There is cake,’ said Fifty’s mum. She looked a bit appalled at the headless-chicken chasing of the last few toffees.
‘Give me a second.’ Dad disappeared into the Tribehouse to light the candles. We could see the flickering lights through the plastic windows.
‘In you come,’ he shouted. Bee went first and sat on the bench. The other Tribers followed, except Fifty whose seat is the safe. The twins stood hunched over in the corner, because they’re taller than the hut. Dad and Fifty’s mum did the same in another corner and Bee’s mum and dad filled the other two corners. Probably Rose sat down in the middle of everyone. We started singing and Bee puffed out the candles. There was a big Hurrah!
‘Make a wish,’ said Bee’s dad. She shut her eyes. As soon as they opened again, Dad let the net go and balloons floated about, sinking and rising and hovering around our heads. It was brilliant. There’s something about balloons that makes everyone want to bat them about. So that’s what we did until it got too hot. We spilled out of the hut, red and sweaty, and let the balloons come with us and fly up in the air. We ate the fancy cake and drank the jelly Mum made because there were no spoons.
‘OK,’ said Dad. I thought he was going to say we should be going but he said, ‘Let’s all say something we like about Bee. I’ll start.’ Dad looked around at the ten faces. ‘I like Bee because she has definite views about all sorts of important issues, like organic farming and endangered animals.’
There was clapping.
Fifty’s mum went next. ‘I like the fact that she doesn’t just have strong views, she acts on them, like picking up rubbish wherever she goes.’
The next few were cringe-worthy. Bee put her head down. I didn’t blame her. Patrick and Louis stood up together and said how cute she was when she was little. Bee’s dad told a great long story about how she behaved really badly at dinner in a restaurant one evening and in the end the waiter served her food to her under the table.
Fifty copped out and said, ‘She’s our mate.’ (That’s when I realised I was going to have to say something too. Everything I thought of sounded lame.)
Bee’s mum said something in Italian and her eyes went all teary. When she’d finished they had a family hug, which was excruciatingly embarrassing. I’m so glad we’re not a family-hug family.
Jonno went next. ‘I like Bee loads because she lets me share her dog.’ Everyone laughed. Much better than hugging.
Only Copper Pie, me . . . and Rose left. Help!
Copper Pie did a little cough. ‘Bee’s no use at football.’ (Quiet laughter.) ‘She eats rabbit food.’ (More laughing.) ‘She’s mum to a Black Rhino. Doesn’t like guns.’ (Copper Pie stopped for a second, then shrugged his shoulders.) ‘I don’t know why I like her.’
Everyone loved it. Bee did a fist of friendship in mid-air.
Rose obviously wasn’t about to string together the few words she knew, so it was me next. I couldn’t decide whether to try and be funny like C.P., or quick like Fifty, or say something I really meant. So I just opened my mouth . . . ‘Well . . . we’re a team, and we’ve all got jobs. Fifty is smooth-talker, Copper Pie is secret weapon, I’m the sensible one, Jonno has the most ideas, and Bee . . .’ I shrugged. ‘She’s the boss.’ I was going to say something else but there was clapping so I shut up. Bee flicked her fringe sideways and gave me a wink. Guess she liked what I said.
Fifty’s mum picked up Rose, whose face was smeared with a selection of brown party foods. ‘Do you want to give Bee a kiss?’ Yuck! A Rose special. (Rose’s idea of a kiss is to open her mouth and press her wet tongue against your skin. I had one once. Never again.)
I thought it was all over, but Bee wasn’t ready for the party to end.
‘My turn now,’ she said. Not surprising – after all, Bee is boss. ‘I’ve forgiven the Tribers for not answering my texts and I’ve forgiven my brothers for having awful friends who ruin everything, because if I hadn’t been on my own all day I wouldn’t have the exciting news that I’ve got.’ All eyes were on Bee. ‘With my birthday money from Nonna I’ve adopted a Bactrian, called Nonna.’ When Bee said that I didn’t think You’re a nutter, I’d have bought a mountainboard, I thought, That’s why Tribe is the best. We’re all completely different, but together we make something better than when we’re on our own. It’s like we fit.
TRIBERS’ BEST CAUSES AND SLOGANS
BEE: Adopt a Bactrian and save a species.
COPPER PIE: ManU for European Champions.
FIFTY: Children need sugar.
KEENER: To all forgetful swimmers, keep leaving your pounds for Keener’s mountainboard fund. (Not exactly snappy.).
JONNO: Keep me here! If my parents want to move three hundred miles away, which they seem to do every twelve months, I’m staying with the Tribers.
‘Come on,’ said Dad. ‘Time to go. Thanks, everyone.’ Dad came through the Tribe flap with me. On the other side of the fence he stood up, brushed the dirt off his knees, and said, ‘I wish I was a Triber.’
Dream on, Dad! No one can leave and no one can join.
Red-Handed
Hissy Fit
Last lesson on Tuesday was art. We were meant to be planning a Mondrian-type painting. (Mondrian was a famous Dutch artist.) Miss Walsh tried to explain how he used a white background, and then painted black lines down and across to make boxes and filled some of them in using three primary colours. I couldn’t work out what was so clever about that. Probably Rose could manage a Mondrian if you gave her a ruler and a few crayons. Miss Walsh asked us to do a rough drawing on scrap paper before we did the real thing. Simple. Anything to do with straight lines is my kind of art!
As soon as she finished talk
ing we all got paper and pencils and started designing our Mondrian copies. But Jamie headed straight for the paint. He picked up the red, shook it to see if it was full and accidentally sprayed it all over the counter where Year 4’s Egyptian masks were waiting to be taken home. They looked blood-spattered. (I remember when we did our Egyptian mask project. It took weeks to design and mould out of clay and fire and paint and lacquer and blah and blah and still mine turned out like a grey and brown tortoise.)
‘Jamie, what on earth are you doing with that?’ Miss Walsh stormed over to where he was standing holding the bottle of paint, looking dim – his usual face.
‘It came out,’ he said.
She undid the messy ponytail thing on her head and retied it – she was stressy. ‘You shouldn’t have even had your hands on the paint.’
‘It’s art. And we’re painting, aren’t we?’ Jamie used a sarcastic voice. Not a great idea. And not quite like Jamie. He may shout out, never put up his hand, and generally be a bit of a pain, but he’s not usually rude to a teacher. Even Callum, his best buddy, looked shocked.
‘No, Jamie, we’re not. Look around you. What is everyone else doing?’ He didn’t look around. He looked straight at Miss Walsh. She didn’t like that.
‘Sit down!’ she shouted. He plonked the bottle down on the edge, knocking one of the masks, and stomped over to his desk. He folded his arms – no pencil, no paper, no Mondrian. Art was turning out a bit more exciting than normal.
Labradoodle on the Loose Page 8