Dare Game Read online

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Book

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Introduction

  No Home

  Cam’s Home

  Elaine’s Home

  Alexander’s Home

  Football’s Home

  Tracy and Alexander’s Home

  Mum’s Home

  The Tree Home

  The Garden Home

  Mum’s Home (Again)

  The Smashed Home

  Alexander’s Real Home

  Home Sweet Home

  About the Author

  About the Illustrator

  Also by Jacqueline Wilson

  Copyright

  About the Book

  I’m Tracy Beaker, the Great Inventor of Extremely Outrageous Dares – and I dare YOU not to say this is the most brilliant story ever!

  I thought I was going to live happily ever after with Cam as my foster-mum. Well, ha ha! It hasn’t turned out like that. Cam’s so MEAN! She won’t buy me designer clothes so all the other kids at my new school laugh at me. No wonder I bunk off and go to this special secret place. There are these two boys I meet there, Alexander and Football. We play the Dare Game – and I always win. I’m the greatest. I AM!

  An all-time favourite Tracy Beaker story, now with an extra-special new introduction by Jacqueline!

  To Jessie Atkinson

  Francesca Oates

  Zoe

  Lee and Sarah

  Emma Walker and all my friends at

  Redriff School

  and everyone else who ever wondered

  what happened to Tracy Beaker

  The Dare Game

  The Story of Tracy Beaker has always been the most popular book. For years afterwards children kept asking me for another story about Tracy. Everyone wanted to find out what happened next. The first book finishes with Tracy absolutely determined that Cam is going to foster her but we’re not entirely sure that this will happen – or if it does, whether it will work out!

  I started to get loads of letters from children with their version of Tracy’s continuing adventures, some inventive, some amusing, some definitely not suitable for publication! For a long time I was happy to let things rest. I thought it was maybe more fun to let all my readers make up their own stories about Tracy.

  Then I was asked to write a play for a children’s theatre in Manchester and I decided to have a go. I know that most people think of football the moment you mention Manchester so I thought I’d definitely have to have a football fanatic in my play. The theatre was going to be in the Rotunda so I imagined all sorts of inter-active ball play between the cast and the audience. Then I invented a brainy weedy small boy called Alexander who couldn’t kick a ball to save his life. I needed a girl for my third main character. She had to be pretty fierce and feisty to hold her own against football. I started to write her . . . and she seemed strangely familiar. Of course, she was Tracy!

  I decided to have lots of new dares in my play. The dare scenes in The Story of Tracy Beaker where Justine says a rude word in front of the vicar and Tracy runs round the garden stark naked and both girls try to eat worms have always been the most popular part of the story. I wanted more silly dares, rude dares, funny dares – and then a very dangerous dare right at the climax of the play.

  I wrote The Dare Game with great enjoyment. I loved getting back into Tracy’s life. This time I made sure that she had a truly happily ever after ending. The play was fine. The theatre wasn’t. It burnt down and by the time it was built again there was a new management and they didn’t want my play after all.

  I decided to turn The Dare Game into a book, elaborating on the story, finding out much more about everyone. I’m so pleased that I’ve completed Tracy’s story. Or have I? There’s a brand new story about Tracy called Starring Tracy Beaker which is all about Tracy’s Christmas when she’s still living in the Children’s Home. Maybe there’ll be more Tracy Beaker books in the future. Tracy as a teenager? Tracy falls in love? Tracy Beaker, young mum? Tracy Beaker, famous writer, actress, television star? Let’s wait and see!

  No Home

  YOU KNOW THAT old film they always show on the telly at Christmas, The Wizard of Oz? I love it, especially the Wicked Witch of the West with her cackle and her green face and all her special flying monkeys. I’d give anything to have a wicked winged monkey as an evil little pet. It could whiz through the sky, flapping its wings and sniffing the air for that awful stale instant-coffee-and-talcum-powder teacher smell and then it would s-w-o-o-p straight onto Mrs Vomit Bagley and carry her away screaming.

  That’ll show her. I’ve always been absolutely Tip Top at writing stories, but since I’ve been at this stupid new school Mrs V.B. just puts ‘Disgracefully untidy work, Tracy’ and ‘Check your spellings!’ Last week we had to write a story about ‘Night-time’ and I thought it an unusually cool subject so I wrote eight and a half pages about this girl out late at night and it’s seriously spooky and then this crazy guy jumps out at her and almost murders her but she escapes by jumping in the river and then she swims right into this bloated corpse and then when she staggers onto the bank there’s this strange flickering light coming from the nearby graveyard and it’s an evil occult sect wanting to sacrifice an innocent young girl and she’s just what they’re looking for . . .

  It’s a truly GREAT story, better than any that Cam could write. (I’ll tell you about Cam in a minute.) I’m sure it’s practically good enough to get published. I typed it out on Cam’s computer so it looked ever so neat and the spellcheck took care of all the spellings so I was all prepared for Mrs V.B. to bust a gut and write: ‘Very very very good indeed, Tracy. 10 out of 10 and Triple Gold Star and I’ll buy you a tube of Smarties at playtime.’

  Do you know what she really wrote? ‘You’ve tried hard, Tracy, but this is a very rambling story. You also have a very warped imagination!’

  I looked up ‘warp’ in the dictionary she’s always recommending and it means ‘to twist out of shape’. That’s spot on. I’d like to warp Mrs Vomit Bagley, twisting and twisting, until her eyes pop and her arms and legs are wrapped right round her great big bum. That’s another thing. Whenever I write the weeniest babiest little rude word Mrs V.B. goes bananas. I don’t know what she’d do if I used really bad words like **** and **** and ****** (censored!!).

  I looked up ‘ramble’ too. I liked what it said: ‘To stroll about freely, as for relaxation, with no particular direction’. So that’s exactly what I did today, instead of staying at boring old school. I bunked off and strolled round the town freely, as relaxed as anything. I had a little potter in Paperchase and bought this big fat purple notebook with my pocket money. I’m going to write all my mega-manic ultra-scary stories in it, as warped and as rambly as I can make them. And I’ll write my story too. I’ve written all about myself before in The Story of Tracy Beaker. So this can be The Story of Tracy Beaker Two or Find Out What Happens Next to the Brave and Brilliant Tracy Beaker or Further Fabulous Adventures of the Tremendous Terrific Tracy Beaker or Read More About the Truly Terrible Tracy Beaker, Even More Wicked Than the Wicked Witch of the West.

  Yes. I was telling you about The Wizard of Oz. There’s only one bit that I truly dread. I can’t actually watch it. The first time I saw it I very nearly cried. (I don’t cry, though. I’m tough. As old boots. New boots. The biggest fiercest reinforced Doc Martens . . .) It’s the bit right at the end where Dorothy is getting fed up with being in Oz. Which is mad, if you ask me. Who’d want to go back to that boring black and white Kansas and be an ordinary kid where they take your dog away when you could dance round Oz in your ruby slippers? But Dorothy acts in an extremely dumb manner all the way through the film. You’d think she’d have sussed o
ut for herself that all she had to do was click those ruby slippers and she’d get back home. That’s it. That’s the bit. Where she says, ‘There’s no place like home.’

  It gets to me. Because there’s no place like home for me. No place at all. I haven’t got a home.

  Well. I didn’t have up until recently. Unless you count the Home. If a home has a capital letter at the front you can be pretty sure it isn’t like a real home. It’s just a dumping ground for kids with problems. The ugly kids, the bad kids, the daft kids. The ones no-one wants to foster. The kids way past their sell-by date so they’re all chucked on the rubbish heap. There were certainly some ultra-rubbishy kids at that Home. Especially a certain Justine Littlewood . . .

  We were Deadly Enemies once, but then we made up. I even gave Justine my special Mickey Mouse pen. I rather regretted this actually and asked for it back the next day, pretending it had just been a loan, but Justine wasn’t having any. There are no flies on Justine. No wasps, bees or any kind of bug.

  It’s weird, but I kind of miss Justine now. It was even fun when we were Deadly Enemies and we played the Dare Game. I’ve always been great at thinking up the silliest daftest rudest dares. I always dared everything and won until Justine came to the Children’s Home. Then I still won. Most of the time. I did. But Justine could certainly invent some seriously wicked dares herself.

  I miss her. I miss Louise too. And I especially miss Peter. This is even weirder. I couldn’t stand weedy old Peter when he first came to the Home. But now it feels like he was my best ever friend. I wish I could see him. I especially wish I could see him right now. Because I’m all on my own and although it’s great to be bunking off school and I’ve found the most brilliant hiding place in the whole world it is a little bit lonely.

  I could do with a mate. When you’re in care you need to make all the friends you can get because you don’t have much family.

  Well. I’ve got family.

  I’ve got the loveliest prettiest best-ever mum in the whole world. She’s this dead famous Hollywood movie star and she’s in film after film, in so much demand that there isn’t a minute of the day when she can see me so that’s why I’m in care . . .

  Who am I kidding??? Not you. Not even me. I used to carry on like that when I was little, and some kids took it all in and even acted like they were impressed. But now when I come out with all that movie guff they start to get this little curl of the lip and then the minute my back’s turned I hear a splutter of laughter. And that’s the kinder kids. The rest tell me straight to my face that I’m a nutter. They don’t even believe my mum’s an actress. I know for a fact she’s been in some films. She sent me this big glossy photo of her in this negligée – but now kids nudge and giggle and say, ‘What kind of film was your mum in, Tracy Beaker?’

  So I duff them up. Sometimes literally. I’m very handy with my fists. Sometimes I just pretend it in my head. I should have pretended inside my head with Mrs Vomit Bagley. It isn’t wise to tell teachers exactly what you think of them. She gave us this new piece of writing work this morning. About ‘My Family’. It was supposed to be an exercise in autobiography. It’s really a way for the teachers to be dead nosy and find out all sorts of secrets about the kids. Anyway, after she’s told us all to start writing this ‘My Family’ stuff she squeezes her great hips in and out the desks till she gets to me. She leans over until her face is hovering a few inches from mine. I thought for one seriously scary second she was going to kiss me!

  ‘Of course, you write about your foster mother, Tracy,’ she whispers, her Tic-Tac minty breath tickling my ear.

  She thought she was whispering discreetly, but every single kid in the room looked up and stared. So I stared straight back and edged as far away from Mrs V.B. as I could and said firmly, ‘I’m going to write about my real mother, Mrs Bagley.’

  So I did. Page after page. My writing got a bit sprawly and I gave up on spelling and stopped bothering about full stops and capital letters because they’re such a waste of time, but I wrote this amazing account of me and my mum. Only I never finished it. Because Mrs V.B. does another Grand Tour of the class, bending over and reading your work over your shoulder in the most off-putting way possible, and she gets to me and leans over, and then she sniffs inwards and sighs. I thought she was just going to have the usual old nag about Neatness and Spelling and Punctuation – but this time she was miffed about the content, not the presentation.

  ‘You and your extraordinary imagination, Tracy,’ she said, in this falsely sweet patronizing tone. She even went ‘Tut tut’, shaking her head, still with this silly smirk on her face.

  ‘What do you mean?’ I said, sharpish.

  ‘Tracy! Don’t take that rude tone with me, dear.’ There was an edge to her voice and all. ‘I did my best to explain about Autobiography. It means you tell a true story about yourself and your own life.’

  ‘It is true. All of it,’ I said indignantly.

  ‘Really, Tracy!’ she said, and she started reading bits out, not trying to keep her voice down now, revving up for public proclamation.

  ‘“My mum is starring in a Hollywood movie with George Clooney and Tom Cruise and Brad Pitt and they all think she’s wonderful and want to be her boyfriend. Her new movie is going to star Leonardo DiCaprio as her younger brother and she’s got really matey with Leonardo at rehearsals and he’s seen the photo of me she carries around in her wallet and he says I look real cute and wants to write to me,”’ Mrs V.B. read out in this poisonous high-pitched imitation of my voice.

  The entire class collapsed. Some of the kids practically wet themselves laughing. Mrs V.B. had this smirk puckering her lips. ‘Do you really believe this, Tracy?’ she asked.

  So I said, ‘I really believe that you’re a stupid hideous old bag who could only get a part in a movie about bloodsucking vampire bats.’

  I thought for a moment she was going to prove her bat-star qualities by flying at my neck and biting me with her fangs. She certainly wanted to. But she just marched me out of the room instead and told me to stand outside the door because she was sick of my insolence.

  I said she made me sick and it was a happy chance that her name was Mrs V. Bagley. The other kids might wonder whether the V. stood for Vera or Violet or Vanessa, but I was certain her first name was Vomit, and dead appropriate too, given her last name, because she looked like the contents of a used vomit bag.

  She went back into the classroom when I was only halfway through so I said it to myself, slumping against the wall and staring at my shoes. I said I was Thrilled to Bits to miss out on her lesson because she was boring boring boring and couldn’t teach for toffee. She couldn’t teach for fudge, nougat, licorice or Turkish delight. I declared I was utterly Ecstatic to be Outside.

  Then Mr Hatherway walked past with a little squirt from Year Three with a nosebleed. ‘Talking to yourself, kiddo?’ he said.

  ‘No, I’m talking to my shoes,’ I said crossly.

  I expected him to have a go at me too but he just nodded and mopped the little spurting scarlet fountain. ‘I have a quiet chat to my shoes when things are getting me down,’ he said. ‘Very understanding friends, shoes. I find my old Hush Puppies especially comforting.’

  The little squirt gave a whimper and Mr Hatherway gave him another mop. ‘Come on, pal, we’d better get you some first aid.’

  He gave me a little nod and they walked on. Up until that moment I was convinced that this new school was 100% horrible. Now it was maybe 1% OK, because I quite liked Mr Hatherway. Not that I had any chance of having him as my teacher, not unless I was shoved out of Year Six right to the bottom of the Juniors. And the school was still 99% the pits, so I decided to clear off out of it.

  It was easy-peasy. I waited till playtime when Mrs V.B. waved me away, her nostrils pinched like I smelled bad. So I returned the compliment and held my own nose but she pretended not to notice. It was music in the hall with Miss Smith after playtime so I was someone else’s responsibility then.
Only I wasn’t going to stick around for music because Miss Smith keeps picking on me too, just because of that one time I experimented with alternative uses of a drumstick. So I moseyed down the corridor like I was going to the toilets only I went right on walking, round the corner, extra sharpish past Reception (though Mrs Ludovic was busy mopping the little kid with the nosebleed. It looked like World War Three in her office) and then quick out the door and off across the yard. The main gate was locked but that presented no problem at all for SuperTracy. I was up that wall and over in a flash. I did fall over the other side and both my knees got a bit chewed up but that didn’t bother me.

  They hurt quite a lot now, even though they’ve stopped bleeding. They both look pretty dirty. I’ve probably introduced all sorts of dangerous germs into my bloodstream and any minute now I’ll develop a high fever and start frothing at the mouth. I don’t feel very well actually. And I’m starving. I wish I hadn’t spent all my money on this notebook. I especially wish I hadn’t picked one the exact purple of a giant bar of Cadbury’s milk chocolate. I shall start slavering all over it soon.

  I’d really like to call it a day and push off back to Cam’s but the clock’s just struck and it’s only one o’clock. Lunchtime. Only I haven’t any lunch. I can’t go back till teatime or Cam will get suspicious. I could show her my savaged knees and say I had a Dire Accident and got sent home, but Cam would think I’d been fighting again. I got in enough trouble the last time. It wasn’t fair. I didn’t start the fight. It was all that Roxanne Green’s fault. She made this sneery remark to her friends about my T-shirt. She was showing off in her new DKNY T-shirt, zigzagging her shoulders this way and that, so I started imitating her and everyone laughed. So she goes, ‘What label is your T-shirt, Tracy?’

  Before I could make anything up she says, ‘I know. It’s Oxfam!’