Dare Game

by Jacqueline Wilson

  ‘That’s right,’ said Cam, in this maddening there-there-I’ll-agree-with-whatever-you-say-you-stupid-fool voice.

  ‘It’s wrong – and I’m sick of it,’ I shouted. ‘Do you know something? Even if it doesn’t work out with my mum I still don’t want to come back here. I’m sick of this boring old dump. I’m sick of you.’

  ‘Well clear off then, you ungrateful little beast. I’m sick of you too!’ Cam yelled, and she banged out of the bat cave in tears.

  There. That’s what she thinks of me. Well, see if I care. UNGRATEFUL. Why do I always have to be grateful to people?

  Kids are always expected to be grateful grateful grateful. It’s hateful being grateful. It’s not fair. I’m supposed to be grateful to Cam for looking after me but I’m not allowed to look after myself. Though I could, easy-peasy. I’m supposed to be grateful for my yucky veggie meals (she hardly ever takes me to McDonald’s) and my unstylish chainstore clothes (no wonder they pick on me at school) and my boring old books (honestly, have you tried reading Little Women? – who cares if Jo was Cam’s all-time favourite book character?) and trips to museums (OK, I liked seeing the mummies and the little hunched-up dead man but all those pictures and pots were the pits).

  If I could only earn my own money I could buy all the stuff I really need. It’s not fair that kids aren’t allowed to work. I’d be great flogging stuff down the market or selling ice creams or working in a nursery. If I could only get a job I could eat Big Macs and french fries every day and wear designer from top to toe, yeah, especially my footware, and buy all the videos and computer games I want and take a trip to Disneyland.

  Yeah! I bet my mum will take me to Disneyland if I ask her.

  It is going to end up like a fairy story. I’m going to live happily ever after.

  I am.

  Even if Football doesn’t think so. I hate him.

  No I don’t. I quite like him in a weird sort of way. I’m worried about him. He’s not going to live happily ever after.

  I went to our house to say goodbye to Football and Alexander, seeing as I’m going to my mum’s.

  Alexander wasn’t there. I didn’t think Football was either. I went into the house and there was no sign of anyone – and no provisions in the cardboard fridge either. I checked upstairs and looked out of the window at the tree. My knickers were still up there. The tree seemed a long way from the window. We were all crazy. I looked down, my heart thudding when I thought of Alexander. And then I screamed.

  Someone was lying spread-eagled on the mattress. Someone bigger than Alexander. Someone wearing last year’s football strip.

  ‘Football!’ I yelled, and hurtled back inside the house and out the back window and down the overgrown garden to the mattress. ‘Football, Football, Football!’ I cried, standing over his still sprawled body.

  He opened his eyes and peered at me. ‘Tracy?’

  ‘Oh, Football, you’re alive!’ I cried, going down on my knees beside him.

  ‘Ooh Tracy, I didn’t know you cared,’ he said, giggling.

  I gave him a quick flick round the face. ‘Quit that, idiot! Did you fall?’

  ‘I’m just having a little lie down.’

  I touched his arm. He was icy cold and his shirt was damp. ‘Have you been here all night? You’re crazy.’

  ‘Yeah. That’s me. Mad. Nuts. Totally out of it.’

  ‘You are,’ I said. ‘You’ll make yourself ill.’

  ‘So what?’

  ‘You won’t be able to play football.’

  ‘Sure I will.’ He reached for his football at the edge of the mattress and threw it in the air. He tried to catch it but it bounced off his fingertips into the undergrowth.

  Football swore, but didn’t bother to get up. He lay where he was, flicking his dad’s lighter on and off, on and off above his head. His coordination was lousy.

  ‘You’ll drop it and set yourself alight, you nutter. Stop it!’

  ‘I’m warming myself up.’

  ‘I’ll warm you up.’ I rubbed his icy arms and blue fingers. He held onto my hands, pulling me down beside him.

  ‘What are you playing at?’

  ‘Keep me company, eh, Tracy?’

  ‘Can’t we go in the warm?’

  ‘I like it cold. Kind of numb.’

  ‘Yeah – you’re a numskull,’ I said, but I lay down properly on the smelly old mattress.

  It was so damp it seemed to be seeping right through my back. ‘I feel as if I’m being pulled down down down into the earth,’ I said, wriggling.

  ‘Yeah, let’s stay down here together, eh? You and me in our own little world.’

  I wondered about staying in this garden home for ever. Football and I would lie on our backs on the mattress like marble statues on a tomb and ivy would grow over us and squirrels would scamper past and birds nest in our hair and we wouldn’t move a muscle, totally out of it.

  But I want to be in it. I’ve got to the fairytale ending of my story. I’m all set to live happily ever after.

  ‘Come on! Getting-up time! Let’s play football.’ I found the ball and bounced it at Football’s head to bring him to his senses.

  Football scrambled to his feet, swearing. He tried to grab the ball but I was too quick for him.

  ‘I’m Tracy Beaker the Great and I’m running like the wind, and wow, look, I’ve got the ball!’

  ‘Get out of it, I’m the greatest,’ Football said. He tried to tackle me. His great boot kicked me instead of the ball.

  ‘Ooowww! My ankle! You’re the greatest biggest booted bully!’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Football peered at my leg. ‘Red,’ he said, sounding puzzled.

  ‘It’s blood!’

  ‘I didn’t mean to,’ Football mumbled.

  ‘Oh yes,’ I said, busy dabbing and mopping. ‘Like you had no control whatsoever over your foot, it just developed this wicked will of its own and gouged a huge lump out of my flesh. It hurts!’

  ‘I’m really really sorry, Tracy.’ Football looked like he was nearly in tears. ‘I’d never try to hurt you. You mean a lot to me, kid. Tracy?’ He tried to put his arm round me.

  I dodged underneath. ‘Get off me!’

  ‘Go on, you know you like me too.’

  ‘Not when you’re all damp and smelly. Yuck, you don’t half need a bath, Football.’

  ‘Don’t nag at me. You sound like my mum. You’re all the same. Nag moan whine whinge. Think I really care about you? You’re mad. I don’t want you one little bit. No-one wants you, Tracy Beaker.’

  ‘My mum wants me!’ I yelled.

  I roared it so loudly the birds flew into the air in terror and people stopped dead in their tracks all over town and cars ran into each other and aeroplanes stalled in the sky.

  ‘MY MUM WANTS ME!’

  Mum’s Home (Again)

  MUM’S HOME WAS a little bit different this time. Mum was a little bit different too. She was very pale underneath her make-up and she wore dark glasses and when we had our big hug hello she smelt stale underneath her lovely powdery scent. Her home smelt too, of cigarettes and a lot of booze. The curtains were still drawn.

  I went to open them but Mum stopped me. ‘Not too much daylight, sweetie,’ she said, holding her forehead.

  ‘Have you got a hangover, Mum?’

  ‘What? No, of course not. Don’t be silly, darling. No, I have this nasty migraine. I get them a lot. I’m bothered with my nerves.’ She lit a cigarette and drew on it desperately.

  ‘I don’t make you nervous, do I, Mum?’ I asked.

  ‘Don’t be so silly, sweetie,’ said Mum. ‘Now, see what your mum’s got for you.’

  ‘Another present!’

  I hoped it wasn’t chocolates again because I was feeling a bit sick. I was bothered with my nerves too. I take after my mum.

  The present was a big parcel, but soft and floppy. Not chocolates.

  ‘Is it a rag doll or a teddy?’ I asked cautiously, feeling for heads or paws under the wrapping
paper.

  ‘Have a look.’

  So I carefully undid the wrapping paper, Ultra-neatly this time, and discovered an amazing pair of combat trousers – with a label to die for!

  ‘Oh wow! Great!’ I said, whirling around, clutching the trousers, making each leg dance up and down.

  ‘You like them?’ said Mum.

  ‘I love them. They’re seriously cool. Shame I haven’t got a really great jacket to go with them.’

  ‘You’re not hinting, by any chance?’ said Mum, smiling.

  I decided to hint for all I was worth. ‘Of course, my old trainers are going to spoil the whole sharp look,’ I said. ‘I need a pair of Nikes to kind of complete the outfit.’

  ‘I’m not made of money,’ said Mum. ‘I think it’s a bit rich – ha, a bit poor – that Cam gets paid a fortune to look after you, while I won’t get a penny.’

  ‘Still, I’m worth it, aren’t I, Mum?’ I said, whirling closer.

  ‘Of course you are, sweetheart,’ she said. ‘Do give over thumping about though, you’re doing my head in.’

  I made her a strong black coffee and she sat on her sofa and sipped. Then she lay back on the cushion and stayed very still, not answering when I spoke to her. It looked like she’d fallen asleep, though I couldn’t see her eyes for the dark glasses.

  I circled the sofa slowly, looking at her, still not quite able to believe she was really my mum and we were with each other and we were going to be together for ever and ever. I’d made it up so many times that it was hard to believe it was real now. I kept staring and staring until my eyes went blurry but Mum didn’t vanish: she stretched out in her sparkly sweater and leopardskin pants, so splendid, so special, so sweet to me. So sleepy too.

  She wouldn’t wake up. I loved to look at her but it started to get just a weeny bit boring. I went for a wander round the room, emptying the ashtrays into the wastebin and taking the glass and empty bottle out into the kitchen like a real Mummy’s Little Helper. I had a peer in all her kitchen cupboards and the fridge but there weren’t many snacks to nibble on, just frozen packets and diet stuff and booze.

  I played hopscotch across the kitchen tiles for a bit and then I took off my trainers and played ice skating and then I shuffled back to the living room hopefully because I heard Mum sigh, but she’d just turned over and was still playing Sleeping Beauty. One of her black suede high heels had fallen off. I tried it on, and then carefully eased the other one off her foot too. I had my very own pair of high heels. I clonked about the living room for a bit to get my balance and then staggered off to her bedroom to admire myself in her wardrobe mirror.

  I had a little peep in her wardrobe – and before I could stop myself I was dressing up in her mohair sweater and her leather skirt. I looked almost like my mum! I pretended to be her. I promised my little Tracy I would always love her and be with her for ever no matter what.

  Then my mum came into the bedroom, rubbing her eyes and lighting her fag. ‘So that’s where you’ve got to. Did I doze off for five minutes? Hey, you cheeky baggage, you’re all togged up in my clothes! Take them off! And watch that skirt, it cost a fortune.’

  ‘Oh Mum, please, let me keep them on, just for a second. I look so beautiful. Just like you,’ I begged. I rootled through her wardrobe. ‘Oh wow! I love your red dress. Can I try that on too? And the purply thing? And what’s this black dress? Oh, it’s dead sexy.’

  ‘Tracy!’ said Mum, giggling. ‘OK then. Come here, we’ll play dressing up.’

  It was MAGIC. Mum got me all beautifully dressed up – though we both fell about laughing when I tried the black dress on because it came right down to my belly button and I wasn’t just topless, I was very nearly bottomless too. I ended up back in the mohair sweater and the leather skirt and Mum’s suede high heels, and she made me up like a real grown-up lady and did my hair too. I strutted about like a fashion model and Mum joined in too, showing me how to do the walk properly, and I did my best to copy her. Then we played being rock stars and Mum was incredible – she could do all the bouncy bits and the little dances and everything, and she could really sing too. She has this amazing voice. She said she was queen of the karaoke night down the pub and everyone always begged her to sing.

  ‘It’s karaoke night tonight, actually,’ she said.

  ‘Oh great! Can we go? I’d love to see you being the star singer.’

  ‘You can’t go to the pub, Tracy, you’re just a little kid.’

  ‘I went with Cam and Jane and Liz once. We sat in the garden and I had a cocktail called a St Clement’s and three packets of salt and vinegar crisps.’

  ‘Yes, well, my pub hasn’t got a garden and you can’t sit out in the evening anyway. No, I was wondering about me going.’

  ‘But . . . what about me?’

  ‘Well, you can go to bed. I’ll make you up a bed on the sofa and then you can watch telly for a bit as a treat.’

  ‘You’re going to leave me on my own?’ I said, my heart thumping.

  ‘Oh come on, Tracy, you’re not a baby,’ said Mum.

  ‘I don’t really like being left on my own,’ I said. ‘Mum, can’t you stay and play with me?’

  ‘For goodness’ sake, Tracy. I’ve been playing daft games with you for hours! You can’t begrudge me an hour or two with my friends down the pub. A couple of drinks, that’s all. I’ll be home long before closing time, I swear. Anyway, you’ll be asleep by then.’

  ‘What if I can’t get to sleep?’

  ‘Then watch the telly, like I said.’

  ‘I don’t think there’s anything good on tonight.’

  ‘Well, watch a video! Honestly – kids! You can tell you’ve been spoilt. You’re going to have to learn to do as you’re told if we’re going to get along.’

  ‘You’re not supposed to leave me.’

  ‘I’ll do what I like, young lady. Don’t take that tone with me! Do you want me to send you back to the Children’s Home?’

  I shook my head. I couldn’t speak.

  ‘Well then. Don’t you get stroppy with me. Out of my clothes and into your jim-jams, right?’

  She started treating me like I was a sulky little toddler. She even washed all the make-up off my face herself and then she played silly games with the flannel, pretending it was a bird pecking off my nose. I laughed a lot and went along with the whole charade because I hoped if I was really really good and sweet and cute she’d change her mind and stay home.

  But she didn’t.

  She left me.

  She gave me a kiss and tucked me up on the sofa and waved her fingers at me and then she put on her coat and walked off in her black suede high heels.

  I called after her. I said she didn’t have to play with me, I’d lie watching telly as quiet as a mouse, I’d do anything she wanted, just so long as she stayed with me.

  I don’t know whether she heard or not. She still went anyway. So I was left. All on my own.

  I got angry at first. She wasn’t supposed to leave me. If I phoned Elaine and told tales Mum would be in serious trouble. But I didn’t want to phone Elaine. I knew who I wanted to phone – but I couldn’t. I couldn’t let on to Cam that it had all gone wrong so quickly.

  Then I got angry with myself. Had it really gone wrong? I didn’t know why I was getting in such a state. So what if my mum had slipped out for a drink or two? Lots and lots and lots of mums went down the pub, for goodness’ sake. And my mum had been wonderful to me. She’d bought me fantastic new trousers and she’d played games with me for ages. She was the best mum in the world and so why couldn’t I just lie back on her lovely comfy sofa and watch telly and have a good time till she came back?

  I knew why. I was scared. It reminded me of all those other times when I was little and she left me then. I couldn’t remember them properly. I just remembered crying in the dark and no-one coming. The dark seemed to stretch out for ever into space and I was all by myself and Mum was never ever coming back for me.

  I felt that way now
, even though I knew it was stupid. I scrunched up in a tiny ball on the sofa and I thought about Cam and I wanted her so badly. No, I wanted my mum so badly. I was all muddled. I just felt so lonely, and after a long while I slept but when I woke up Mum still wasn’t back even though the pubs had been shut for ages. I switched on the telly but it jabbered away too loudly in the silent flat so I shut it off quick and lay on the sofa, listening and listening, wondering what I would do if Mum never came back. And then when I’d very nearly given up altogether I heard footsteps and giggling and the key turning in the front door.

  The light went on in the living room. I kept hunched down, my eyes squeezed shut.

  ‘Whoops! I’d forgotten I’d tucked her up on the sofa!’ Mum hissed. ‘Funny little thing. Doesn’t look a bit like me, does she? Oh dear. Come on, out we go. You’d better go home, sweetie. Yes, I know, but it can’t be helped.’

  There was a horrible male mumbling, a slurping sound, and more giggles from Mum.

  ‘You naughty thing! No! Shh now, we’ll wake the kid.’

  I breathed as slowly and evenly as I could. The man was mumbling again.

  ‘Oooh!’ said Mum. ‘Yes, I’d love to go to the races on Saturday. Great idea! Though . . . well, my little Tracy will still be here. She can come too, can’t she? She won’t be any trouble, I swear.’

  Mumble mumble, fumble fumble.

  ‘I know it wouldn’t be so much fun. What? I see. So we’d be staying the whole weekend? It does sound tempting. Go on, then, you’ve twisted my arm. I’ll fix it.’

  My eyes were still tight shut but I couldn’t stop them leaking. It was OK. They didn’t see. They weren’t looking at me.

  I was awake long before Mum in the morning. I had my bag all packed, ready. I wondered how she was going to break it to me, whether she’d tell me it straight or spin me some story.

  It was the story. With a lot of spin on it. She came out with it at breakfast. I was amazed. It was the sort of stuff I made up when I was about six, the most pathetic never-ever tale about bumping into a film producer down the pub and how he was bowled over by her and he was giving her this big acting chance and he needed her to meet up with all his big-film-guy cronies at the weekend, this weekend, and she knew this weekend was the most special ever because we were supposed to be together but on the other hand we could spend every other weekend of our lives together but this weekend was her one chance of finding fame and fortune and I did understand, didn’t I, sweetie?