Dare Game (6 page)

‘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
de
jected. 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.