Contents

Cover

About the Book

Title Page

Dedication

Introduction

Starring Tracy Beaker

About the Author

About the Illustrator

Also by Jacqueline Wilson

Read on for Chapter 1 of The Dare Game

Copyright

ABOUT THE BOOK

Tracy Beaker is back . . . and she’s just desperate for a role in her school play. They’re performing A Christmas Carol and for one worrying moment, the irrepressible Tracy thinks she might not even get to play one of the unnamed street urchins. But then she is cast in the main role. Can she manage to act grumpy and difficult enough to play Scrooge? Well, she does have a bit of help on that front from Justine Pain-In-The-Bum Littlewood . . .

As Tracy prepares for her big moment, Cam is the one helping her learn her lines. But all Tracy wants to know is if her film-star mum will come to watch her in her starring role.

www.jacquelinewilson.co.uk

To the staff and pupils at Charles Dickens Primary School

I love writing stories about Tracy Beaker. She’s such a funny, feisty girl, always fizzing with ideas. She’s got such a strong personality, it’s almost as if she takes over and writes the stories herself!

I wanted to write a new story about Tracy, set when she’s still living in the Dumping Ground. I’d written about Tracy’s birthday before (how she hates sharing her birthday cake with poor Peter!) but I’d never mentioned Christmas. I decided I simply had to write about a Tracy Beaker Christmas.

I wondered if she’d take part in a nativity play – imagine Tracy acting an ox or an ass! She certainly couldn’t play the part of the Angel Gabriel. But it’s generally very young children who act out the Christmas story. I tried to think of a suitable play with a Christmassy theme for older children. I thought of Charles Dickens’ wonderful story A Christmas Carol and realised it would make a marvellous play. I tried hard to think of a suitable part for Tracy, one that she’d really enjoy. There weren’t very many big parts for girls, so I decided that some of the girls would have to act as men. That way Tracy could have the biggest part of all – that of grumpy old Scrooge. As soon as I’d thought that, I saw Tracy in a weird wig and nightshirt, going ‘Bah humbug!’ and was sure she’d be brilliant.

I knew Tracy would adore having the starring part. I remembered acting in school plays myself and how exciting it was to put on a special performance for our parents. I knew just how desperately Tracy would want her mum to come and see her.

Would Tracy spend Christmas day with her mum? What sort of presents would Tracy get? What sort of presents would she give other people? I started to get so many ideas that I couldn’t write them down quickly enough!

Tracy’s Christmas doesn’t work out quite as she’d hoped – but I promise she has a lovely time all the same. Tracy can be outrageous a lot of the time, but I’ve grown so fond of her that I always work hard to give her a happy ending.

I’M TRACY BEAKER. Mark the name. I’ll be famous one day.

I live in a children’s home. We all call it the Dumping Ground. We’re dumped here because no one wants us.

No, that’s total rubbish. My mum wants me. It’s just she’s this famous film star and she’s way too busy making movies in Hollywood to look after me. But my mum’s coming to see me at Christmas. She is. I just know she is.

‘Your mum’s not coming to see you in a month of Sundays,’ said Justine Littlewood. ‘Your mum’s never ever coming back because she doesn’t want anything to do with an ugly manky bad-mouthed stupid show-off who wets the bed every ni—’

She never managed to finish her sentence because I leaped across the room, seized hold of her hair and yanked hard, as if I was gardening and her hair was a particularly annoying weed.

I ended up in the Quiet Room. I didn’t care. It gave me time to contemplate. That’s a posh word for think. I have an extensive vocabulary. I am definitely destined to be a writer. A successful glossy rich and famous writer, not a struggling scruffy hack like Cam.

I mused (another posh word for think!) over the idea of a month of Sundays.

It would be seriously cool to have a lie-in every single day and watch telly all morning and have a special roast dinner and never have to go to school. But then I pondered (posh alternative number three) on the really bad thing about Sundays. Lots of the kids in the Dumping Ground get taken out by their mums or dads.

I don’t. Well, I see Cam now, that’s all. Cam’s maybe going to be my foster mum. She’s going to classes to see if she’s suitable. It’s mad. I don’t trust my stupid social worker, Elaine the Pain. I don’t want Cam to get cold feet. Though she keeps her toes cosy in her knitted stripy socks. She’s not what you’d call a natty dresser. She’s OK. But a foster mum isn’t like a real mum. Especially not a famous glamorous movie star mum like mine. It isn’t her fault she hasn’t shown up recently. She’s got such a punishing film schedule that, try as she might, she simply can’t manage to jump on a plane and fly over here.

But she is going to come for Christmas, so there, Justine Now-Almost-Bald-And-It-Serves-You-Right Littlewood. My mum promised. She really really did.

She was going to see me in the summer. We were going to have this incredible holiday together on a tropical island, lying on golden sands in our bikinis, swimming with dolphins in an azure sea, sipping cocktails in our ten-star hotel . . .

Well, she was going to take me out for the day. It was all arranged. Elaine the Pain set it all up – but my poor mum couldn’t make it. Right at the last minute she was needed for some live television interview – I’m sure that was it. Or maybe Hello! or OK! magazine wanted an exclusive photo shoot. Whatever.

So she never showed up, and instead of being understanding I heard Elaine ranting on to Jenny at the Dumping Ground, telling her all sorts of stupid stuff, like I was crying my eyes out. That was a downright lie. I would never cry. I sometimes get a little attack of hay fever, but I never cry.

I felt mortified. I wanted to cement Elaine’s mouth shut. We had words. Quite a few of mine were bad words. I told Elaine that she had no business talking about one of her clients – i.e. me – and I had a good mind to report her. It was outrageous of her slandering my mum. She was a famous Hollywood movie actress, didn’t she understand? Elaine should be more deferential, seeing as she’s just a poxy social worker.

Elaine said a bad word then. She said she understood why I was so angry. It was easier for me to take my anger out on her when I was really angry at my mum for letting me down yet again. WHAT??? I wasn’t the slightest bit angry with my mum. It wasn’t her fault she’s so popular and famous and in demand.

‘Yeah, so why haven’t we ever seen her in a single film or telly show, and why are there never any photos of her in any of the magazines?’ said Justine Why-Won’t-She-Mind-Her-Own-Business Littlewood.

‘Wash your ears out, Justine Littlewood. My mum’s a famous Hollywood actress. Like, Hollywood in America. She isn’t in films and mags over here, but in America she’s incredibly well known. She can’t set foot outside the door without the photographers snapping away and all her fans begging for autographs.’

‘Yeah, yeah, she signs all these autographs, yet when does she ever bother to write to you?’ said Justine Won’t-Ever-Quit Littlewood.

But ha ha, sucks to you, J.L., because my mum did write, didn’t she? She sent me a postcard. She really did.

I keep it pinned on my wall, beside the photo of Mum and me when I was a baby and still looked sweet. The postcard had a picture of this cutesie-pie teddy with two teardrops falling out of his glass eyes and wetting his fur and the word Sorry! in sparkly lettering.

On the back my mum wrote:

I know it off by heart. I’ve made up a little tune and I sing it to myself every morning when I wake up and every night when I go to bed. I sing it softly in school. I sing it when I’m watching television. I sing it in the bath. I sing it on the toilet. I sing the punctuation and stuff too, like: ‘Christ-mas, question mark. Lots of love, comma, Mum, kiss kiss kiss.’ It’s a very catchy tune. I might well be a song writer when I grow up as well as a famous novelist.

Of course I’m also going to be an actress just like my mum. I am soon going to be acclaimed as a brilliant child star. I have the STAR part in a major production this Christmas. Truly.

I am in our school’s play of A Christmas Carol.

I haven’t done too well in casting sessions in the past. At my other schools I never seemed to get picked for any really juicy roles. I was a donkey when we did a Nativity play. I was a little miffed that I wasn’t Mary or the Angel Gabriel at the very least, but like a true little trooper I decided to make the most of my part.

I worked hard on developing authentic eeyore donkey noises. I eeyored like an entire herd of donkeys during the performance. OK, I maybe drowned out Mary’s speech, and the Angel Gabriel’s too (to say nothing of Joseph, the Innkeeper, the Three Wise Men and Assorted Shepherds), but real donkeys don’t wait politely till people have finished talking, they eeyore whenever they feel like it. I felt like eeyoring constantly, so I did.

I didn’t get picked to be in any more plays at that stupid old school. But this school’s not too bad. We have a special art and drama teacher, Miss Simpkins. She understands that if we do art we need to be dead artistic and if we do drama then we should aim at being dead dramatic. She admired my arty paintings of Justine Littlewood being devoured by lions and tigers and bears.

‘You’re a very imaginative and lively girl, Tracy,’ said Miss Simpkins.

I wasn’t totally bowled over by this. That’s the way social workers talk when they’re trying to boost your confidence or sell you to prospective foster carers. ‘Imaginative and lively’ means you get up to all sorts of irritating and annoying tricks. Me? Well, maybe.

My famous imagination ran away with me when we were auditioning for A Christmas Carol. I didn’t really know the story that well. It’s ever so l-o-n-g and I’m a very busy person, with no time to read dull old books. Miss Simpkins gave us a quick précis version and I had a little fidget and yawn because it seemed so old fashioned and boring, but my ears pricked up – right out of my curls – when she said there were ghosts.

‘I’ll be a ghost, Miss. I’m great at scaring people. Look, look, I’m a headless ghost!’ I pulled my school jumper up over my head and held my arms like claws and went, ‘Whooooo!’

Silly little Peter Ingham squealed in terror and ducked under his desk.

‘See, I can be really convincing, Miss! And I can do you all sorts of different ghosts. I can do your standard white-sheet spooky job, or I can moan and clank chains, or I could paint myself grey all over and be this wafting spirit ghost creeping up on people, ready to leap out at them.’

I leaped out at Weedy Peter just as he emerged from under his desk. He shrieked and ducked, banging his head in the process.

‘Well, you’re certainly entering into the spirit of things, Tracy,’ said Miss Simpkins, bending down to rub Peter’s head and give the little weed a cuddle. ‘There now, Peter, don’t look so scared. It isn’t a real ghost, it’s only Tracy Beaker.’

‘I’m scared of Tracy Beaker,’ said Peter. ‘Even though she’s my friend.’

I wish the little creep wouldn’t go around telling everyone he’s my friend. It’s dead embarrassing. I don’t want you to think he’s my only friend. I’ve got heaps and heaps of friends. Well. Louise isn’t my best friend any more. She’s gone totally off her head because she now wants to be friends with Justine No-Fun-At-All Littlewood. There’s no one in our class who actually quite measures up to my friendship requirements.

Hey, I have got a best friend. It’s Cam! She comes to see me every Saturday. She’s not like my mum, glamorous and beautiful and exciting. But she can sometimes be good fun. So she’s my best friend. And Miss Simpkins can be my second best friend at school.

Peter’s just my friend at the Dumping Ground. Especially at night time, when there’s no one else around.

Peter seemed to be thinking about our night-time get-togethers too.

‘Promise promise promise you won’t pretend to be a ghost tonight, Tracy?’ he whispered anxiously.

‘Ah! I’m afraid I can’t possibly promise, Peter. I am the child of a famous Hollywood star. I take my acting seriously. I might well have to stay in character and act ghostly all the time,’ I said.

‘Maybe we’d better cast you as something else, Tracy,’ said Miss Simpkins.

‘Oh no, please let me be the ghost!’ I begged.

It turned out there were four main ghosts in A Christmas Carol and a motley crew of ghostly extras too.

There was the Ghost of Christmas Past.

‘Let me be the Ghost of Christmas Past, Miss Simpkins,’ I said.

‘No, Tracy, I need a girl with long fair hair to be the Ghost of Christmas Past,’ said Miss Simpkins.

She chose Louise.

‘Now there’s the Ghost of Christmas Present,’ said Miss Simpkins.

‘Let me be the Ghost of Christmas Present,’ I said.

‘No, Tracy. I need a big jolly boy to be the Ghost of Christmas Present,’ said Miss Simpkins.

She chose old Fatty Freddy.

‘Now there’s the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come,’ said Miss Simpkins.

‘I thought Charles Dickens was meant to be a good writer. He’s a bit repetitive when it comes to ghosts, isn’t he?’ I said. ‘Still, let me be the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come.’

‘No, Tracy, I need a very tall boy to be the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come,’ said Miss Simpkins.

She chose this pea-brained boy called Philip who couldn’t haunt so much as a graveyard.

‘There’s just one more main ghost and that’s Marley’s Ghost,’ said Miss Simpkins. ‘He wails and clanks his chains.’

‘Oooh, I’m a totally terrific wailer and clanker, you know I am! Let me be Marley’s Ghost,’ I begged.

‘I’m very tempted, Tracy, but perhaps you might indulge in a tad too much wailing and clanking,’ said Miss Simpkins.

She chose Justine Can’t-Act-For-Toffee Littlewood, who can’t clank to save her life and can barely whimper, let alone give a good ghostly wail.

I was Severely Irritated with Miss Simpkins. I decided she wasn’t my friend any more. I didn’t want to be in her stupid play if she wouldn’t pick me for one of the main ghosts. I didn’t want to be one of the no-name extra ghosts or any of the other people – these silly Fezziwigs and Cratchits.

I turned my back on Miss Simpkins and whistled a festive tune to myself . . . with new lyrics.

‘Jingle Bells, Miss Simpkins smells,

Jingle all the day.

Oh what a fart it is to take part

In her stupid Christmas play.’

‘And now there’s only one part left,’ said Miss Simpkins. ‘Are you listening to me, Tracy?’

I gave the tiniest shrug, slumping down in my seat. I tried to make it crystal clear that I wasn’t remotely interested.

‘I’ll take that as a yes,’ said Miss Simpkins cheerfully. ‘Yes, there’s just the part of crusty old Ebenezer Scrooge himself to cast. Now, I’m going to have serious problems. This is the key part of the whole play. The best part, the leading part. I need a consummate actor, one who isn’t phased by a really big juicy part, one who can act bad temper and meanness and lack of generosity, and yet one who can convincingly thaw and repent and behave wonderfully after all. I wonder . . .’

I sat up straight. I gazed at Miss Simpkins. She surely couldn’t mean . . .

‘You, Tracy Beaker! You will be my Scrooge!’ she said.

‘Yay!’ I shrieked. I bounced up and down in my seat as if I had an india-rubber bottom.

‘That’s stupid, Miss!’ said Justine Can’t-Hold-Her-Tongue Littlewood. ‘You can’t let Tracy be Scrooge. Why should she get the best part? She just mucks around and doesn’t take things seriously. You can’t let her be in the play, she’ll just mess it up for all of us.’

‘I’ll certainly mess you up,’ I mumbled.

I rushed out of my seat, right up to Miss Simpkins.

‘I’ll take it all dead seriously, Miss Simpkins, I promise. You can count on me. And don’t be surprised if I turn out to be unexpectedly brilliant at acting as my mum is a Hollywood movie star making one film after another.’

‘As if!’ said Louise.

Blue