Dare Game (21 page)

‘Alexander!’ I cried.

‘He’s copped it,’ said Football – and he started to snuffle. ‘I’ve murdered poor little Gherkin.’

‘You’re never to call me Gherkin again,’ Alexander squeaked in a little mouse voice.

We fell on him, hugging him like he was our dearest friend.

‘Careful!’ said Alexander. ‘I’ve probably broken my neck. And my arms and legs. And all my ribs.’

‘Does it hurt terribly?’ I said, taking his little claw hand in mine.

‘I’m not sure,’ said Alexander. ‘I feel weird, like I can’t feel anything properly yet. But I think it might hurt a lot when I can.’

‘What do you mean, you can’t feel anything? Oh no, he’s paralysed!’ said Football.

I tickled the backs of Alexander’s knees and he squealed and kicked. ‘No he’s not,’ I said.

Do you know the most amazing thing ever????

Alexander wasn’t hurt at all. He didn’t break so much as a fingernail! We stared at him in awe, wondering how he could possibly have survived that great drop unscathed. I’d always thought there was something not quite human about Alexander. Perhaps he was really an alien from another planet? That would explain a lot.

But the real reason for Alexander’s remarkable survival only became apparent when he very gingerly got onto all fours and then stood up. He had fallen onto an old discarded mattress!

‘You must be the luckiest kid ever!’ I said.

‘Though you might have a fleabite or two,’ said Football.

‘I think I
might
have hurt myself somewhere,’ said Alexander, sounding wistful. ‘This leg feels a bit odd. It’s throbbing. I think I could have broken it. Definitely.’

‘You couldn’t possibly have broken your leg,’ said Football. ‘You’d be, like . . .’ He mimed a footballer writhing on his back. ‘You’d have to be stretchered off.’

‘Maybe . . . maybe I’m just better at putting up with the pain,’ said Alexander, experimenting with a limp.

‘It was your
other
leg you were rubbing a minute ago.’

‘Perhaps I’ve broken both,’ Alexander persisted.

‘You haven’t broken anything at all and I’m so
glad
, Alexander,’ I said, giving him another hug.

‘Yeah, me too,’ Football said gruffly.

‘And you won’t call me the G word ever again?’

‘Right.’

‘Because I did almost do the dare, didn’t I?’ said Alexander. ‘Maybe I
am
Alexander the Great.’

‘You’re Alexander the Small,’ said Football, patting him.

‘You’re Football the ever so Tall,’ said Alexander. He turned to me. ‘And you’re Trace who wins every race. OK?’

‘OK.’

‘And we’re all friends now?’ said Alexander.

‘Yes, of course we are,’ I said. ‘Alexander, stop limping. There’s nothing the matter with your leg.’

‘There is,’ said Alexander. ‘If I’ve got a broken leg I won’t have to do PE at school.’

‘You’re never at school anyway,’ I said.

‘No, but I might have to be soon,’ said Alexander, sighing. ‘They wrote a letter to my mum and dad and they went nuts. My dad says he’s going to escort me to school himself.’

‘You’re going to enjoy that!’ I said.

‘So it’s just going to be you and me hanging out at the house, Tracy?’ said Football.

‘Well. I can’t, can I? Not if I’m at my mum’s. I’ll be moving right away. Hey, my mum’s flat is incredible, you should see all the stuff she’s got!’

They didn’t seem that interested. ‘You’ll just muck it all up anyway,’ said Football.

‘No I won’t!’

I’ve got it all sussed out. I’m going to dust all her dinky little ornaments and vacuum the
carpets
and Mum will think I’m s-o-o-o useful she’ll never ever get fed up with me and send me away again.

‘I’m going to be my mum’s little treasure,’ I declared.

‘I don’t know why you want to go and stay with her,’ said Football. ‘You must be mad. She
is
mad, isn’t she, Gherkin?’

‘You’re not to call me that!’ Alexander said, stamping his foot. ‘Ouch! That was my bad leg.’

‘Sorry, sorry! But she
is
mad, isn’t she?’ said Football.

Alexander glanced at me nervously – but nodded.

‘Who cares what you two think?’ I said fiercely.

They were wrong. I wasn’t mad. Any girl would want to live with her mum. Even a girl who already had a sort-of mum.

I haven’t written much about Cam recently. There have been lots and lots of Cam bits. I just haven’t felt like writing them. I mean, writers can’t put
everything
down. If you started writing everything exactly as it happened you’d end up with page after page
about
opening your eyes and snuggling down in bed for another five minutes and then getting up and going to the loo and brushing your teeth and playing games squeezing your name out in paste and seeing what you’d look like with a toothbrush moustache . . . well, you’d need a whole new chapter before you’d even got started on breakfast.

Writers have to be selective. That’s what Mrs Vomit Bagley says. Did I put that she’s got wondrously unfortunate teeth? She spits a little bit whenever she says an ‘s’ word. If she’s standing too near you then you’re
not
wondrously fortunate because you get a little spray of V.B. saliva all over your face. Not that this has happened to me recently as I’ve hardly been to school, I’ve just been bunking off to go to the house.

They’ll be getting in touch with Cam any minute. Maybe it’s just as well I’m going off to my mum’s. No, it’s weller than well. I can’t wait. I wish it wasn’t being done in all these daft stages. Elaine says I can go for a week. I can’t see why I can’t go for ever right away. All this packing and unpacking is starting to get on my nerves.

Cam said she’d help me pack, but then she kept saying I didn’t need this and I didn’t need that – and
I
said it would be sensible to take nearly all my stuff seeing as I’d be staying there permanently soon.

Permanently was a very dramatic sort of word. It was like it bounced backwards and forwards between us long after I’d said it. As if it was knocking us both on the head.

Then Cam blinked hard and said, ‘Right, yes, of course, OK,’ in a quick gabble, shoving all my stuff in a suitcase, while
I
said, ‘Perhaps it’s a bit daft, and anyway, my mum will probably buy me all sorts of new stuff. Designer. Calvin Klein, Tommy Hilfiger—’

‘NYDK, yes, yes, you keep saying.’

‘DKNY! Honestly, you don’t know anything, Cam,’ I said, exasperated.

‘I know one thing,’ said Cam quietly. ‘I’m going to miss you, kid.’

I swallowed hard. ‘Well, I’ll miss you too. I expect.’ I hated the way she was looking at me. It wasn’t
fair
. ‘Fostering
isn
’t, like, permanent,’ I said. ‘They told you that right at the beginning, didn’t they?’

‘They told me,’ said Cam. She picked up one of my old T-shirts and hung onto it like it was a cuddle blanket. ‘But I didn’t get what it would feel like.’

‘I’m sorry, Cam,’ I said. ‘I am. Really. But I’ve got to be with my mum.’

‘I know,’ said Cam. She hesitated. She looked down at the T-shirt as if I was inside it. ‘But Tracy . . . don’t get too upset if it doesn’t quite work out the way you want.’

‘It
is
working out!’

‘I know, I know. And it’s great that you’re being reunited with your mum, but maybe you’ll find it won’t end up like a fairy story, happy ever after, for ever and ever.’