Dare Game (12 page)

My mum’s
desperate
to get me back. She’s
FANTASTIC
. Even better than I made up. The best mum in the world.

She is.

She IS.

Better than anyone else’s.
Cam’s
mum is this weird old posh lady who lives in the country somewhere and doesn’t want to see Cam any more because she disapproves of her lifestyle.

Alexander’s mum sounds like this little mouse who squeaks in a corner and shivers whenever his dad stalks past.

Football’s mum is just the opposite, fiercer than fierce, and
foul
.

I saw her today when I bunked off school. I
had
to see if Alexander followed through with his dare. I went to the Spar on the corner first to fork out for a few refreshments with my school dinner money. I was wandering back up the road when I saw this woman coming out of her house yelling back into the hall, ‘You can get out of your bed, you lazy great slummock, and get cracking with that vacuuming or you’ll be for it when I get home. Did you hear me? I said,
DID YOU HEAR ME
?’

You could hear her all the way up and down the street. People were probably wincing and putting their hands over their ears the other
side
of town. She had a voice like a car alarm, going on and on and on, so loud and insistent it was like it was ringing inside your head as well as out.

‘And if you dare get into one more spot of bother then I’m telling you straight, I’m having you put away. I’m sick to death of you, do you hear me? You’re rubbish. No use to anyone. Just like your rotten father.’

She slammed the door and went slapping down the path in her grubby trainers, her huge thighs wobbling in her old leggings.

The upstairs window opened and the Football boy stuck his head out. He was in his vest, still all sleepy-eyed, straight from his bed, but he was still cradling his football.

‘Don’t you call my dad rotten!’ he yelled.

‘Don’t get lippy with me, you lousy little whatsit!’ she screamed. ‘And don’t you
dare
start sticking up for your lazy lying slug of a father!’

‘Stop it! Don’t call him names! He’s worth ten of you!’ Football shouted, going bright red in the face.

‘You think you know it all, eh? Staying in your bed half the day, never helping out, mucking things up at school, in trouble with the old Bill – yeah, you’ve really got your life worked out, my son.’

‘I wish I wasn’t your son. I wish I lived with my dad.’

‘Oh right. OK then. Off you go. Live with him, why don’t you?’

Football’s face got even redder. ‘Yeah. Well. I would,’ he mumbled.

‘But he don’t want you, right?’ she yelled triumphantly. ‘Face up to it, son. He’s got his silly little lady friend – although by God she’s no lady – and so he doesn’t want me and he doesn’t want you either, for all he goes on about you being best mates. He couldn’t wait to turn his back on you – and he hasn’t come back, has he?’

‘He’s taking me to the match on Saturday!’

‘Oh yeah? Like he was a fortnight ago? He doesn’t give a stuff about you.’

‘He does, he does!’ Football yelled, and there were tears dribbling down his bright red cheeks.

‘You pathetic little cry-baby!’ his mum jeered.

Football took aim. His football went flying through the air and landed wallop, right on her head. He cheered tearfully as she swore, words so bad they’d burn right through the page if I wrote them down.

Then she stopped rubbing her head and grabbed hold of his football. ‘Right!’ she said, and she kicked it way way way over the rooftops out of sight. I suppose she’d have made a seriously good footballer herself. Then
she
cheered.

‘That’s fixed
you
,’ she said, and she marched off. She nearly bumped into me as she went. ‘Had a good gawp, have you?’ she said, pushing me out the way. ‘Nosy little whatsit!’

I told her I wouldn’t hurt my eyes gawping at something as ugly as her. Well, I whispered it. I didn’t quite want to get into a shouting match with her myself.

Football was shouting too. At me. Telling me to clear off and mind my own business. Or
words
to that effect. Almost as bad as his mum.

He wiped his face very quickly so that I couldn’t see the tears. Though I’d already seen them, of course. But I cleared off and ate most of my tube of Smarties to calm myself because I can’t stick it if people start yelling and screaming – unless it’s me. Then I made for the house and you’ll never guess what!
There
was the football, in the garden, landed smack in a soggy carton of sweet and sour sauce. Now that had to be magic! I mean, fancy that football landing in
my
garden!

So I decided to be a good little fairy myself. I picked the football up gingerly and wiped all the orange goo off on the grass and bounced it all the way back to Football’s house.

I banged at his door.

No answer.

I banged again.

Nothing. I stared at the peeling paint, wondering if I’d got the wrong house. No, I was pretty sure. I backed down the garden path and peered up at the window.

‘Oi – you! Football guy!’ I bellowed. ‘Want
your
ball back?’ I bounced it hard to show I wasn’t kidding.

It worked! The window went up and Football’s head poked out. ‘What are you doing with my ball?’ he bellowed, as if
I’d
been the one to kick it over the rooftops.

‘OK, pal, if you’re not even
grateful
 . . .’ I said, and I turned my back and went bouncy-bouncy-bouncy to his gate.

‘Wait!’ he yelled.

I knew he would. He came charging out in two ticks in his vest and tracksuit bottoms and bare feet. Those little pink wiggly toes made him look much less fierce.

‘Give us it then,’ he said.

‘Play a game of footie with me?’

‘I told you before, I don’t play with girls.’

‘Then I’ll take this ball and find some guy who
will
play with me,’ I said.

He tried to tackle me then, but I was too quick for him.

‘You little . . .’ More
amazing
words.

‘You haven’t half got a mouth on you. You obviously take after your mum.’

That
really
got him going. Blank blank blankety blank, you blanking blanker.