Dare Game Read online

  ‘Tracy’s not bothered about the way I feel. It’s the way she feels that matters. And she’s not feeling too great either at the moment. So she takes it out on me.’

  ‘Try standing up to her for once. Put her in her place,’ says horrible old Liz.

  ‘That’s just it. That’s why she’s so difficult. She doesn’t know her place because she hasn’t ever had one. A place of her own,’ says Cam.

  It made me feel good that she could suss that out and bad because I don’t want her to pity me. I don’t want her to foster me because she feels sorry for me. I want her to foster me because she’s dead lonely and it gives her life a purpose and she’s crazy about me. She says she cares about me but she doesn’t love me like a real mum. She doesn’t want to buy me treats every single day and give me loads of money and keep me home from school because it’s so horrible.

  I’m not ever going back. I can bunk off every day, easy-peasy. I timed it to perfection, arriving back at Cam’s dead on time. She was sitting on her squashy old sofa writing her sad old story in her notebook. I made her jump when I came barging in but she smiled. I suddenly felt weird, like I’d been missing her or something, so I ran over to her and bounced down beside her.

  ‘Hey, Trace, watch the sofa!’ she said, struggling back into the upright position. ‘You’ll break it. You’ll break me!’

  ‘Half the springs are broken already.’

  ‘Look, I never pretended this was House Beautiful.’

  ‘Hovel Hideous, more like,’ I said, getting up and roaming round the shabby furniture, giving it a kick.

  ‘Don’t do that, Tracy,’ Cam said sharply.

  Aha! It was standing-up-to-Tracy time! Well, I can stand up to her. And walk all over her too.

  Cam saw me squaring up and wilted. ‘Don’t start, Tracy. I’ve had a hard day. You know that article I wrote?’

  ‘Rejected?’

  ‘So I’m dejected. And I’m stuck halfway through Chapter Four of my novel and—’

  ‘And you want to write something that will sell. Something action-packed!’ I pretended to karate chop her. I didn’t touch her but I made her blink. ‘Lively!’ I jumped up and down in front of her. ‘And sexy!’ I waggled my hips and batted my eyelashes.

  ‘Yeah yeah yeah,’ said Cam.

  ‘I’m going to make my fortune as a writer, you wait and see,’ I said. I looked at the little bits Cam had scribbled in her notebook. ‘I can write heaps more than that. I wrote pages and pages and pages today, practically a whole book.’

  ‘Was that for English?’

  ‘No, it was . . .’ Oh-oh. Caution required. ‘It was just something private I’m writing. At playtime and in the lunch hour.’

  ‘Can I have a look?’

  ‘No!’ I don’t want her to see this purple notebook. I keep it hidden in my school bag. Otherwise she might wonder when I bought it. And where I got the cash. She might start going through her purse again and we don’t want another one of those rows.

  ‘OK, OK, it’s private, right. But couldn’t I have one little peep?’

  ‘You’re getting as bad as old Vomit Bagley. She made us do this Exercise in Autobiography, the nosy old bag, all this stuff about “My Family”.’

  Cam stiffened and forgot about my private writing – as I intended!

  ‘She says to me that I should write about my foster mum—’

  ‘And did you?’

  ‘No, I wrote about my mum. And how she’s an actress in Hollywood and so busy she can’t come and see me. You know.’

  ‘Yeah. I know.’

  ‘Only old Vomit Bag didn’t believe me. She made fun of me.’

  ‘That’s horrible!’

  ‘You believe me, don’t you, Cam? About my mum?’ I watched her very carefully.

  ‘Well . . . I know just how much your mum means to you, Tracy.’

  ‘Ha! You think it’s all rubbish, don’t you? A story I made up.’

  ‘No! Not if . . . if you think it’s true.’

  ‘Well, it’s not true.’ I suddenly shouted it. ‘None of it’s true. I made it all up. It’s dead babyish and pathetic. She’s not an actress at all. She just can’t be bothered to get in touch.’

  ‘You don’t know that, Tracy.’ Cam tried to put her arm round me but I jerked free.

  ‘I do know. I haven’t seen her for years. I used to wait and wait and wait for her in the Children’s Home. I must have been mad. She isn’t ever going to come and get me. If someone said, “Do you remember anyone called Tracy Beaker?” she’d probably look vague and go, “Hang on – Tracy? Sounds familiar. Who is she, exactly?” Fat lot she cares. Well, I don’t care either. I don’t want her for my mum.’

  I didn’t know I was going to say all that. Cam was staring at me. I stared back at her. My throat felt dry and my eyes prickled. I very nearly started crying, only of course I don’t ever cry.

  Cam was looking at me. My eyes blurred so that she went all fuzzy. I took a step forward, holding out my hands like I was feeling my way through fog.

  Then the phone rang. We both jumped. I blinked. Cam said to leave it. But I can’t stand leaving a phone ringing, so I answered it.

  It was Elaine the Pain. She didn’t want to talk to me. She wanted to speak to Cam. Typical. She’s my social worker. And it was about me. But she had to tell Cam first. And then she told me.

  You’ll never ever ever guess.

  It’s my mum.

  She’s been in touch.

  She wants to see me!

  Elaine’s Home

  I HAVEN’T BEEN to Elaine’s home home. Just her office. She’s done her best to turn it into a home. She’s got all these photos of kids on the wall. I’m there somewhere. She’s used the photo where I’m crossing my eyes and sticking out my tongue. She’s got a similarly cross-eyed giant bear prowling the top of her filing cabinet, terrorizing a little droopy-eared mauve rabbit. There’s an old Valentine propped on her desk which says inside (I had a quick nose), ‘To my Little Bunny from Big Bear’. Y-U-C-K! She has a framed photo of this ultra-weedy guy with thick glasses who must be Big Bear. There are several framed mottoes too, like: ‘You don’t have to be mad to work here but it helps’ and a poem about an old woman wearing purple and some long drivelly meditation about Listening to Your Inner Child.

  Never mind Elaine’s Inner Child. I am her Outer Child and it’s mega-difficult to make contact with her, even when I bawl my head off.

  ‘Now calm down, Tracy,’ she said.

  ‘I don’t want to calm down!’ I yelled. ‘I want to see my mum. I’ve waited long enough. Like, years! So I want to see my mum NOW!’

  ‘You don’t get anywhere by yelling, Tracy,’ said Elaine. ‘You should know how things work by now.’

  ‘I know how they don’t work! Why can’t I see my mum right this minute?’

  ‘Because we need to prepare for this meeting.’

  ‘Prepare! I’ve been waiting half my life! I couldn’t get more prepared if I tried.’

  ‘That’s just it, Tracy. We don’t want you to get too worked up about things.’

  ‘So you think telling me my mum wants to see me and then telling me I can’t see her is going to calm me down????’

  ‘I didn’t say you can’t see her. Of course you can see her.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘When we can all arrange an appropriate date.’

  ‘Who’s this “we”?’

  ‘Well. I shall need to be there. And Cam.’

  ‘Why? Why can’t it just be my mum and me?’

  It was just my mum and me once. I can remember it. I can. We had a great time, my mum and me. She’s incredibly beautiful, my mum. Lovely long curly fair hair all round her shoulders, dead smart, with high heels. She looks amazing. Well, she did. Last time I saw her. Quite a while ago.

  A long long time ago.

  I do remember that last time. I was in the Home then but Mum visited me at first – she even gave me this doll, and she took me to McDonald’s. It
was a great day out. And she kissed me goodbye. I remember the way her blonde curls tickled my cheek and the sweet powdery way she smelled. I clung on tight round her neck, so tight that when she straightened up I was still clinging to her like a monkey, and that annoyed her because I got my muddy shoes over her smart black skirt and I was scared she was cross and wouldn’t come back.

  I said, ‘You will come back, Mum, won’t you? Next Saturday? You’ll take me to McDonald’s again? Promise?’

  She promised.

  But she didn’t come back. I waited that Saturday. The Saturday after that. Saturday after Saturday after Saturday.

  She didn’t come back. She didn’t come because she got this amazing offer from Hollywood and she starred in this incredible movie and—

  And who am I kidding? Why am I spouting the same old babyish rubbish? She probably wasn’t ever a proper actress. She certainly hasn’t been in any Hollywood movies that I know of. She didn’t come back because she couldn’t be bothered. She left me in care. For years.

  I was taken into care because she didn’t look after me properly. She kept going off with this boyfriend and leaving me. And then she got this new scary guy who whacked me one whenever I yelled. I’ve had a little peep in my files. Though I can remember some of it too. Stuff that still gives me nightmares.

  So why do I want to see my mum so much?

  I don’t want to see her.

  I do.

  Even after the way she’s treated me?

  She’s still my mum.

  I’ve got Cam now.

  She’s not my mum, she’s just a foster parent. And she’s sick of me anyway.

  Is she?

  I don’t know.

  I suppose I need to talk it over with Elaine.

  So the next time I see her I’m all set. She’s all smiles.

  ‘Ah, Tracy, you’ll be pleased to know it’s all fixed now, this special meeting with your mum.’ She beams at me, as happy as a bunny in a field of lettuce.

  ‘I don’t want to see her now,’ I said.

  Elaine’s bunny nose went twitch-twitch-twitch. ‘What?’

  ‘You heard. I don’t have to see her, not if I don’t want. And I don’t want.’

  ‘Tracy, you are going to be the death of me,’ she said, blowing upwards over her big bunny teeth. Then her eyes crossed a little with concentration and I knew she was counting up to ten, s-l-o-w-l-y. It’s her little way of dealing with me. When she got to ten she gave me this big false smile. ‘I understand, Tracy,’ she said.

  ‘No you don’t.’

  ‘It’s only natural you feel anxious about this meeting. It obviously means a great deal to you. And you don’t want to risk getting let down. But I’ve had several phone conversations with your mother and she seems as keen as you to meet. I’m sure she’ll turn up this time, Tracy.’

  ‘I said, I don’t want to see her,’ I declared, but I knew I wasn’t kidding her.

  She tried to kid me though. ‘OK, Tracy, you don’t want to see your mum – so I’ll phone up right this minute and cancel everything,’ she said, and she started dialling.

  ‘Hey, hang about. No need to be quite so hasty,’ I said.

  Elaine giggled. ‘Got you!’

  ‘I don’t think that’s very professional of you, teasing like that,’ I said, dead haughty.

  ‘You would try the patience of a professional saint, Tracy,’ said Elaine, and she ruffled my hair. ‘Now, how are things with you and Cam?’

  ‘OK. I suppose.’

  ‘She’s one hundred and one per cent supporting you over seeing your mum, you know, but it must be a little bit hard for her.’

  ‘Well. That’s what being a foster mum is all about, isn’t it? Taking a back seat when necessary. Encouraging all contact with natural families. I’ve read the leaflets.’

  ‘You’re all heart, Tracy,’ said Elaine, sighing.

  ‘Not me, Elaine. Totally heartless,’ I said.

  So . . . I’m seeing my mum tomorrow! Which is maybe why I’m wide awake now at three o’clock in the morning. Scribbling away. And wondering what she’ll be like. And if she’ll really come.

  Oh-oh. Stirrings from next door. Cam’s spotted my light.

  Later. I thought she might be a bit narked. But she made us both a cup of tea and then we sat at either end of my bed, sipping away. I don’t usually like her ropy old herbal tea but she’d bought a special strawberry packet that doesn’t taste too horrible.

  I thought she might want a heart-to-heart (even though I haven’t got one) but thank goodness she just started talking about this story she used to make up when she was a little kid and couldn’t sleep. I said, ‘Yeah, I do that, really scary bloodthirsty ghost stories,’ and she said, ‘No, little ghoul, this was supposed to be a comfort story,’ and she started on about pretending her duvet was a big white bird and she’d be flying on its back in the starlight and then it would take her to a lake and they’d float on it in the dark and then they’d go to its great mossy nest . . .

  ‘All slime and bird’s muck, right?’

  ‘Wrong! All soft and fresh and downy, and the big white bird would spread its wings and I’d huddle underneath in the quiet and the warmth, hearing its heart beat under its snowy feathers.’

  ‘Oh, I get it. This is the Get-you-back-to-sleep story,’ I said – but after she’d taken my cup and tucked me up and ruffled my curls (why do they all do that, like I’m some unruly little puppy?) and I was left in the dark I tried out the story myself. Only I was in my black bat cave, and I’m Tracy Beaker, not a silly old softie like Cam, so I made up this big black vampire bat and we swooped through the night together. We’d zap straight through certain windows and nip Mrs V.B. in the neck or nibble Roxanne right on the end of her nose and flap out again the second they started screaming. I think it took me to its real big black bat cave to hang by our toes with all our brother bats only I might have been asleep by then.

  I’m awake now. Early. Waiting.

  I wonder if she’ll turn up?

  She did, she did, she did!!!

  Cam came with me to Elaine’s. But she waited outside and, surprise surprise, Elaine did too. So the mega-meet of the century took place in private. Just me and my mum.

  I was sitting in Elaine’s room, swivelling round and round in her little chair on wheels, when this woman comes straight in and stands there blinking at me. A small woman with very bright blonde hair and a lot of lipstick, wearing a very short skirt and very high heels.

  A beautiful woman with long fair hair and a lovely face in the most stylish sexy clothes.

  My mum.

  I knew her straight away.

  She didn’t know me. She went on blinking, like she’d just poked her mascara wand in her eye. ‘Tracy?’ she said, looking round, as if the room was full of kids.

  ‘Hi,’ I said, in this silly little squeak.

  ‘You’re not my Tracy!’ said mum, shaking her head at me. ‘You’re too big!’

  I’m quite small and skinny for my age so I didn’t get what she was on about.

  ‘My Tracy’s just a little kid. A funny little kid with weird sticky-out plaits. The tantrums when it was hair-brushing time!’ She peered at me. ‘Was that really you?’

  I held out a strand of hair and mimed plaiting it.

  ‘You had a filthy temper when you were a toddler,’ said Mum. ‘It is you, isn’t it? My Tracy!’

  ‘Mum.’

  ‘Well!’

  There was a bit of a pause. Mum half held her arms out but then changed her mind, acting like she was just stretching.

  ‘Well,’ she said again. ‘How have you been then, darling? Did you miss me, eh?’

  I did a rapid rewind through the years, remembering. I wanted to tell her what it was like. But I couldn’t seem to get my act together at all. I’m the lippiest gabbiest kid ever, ask anyone – but now all I could do was nod.

  Mum looked a bit disappointed by my response. ‘I’ve been driven crazy thinking about you!’
she said. ‘I kept making all these plans to get you back, but things kept going haywire. I was tied up with this and that . . .’

  ‘Films?’ I whispered.

  ‘Mmm.’

  ‘In Hollywood?’

  ‘Not exactly.’

  ‘But you are an actress, aren’t you, Mum?’

  ‘Yes, sweetie. And I do a lot of modelling too. All sorts. Anyway. I always planned for you and me to get back together, like I said. But I wanted it to be perfect, see.’

  I didn’t see. But I didn’t say.

  ‘I kept getting mixed up with the wrong kind of guy,’ Mum confided, perching on the edge of Elaine’s desk and rootling in her handbag.

  ‘I remember,’ I said cautiously. ‘There was one . . . I hated him.’

  ‘Yeah, well, like I said, there have been a few. And my latest! A total pig!’ She shook her head and lit a cigarette, taking a long drag.

  Elaine has a strict non-smoking policy in her room. In the whole building. If any of the staff or the clients want a quick fag they have to huddle outside the back entrance. I was sure the smoke alarm was going to go off any second.

  ‘Mum,’ I said, nodding at the crossed-out cigarette sign prominently displayed on the wall.

  Mum tutted contemptuously and took another puff. ‘I gave my heart to that man,’ she said, tapping herself on her chest and scattering ash down her jumper. ‘Do you know what he did with it?’ She leant towards me. ‘Stamped on it!’ Her high heel jerked as if she was doing the stamping.

  ‘Men!’ I said sympathetically, in the tone Cam and Liz and Jane frequently used.

  Mum looked at me and then burst into peals of laughter. I felt daft and swivelled round and round on Elaine’s chair.

  ‘Hey, don’t do that, you’re making me feel giddy. Come here! Haven’t you got a kiss for your mum after all this time?’

  ‘Sure,’ I said shyly, though I’m not really the kissy-kissy type.

  Mum bent down, her head on one side. I pecked at her powdery cheek – and then the sweet smell of her made me suddenly clutch her tight.