The Story of Tracy Beaker Read online

  “That's a big fat lie! What about Camilla? I looked after her at that children's home and she loved me, she really did.”

  “Yes, I'm sure that's true, Tracy, but—Well, the thing is, Julie and Ted still feel they don't want to take any chances. They're worried that you might feel a bit uncomfortable with a baby in the house.”

  “So they're pushing me out?”

  “But like I said, they still want to keep in touch with you and maybe take you out for dinner sometimes.”

  “No way,” I said. “I don't want to see them ever again.”

  “Oh, Tracy, that's silly. That's just cutting off your own nose to spite your face,” said Elaine.

  That's such a stupid expression. How on earth would you go about it?

  It sure would hurt.

  It hurt a lot leaving Julie and Ted's. They wanted me to stay for a few months but I couldn't get out of there quick enough. So here I am in this dump. They've tried to see me twice but I wasn't having any of it. I don't want any visitors, thanks very much. Apart from my mom. I wonder where she is. And why didn't she leave a forwarding address at that last place? And how will she ever get to find me here? Yeah, that's the problem. I bet she's been trying and trying to get hold of me, but she doesn't know where to look. Last time I saw her I was at Auntie Peggy's. I bet Mom's been around to Auntie Peggy's and I bet that silly old smacking machine wouldn't tell her where I'd gone. So I bet my mom got really mad at her. And if she found out just how many times that Auntie Peggy smacked me then WOW! KER-POW! SPLAT! BANG! I bet my mom would really let her have it.

  I want my mom so much.

  I know why I can't sleep. It's because I'm so starving hungry, that's why. Crying always makes me hungry. Not that I've been crying now. I don't ever cry.

  I think maybe I'll try slipping down to the kitchen. Jenny's bound to be fast asleep by now. Yeah, that's what I'll do.

  I'm back. I've had my very own midnight feast. And it was absolutely delicious too. Well, it wasn't bad. I couldn't find any chocolate, of course, and that was what I really wanted. But I found an opened package of cornflakes and got into them, and then I tried raiding the fridge. There weren't too many goodies. I didn't pig out on tomorrow's raw hamburger or yesterday's cold custard, but I poked my finger in the butter and then dabbled it in the sugar bowl and that tasted fine. I did quite a lot of poking and dabbling, actually. I knew Jenny might notice so I got my little fingernail and drew these weeny lines like teethmarks and then did some paw prints all over the butter, so she'd think it was a mouse. Mice do eat butter, don't they? They like cheese, which is the same sort of thing. Of course this is going to have to be a mountaineering mouse, armed with ice pick and climbing boots, able to trek up the grim north face of the refrigerator. And then it's got to develop Mighty Mouse muscles to pry open the door of the fridge to get at the feast inside.

  Maybe Jenny will still be a teensy bit suspicious. But I can't help that. At least she didn't catch me while I was noshing away at my midnight feast.

  Someone else did, though. Not in the kitchen. Afterward, when I was sneaking up the stairs again. They're very dark, these stairs, and they take a bit of careful negotiating. One of the little kids is quite likely to leave a teddy bear or a rattle or a wooden block halfway up and you can have an awfully bad fall and wake the entire household. So I was feeling my way very very cautiously when I heard this weird little moaning sound coming from up on the landing. I looked up quickly, and I could just make out this pale little figure, all white and trailing, and it was so exactly like a ghost that I opened my mouth to scream.

  But Tracy Beaker has a lot of guts. I'm not scared of anybody. Not even ghosts. So I clapped my hand over my mouth to stop the scream and pattered right on up the stairs to confront this puny little piece of ectoplasm. Only it wasn't a ghost after all. It was just sniveling, driveling Peter Ingham, clutching some sheets.

  “Whatever are you up to, creep?” I whispered.

  “Nothing,” Peter whispered back.

  “Oh, sure. You just thought you'd take your sheets for a walk in the middle of the night,” I said.

  Peter flinched away from me.

  “You've wet them, haven't you?” I said.

  “No,” Peter mumbled. He's a useless liar.

  “Of course you've wet them. And you've been trying to wash them out in the bathroom, I know. So that people won't guess.”

  “Oh, don't tell, Tracy, please,” Peter begged.

  “What do you take me for? I'm no tattletale,” I said. “And look, you don't have to fuss. Just get Jenny by herself in the morning and whisper to her. She'll take care of it for you. She doesn't get angry.”

  “Really?”

  “Truly. And what you do now, you get yourself some dry sheets from the linen closet, right? And some pajamas. Goodness, you don't know anything, do you? How long have you been in foster care?”

  “Three months, one week, two days,” said Peter.

  “Is that all? I've been in and out of children's homes nearly all my life,” I said, getting the sheets for him. “So then why are you here now? Your mom and dad get fed up with you? Can't say I blame them.”

  “They died when I was little. So I lived with my granny. But then she got old and then—then she died too,” Peter mumbled. “And I didn't have anyone else so I had to come here. And I don't like it.”

  “Well, of course you don't like it. But this is a lot better than most children's homes. You ought to have tried some of the places I've been in. They lock you up and they beat you and they practically starve you to death and then when they do give you meals it's absolutely disgusting, they pretend it's meat but it's really chopped-up worms and dried dog turds and—”

  “Shut up, Tracy,” Peter said, holding his stomach.

  “Who are you telling to shut up?” I said, but not really fiercely. “Go on, you'd better go back to your room. And put your dry pajamas on. You're shivering.”

  “Okay, Tracy. Thanks.” He paused, fidgeting and fumbling with his sheets. “I wish you would be my friend, Tracy.”

  “I don't really bother making friends,” I said. “There's not much point, because my mom's probably coming to get me soon and then I'll be living with her so I won't need any friends here.”

  “Oh,” said Peter, and he sounded really disappointed.

  “Still, I suppose you can be my friend just for now,” I said.

  I don't know why I said it. Who wants to be saddled with a silly little creep like that? I'm too kindhearted, that's my trouble.

  There wasn't much point in getting to sleep, because when I did eventually nod off I just had these stupid nightmares. It's as if there's a video inside my head and it switches itself on the minute my eyes close. I keep hoping it's going to be showing this great comedy that'll have me in stitches but then the creepy music starts and I know I'm in for it. Last night was the Great Horror Movie of all time. I was stuck in the dark somewhere and there was something really scary coming up quick behind me so I had to run like mad. Then I got to this big round pool and there were these steppingstones with people perching on them and I jumped onto the first one and there was no room at all because that fat Auntie Peggy was spread all over it. I tried to cling to her but she gave me a big smack and sent me flying. So then I jumped onto the next stepping-stone and Julie and Ted were there and I tried to grab hold of them but they just turned their backs on me and didn't even try to catch me when I fell and so I had to try to reach the next stepping-stone but I was in the water doing my doggy paddle and it was getting harder and harder, and every time I swam to a stepping-stone all these people prodded at me with sticks and pushed me away and I kept going under the water and …

  … and then I woke up and I know that whenever I dream about water it spells Trouble with a capital T. I had to make my own dash to the linen closet and the laundry basket. I was unfortunate enough to bump into Justine too. She didn't look as if she'd slept much either. Her eyes seemed a bit on the red side. I could
n't help feeling a bit mean then, in spite of everything. So I gave her this big smile and I said, “I'm sorry about what happened to your alarm clock, Justine.”

  I didn't exactly tell her that I did it. Because I still don't know that it really was me. And anyway, I'd be a fool to admit it, wouldn't I? But I told her that I was still sorry, just like Jenny had suggested.

  Only there's no point trying to be nice to pigs like Justine Littlewood. She didn't smile back and graciously accept my apologies.

  “You'll be even sorrier when I've finished with you, Tracy Beaker,” she hissed. “And what have you been doing, eh? Wet the bed again? Baby!” She hissed a lot more too. Stupid insulting things. I'm not going to waste my time writing them all down. Words can't hurt me anyway. Only I can't help being just a bit worried about that threat. What's she going to do to get back at me for the clock? If only we had those dumb locks on our bedroom doors. Still, at least we've got separate bedrooms in this Home, even though they're weeny like closets.

  It's new policy. Children in foster care need their own space. And I want to stay in my own space, doing all this writing, but Jenny has just put her head around my door and told me to buzz out into the garden with the others. And I said No Fear. Being in a children's home is lousy at the best of times, but I just can't take it during school vacations when you're all cooped up together and the big ones bully you and the little ones pester you and the ones your own age gang up on you and have secrets together and call you names.

  “How's about trying to make up with Justine?” Jenny suggested, coming to sit on my bed.

  So I snorted and told her she was wasting her time, and more to the point, she was wasting my time, because I wanted to get on with my writing.

  “You've done ever such a lot, Tracy,” said Jenny, looking at all these pages. “We'll be running out of paper soon.”

  “Then I'll use the backs of birthday cards. Or a roll of toilet paper. Anything. I'm inspired, see. I can't stop.”

  “Yes, you've really taken to this writing. Going to be a writer when you grow up, eh?”

  “Maybe.” I hadn't thought about it before. I was always sure I was going to be on TV with my own talk show. The Tracy Beaker Experience. I'd walk out onto this stage in a sparkly dress and all the studio audience would clap and cheer and all these really famous celebrities would fight tooth and nail to get on my show to speak to me. But I reckon I could write books too.

  “Tell you what, Tracy. We've got a real writer coming by sometime this afternoon. You could ask her for a few tips.”

  “What's she coming for?”

  “Oh, she's doing this article for a magazine about children in foster care.”

  “Oh, that boring old stuff,” I said, pretending to yawn, but inside I started fizzing away.

  I wouldn't mind my story being written up in some magazine. A book would be better, of course, but maybe that could come later. I'd have to be careful what she said about me, though. Elaine the Pain made a real mess of my newspaper ad. I was Child of the Week in the local paper. If she'd only let me write it I'd have been bowled over by people rushing to adopt dear little Tracy Beaker. I know just how to present myself in the right sort of way.

  Elaine is useless. Doesn't have a clue. She didn't even let me get specially dressed up for the photograph.

  “We want you looking natural, Tracy,” she said.

  Well, I turned out looking too flipping natural. Hair all over the place and a scowl on my face because that stupid photographer kept treating me like a baby, telling me to Watch the Birdie. And the things Elaine wrote about me!

  I ask you!

  “How could you do this to me, Elaine?” I shrieked when I saw it. “Is that the best thing you can say about me? That I'm healthy? And anyway, I'm not. What about my hay fever?”

  “I also say you're lively. And chatty.”

  “Yeah. Well, we all know what that means. Rude. Difficult. Bossy.”

  “You said it, Tracy,” Elaine murmured.

  “And all this stuff about behavior problems! What do I do, eh? I don't go around beating people up. Well, not many. And I don't smash the furniture. Hardly ever.”

  “Tracy, it's very understandable that you have a few problems—”

  “I don't! And then how could you ask for someone to handle me firmly?”

  “And lovingly,” said Elaine. “I put ‘loving’ too.”

  “Oh yes, they'll tell me how much they love me as they lay into me with a cane. Honestly, Elaine, you've gone around the bend. You're just going to attract a bunch of creepy child-beaters with this crummy ad.”

  But it didn't even attract them. No one replied at all.

  Elaine kept telling me not to worry, as if it was somehow my fault. I know if she'd only get her act together and do a really flashy ad there'd be heaps of offers. I bet.

  But maybe I'm wasting my time nagging Elaine. This woman who's coming this afternoon might be just the chance I've been waiting for. If she's a real writer, then she'll know how to jazz it all up so that I sound really fantastic. Only I've got to present myself to her in a special way so that she'll pick me out from all the others and just do a feature on me. So what am I going to do, eh?

  Aha!

  Not aha. More like boo-hoo. Only I don't ever cry, of course.

  I don't want to write down what happened. I don't think I want to be a writer anymore.

  I tried, I really did. I went flying up to my bedroom straight after lunch and I did my best to make myself look pretty. I know my hair is untidy so I tried scragging it back into these little stick-out braids. Camilla had little braids and everyone cooed over them and said how cute she looked. I thought my face looked a bit plain when I'd done the braids so I wetted some of the side hairs with spit and tried to make them go into curls.

  I still looked a bit boring so I decided to liven my face up a bit. I sneaked into Adele's room. She's sixteen and she's got a Saturday job. Her drawer is absolutely chockful of makeup. I borrowed a bit of blusher to give myself some color in my cheeks. And then I thought I'd try out a pink glossy lipstick too. And mascara to make my eyelashes look long. I tried a bit on my eyebrows too, to make them stand out. And I put a lot of powder on to be like the icing on a cake. I thought I looked okay when I'd finished. Well, at least I looked different.

  I changed my clothes too. I didn't want this writer to see me in a scrubby old T-shirt and skirt. No way. It had to be nice dress time. Only I don't really have a nice dress of my own. I did try on a few of Adele's things but somehow they didn't really suit me.

  So then I started thinking about all the other girls. Louise had this really fantastic dress that she got a couple of years ago from some auntie. A really nice party dress with smocking and a flouncy skirt and its own sewn-in frilly white petticoat. It was a bit small for her now, of course, but she could just about squeeze into it for special days. And Louise and I are about the same size.

  I knew Louise would get really upset if she saw me parading around in her best party dress, but I decided it might be worth it if I made a great impression on the writer woman first. So I scurried along the corridor toward her room, but I didn't have any luck. Louise was in her room. With Justine. I heard their voices.

  They were discussing me, actually. And diapers. They were snorting with laughter and normally I'd have marched right in and punched their silly smirky faces but I knew if I got into a fight Jenny would send me to my room and make me stay there and I'd miss out on meeting the woman writer.

  So with extreme self-control I walked away, still musing on what I was going to wear. I know it's summer, but I'd started to feel a bit shaky and shivery so I put on this mohair sweater that Julie knitted me for Christmas. When Julie and Ted dumped me I vowed not to have anything to do with them and I even thought about cutting up the mohair sweater into little woolly hankies but I couldn't quite do it. It's a pretty fantastic sweater, actually, with the name Tracy in bright blue letters. That way it's obvious it's mine, specially
made for me. Of course it's a bit tickly and prickly, but my mom once said you have to suffer if you want to look beautiful.

  She's always looked beautiful. I really wish I took after her. I wasn't too bad as a baby. I was still quite cute as a toddler. But then I changed in a big way.

  Still, I was trying my hardest to look okay. I only had my old skirt to wear with my mohair sweater, and there were dark blue stains all down one side where a ballpoint pen exploded in my pocket, but I couldn't help that. The woman writer might just think it was a tie-dye effect. And at least the blue matched the lettering on my sweater.

  I kept on primping and preening in my room. I heard all the other kids go clattering downstairs. I heard Louise and Justine go giggle-snigger-titter along the corridor. My face started burning so that I didn't need my blusher. Then I heard Adele rampaging around because some rotten so-and-so had been in her room and rifled through all her makeup and messed it all up. I decided to hang around in my room a bit longer.

  I heard the front doorbell. I heard Jenny talking to someone down in the hall. I heard them go into the living room. I knew it was time to make my Entrance.

  So I went running down the stairs and barged into the living room with this great big smile on my face. It's no use looking sad or sulky if you want people to like you. Mom always tells me to give her a big smile. Even when she's saying goodbye to me. You can't look gloomy or it just upsets people and they don't want any more to do with you.

  You've got to have this great big s-s-s-m-m-m-i-i-il-l-l-e-e-e.

  Everyone looked up at me when I went into the living room. And they all smiled too. Just for a moment I was crazy enough to think they were all smiling back at me. But then I saw they were the wrong sort of smiles. They were smirks. And Justine and Louise nudged each other and giggled and spluttered and whooped. And Adele glared at me. Peter Ingham was the only one with a proper smile. He came over to me. He was blinking a bit rapidly.