Dare Game (27 page)

‘No. I’m waiting.’

‘He’ll be all right. It’s just a broken leg. The nurse said.’

‘How would you feel if you’d “just” broken your leg, Football?’ I asked.

‘Well. It would be tragic for me, seeing as it would affect my game. But Alexander’s hardly going to bother, is he?’ Football sat down again, sighing. ‘I hate hospitals.’

‘So you keep saying.’

‘The way they look. All them long corridors and lots of doors with scary things going on behind them.’

‘So close your eyes.’

‘I can still smell I’m in hospital.’ He sniffed and pulled a terrible face. ‘It’s making me feel sick.’

‘How do you think Alexander feels
behind
one of the scary doors?’ I said severely.

Football hunched down lower on his plastic chair. ‘He’s a weird little chap,’ he said. ‘He breaks his leg – well, you break it for him – and he hardly makes a sound. I’ve seen really tough nuts in agony on the football pitch, effing and blinding, even sobbing. Not old Alexander. He’s really . . . brave?’

‘I didn’t
mean
to break his leg!’

‘Yeah, I know, but I still think it’s mad to hang around here. His mum and dad aren’t going to be too pleased with you.’

‘It was just one little push. I wasn’t trying to hurt him, I was simply trying to get him out the way. I can’t bear it that it’s all my fault.’ I started crying, snivelling and snorting like a baby – even though I never ever cry.

Football looked all round, embarrassed. ‘Don’t, Tracy, people are staring,’ he hissed, giving me a nudge.

I went on crying noisily.

‘Here, haven’t you got a hankie?’

I shook my head, past caring that I had tears dripping down my face and a very runny nose.

Football darted across the room. I thought it had got too much and he was running away – but he dashed into the toilet and came back with a wad of loo-roll.

‘Here,’ he said, dabbing at my face. ‘Don’t cry so, Tracy. It wasn’t really your fault at all. It was mine. I was the one who really lost it back at the house. I was out my mind setting all that stuff on fire.’ He paused. ‘Do you think I’m really crazy, Tracy?’

‘Yes!’ I said, blowing my nose. Then I relented. ‘No, not really. Just a little bit bonkers.’

‘Do you think I should get some kind of treatment?’

‘You’re fine, Football. It’s Alexander we’ve got to worry about right now. I just don’t get it. One little push, he falls over and breaks his leg. Yet when he falls off the roof he doesn’t so much as break his big toe. He bobs up again as right as rain. He’s a marvel, little Alexander.’ I gave my face another mop. ‘He
is
going to be all right, isn’t he, Football?’

‘Of course he is. It’s only a broken leg.’

‘Yes, but it might have been
badly
broken. It looked all funny and sticky-out in the wrong place. What if they can’t set it
properly
? What if
infection
sets in? And his leg goes all mouldy and maggoty and has to be cut off?’

‘Shut
up
, Tracy. That couldn’t happen. Could it?’

‘We didn’t even notice. We were too busy fighting,’ I wailed.

‘You’re a fierce little fighter, Tracy,’ said Football.

‘I’m going to give up fighting now. I hate it that Alexander got hurt.’

I sighed, wondering exactly what they were doing to Alexander. Football sighed too. We took it in turns. I fidgeted. Football fidgeted.

I stood up to stretch my legs – and nearly bumped into a couple who came rushing into the waiting room. The man was very big and bossy-looking with a briefcase. The lady was small and timid with a little twitchy mouse face. I didn’t need three guesses to work out who they were. I whizzed back to my seat sharpish.

‘I believe our son Alexander has been brought into Casualty,’ the man said to a nurse.

‘Please can we see him? Is he really all right?’ the woman said, nearly in tears.

They were led along the corridor. Football let out a huge sigh. So did I.

‘Time to get going, Tracy,’ said Football.

I knew it was the wisest option. But I
had
to wait to see if Alexander was all right, even if it meant being beaten up by Briefcase Guy for injuring his son. Maybe I almost wanted to get into serious trouble with Alexander’s parents. I felt I deserved it.

Football thought this was crazy – but he stayed too.

We waited and we waited and we waited. And waited some more. And then suddenly we heard Alexander’s little piping voice nattering nineteen to the dozen and there he was in the wheelchair being pushed by his dad, with his mum running along beside him. His leg was propped up and covered in plaster.

‘Alexander! How
are
you?’ I said, charging up to him.

‘Tracy! And Football! You waited for me all this time!’ Alexander said excitedly. ‘Mum, Dad, these are my friends.’

‘Alexander’s been telling us all about you,’ said his mum.

‘Yes, we should really give all of you a severe telling-off,’ said his dad ominously.

‘I
told
you we should have scarpered,’ Football muttered.

‘It was my fault,’ I said. I meant to sound bold and brave but my voice went all high and squeaky so they didn’t hear me properly.

‘It’s very silly to play truant. I’m sure you’ll be in as much trouble with your schools as Alexander is with his,’ said his dad, wagging his finger at Football and me. ‘But I suppose I’m pleased you’ve all made friends. Alexander’s always found it so hard to make friends because he’s so shy.’

‘You’ve been such good friends too,’ said his mum. ‘Alexander’s told us all about his accident – how you were so kind and sensible when he tripped over. Other children might have run away and left him but you picked him up and looked after him and got him to the hospital. We’re so grateful to you.’

Football and I shifted from one foot to the
other
. We looked at Alexander. He grinned back at us.

‘Alexander’s our best ever friend,’ I said.

‘Yeah. He’s our mate,’ said Football. ‘So – you’re OK now, right?’

‘Does he
look
all right?’ I said, elbowing Football impatiently.

Football shrugged. ‘I suppose that sounded a bit dumb,’ he admitted. ‘Seeing as he’s in plaster almost up to his bum. Hey, poetry again!’

‘You didn’t sound at
all
dumb, Football,’ said Alexander. ‘Well, you couldn’t literally
sound
dumb, but anyway. I
am
OK now. I’ve just fractured my tibia.’

‘But you’ve hurt your leg!’ said Football.

‘Ultra-dumb!’ I said. ‘The tibia’s a bone in his leg. And you’ve got a bone in your head, Football.’

‘But you won’t have to stay in a wheelchair for ever?’ said Football.

‘Oh no, dear,’ said Alexander’s mum. ‘This is just while we’re in the hospital. Alexander should be able to hobble about, using a crutch.’

‘But I won’t be able to walk properly for six whole weeks until the plaster comes off,’ said Alexander.

‘Six whole weeks! That’s awful,’ said Football.

‘No, it’s not, it’s brilliant,’ said Alexander, eyes shining. ‘I won’t be able to play games.’

‘Really, Alexander,’ said his dad, sighing impatiently.

‘I’d die if I couldn’t play football for six weeks!’ said Football. ‘I’ve been doing my nut stuck here for hours and hours not being able to kick my ball about.’

Alexander’s dad nodded approvingly. ‘How on earth did you two boys become chums?’ he said.

‘Do you go to Alexander’s school?’ his mum asked.

‘They don’t
go
to school, that’s the point,’ said Alexander’s dad. ‘What do your parents say?’

Football stuck out his lip. ‘They don’t care. Not my mum.’ He paused. ‘Nor my dad.’

Alexander leaned forward. ‘I’m sorry I threw your precious lighter away, Football. Maybe you’ll be able to find it in the garden.’

‘Maybe. Still. It don’t really matter. My dad’s thrown
me
away, hasn’t he?’

‘What about you, Curly?’ said Alexander’s dad to me. ‘Surely your mother and father
worry
themselves sick about a little girl like you roaming the streets?’

‘I haven’t got a dad. And . . . and I don’t expect I’ll see much of my mum now,’ I mumbled.

‘Tracy’s fostered,’ Alexander explained.

They all stared at me. It’s a wonder they didn’t try to pat me on the head. I glared back.

‘How about coming home with us for tea?’ said Alexander’s mum. ‘You too, dear,’ she added, nodding at Football a little warily.

‘Yes, do come,’ Alexander begged. ‘My mum’s mega-good at baking. Can we have chocolate cake, Mum?’

Football seemed keen on the idea. His own tea was usually just a trip down to the chippie. I was equally happy to go along with things seeing as I was starving hungry (it seemed months since I’d munched my Big Mac) and I didn’t have any home of my own to go to.

We helped Alexander out onto the hospital steps. His dad went to get the car and his mum returned the wheelchair to the ward. Football and I
supported
Alexander, one on either side.

‘You’re a real gem for not telling your mum and dad it was all my fault,’ I whispered, and I gave him a quick kiss on the cheek.

‘It was my fault really,’ said Football. ‘I kept picking on you. But I won’t any more, I swear.’