Starring Tracy Beaker

  'I'm Tracy Beaker. This is a book all about me. I'd read it if I were you. It's the most incredible dynamic heart-rending story. Honest.'

  THE STORY OF TRACY BEAKER

  Meet Tracy in her first ever story. Tracy is ten years old.

  She lives in a Children's Home but would like a real home one day, with a real family.

  STARRING TRACY BEAKER

  Tracy is back – and this time she's determined to be a star!

  When she's cast in the main role in her school play, her biggest worry is whether her mum will make it back from Hollywood in time to see her perform . . .

  THE DARE GAME

  The third Tracy Beaker book – join Tracy as she tries out living with Cam, and living on her own in a very unusual place . . .

  READ ALL OF TRACY'S

  ADVENTURES!

  www.jacquelinewilson.co.uk

  Also available by Jacqueline Wilson Published in Corgi Pups, for beginner readers: THE DINOSAUR'S PACKED LUNCH

  THE MONSTER STORY-TELLER

  Published in Young Corgi, for newly confident readers: LIZZIE ZIPMOUTH

  SLEEPOVERS

  Available from Doubleday/Corgi Yearling Books: BAD GIRLS GLUBBSLYME

  THE BED & BREAKFAST STAR THE ILLUSTRATED MUM

  BEST FRIENDS JACKY DAYDREAM

  BURIED ALIVE! THE LOTTIE PROJECT

  CANDYFLOSS MIDNIGHT

  THE CAT MUMMY THE MUM-MINDER

  CLEAN BREAK SECRETS

  CLIFFHANGER STARRING TRACY BEAKER

  THE DARE GAME THE STORY OF TRACY BEAKER

  THE DIAMOND GIRLS THE SUITCASE KID

  DOUBLE ACT VICKY ANGEL

  DOUBLE ACT (PLAY EDITION) THE WORRY WEBSITE

  Collections:

  THE JACQUELINE WILSON COLLECTION

  includes THE STORY OF TRACY BEAKER and THE BED AND BREAKFAST STAR

  JACQUELINE WILSON'S DOUBLE-DECKER

  includes BAD GIRLS and DOUBLE ACT

  JACQUELINE WILSON'S SUPERSTARS

  includes THE SUITCASE KID and THE LOTTIE PROJECT

  JACQUELINE WILSON'S BISCUIT BARREL

  includes CLIFFHANGER and BURIED ALIVE!

  Available from Doubleday/Corgi Books, for older readers: DUSTBIN BABY

  GIRLS IN LOVE

  GIRLS UNDER PRESSURE

  GIRLS OUT LATE

  GIRLS IN TEARS

  LOLA ROSE

  LOVE LESSONS

  Join the official Jacqueline Wilson fan club at

  www.jacquelinewilson.co.uk

  This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  Adobe ISBN: 9781407045405

  Version 1.0

  www.randomhouse.co.uk

  STARRING TRACY BEAKER

  A C O R G I YEARLING B O O K 978 0 440 86722 7

  First published in Great Britain by Doubleday, an imprint of Random House Children's Books Doubleday edition published 2006

  Corgi Yearling edition published 2007

  1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

  Text copyright © Jacqueline Wilson, 2006

  Illustrations copyright © Nick Sharratt, 2006

  The right of Jacqueline Wilson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

  R A N D O M H O U S E CHILDREN'S BOOKS

  61-63 Uxbridge Road, London W5 5SA

  www.kidsatrandomhouse.co.uk

  Addresses for companies within The Random House Group Limited can be found at: www.randomhouse.co.uk/orrices.htm

  THE RANDOM HOUSE GROUP Limited Reg. No. 954009

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Printed in the UK by CPI Bookmarque, Croydon, CR0 4TD

  To the staff and pupils at

  Charles Dickens Primary School

  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—'

  7

  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.

  8

  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 9

  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, 11

  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 W h y - W o n ' t - S h e - M i n d - H e r - O w n -

  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.

  12

  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:

  so sorry I couldn't make it, Tracy.

  Chin up, chickie! See you soon.

  Christmas?

  Loto of love,

  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.

  14

  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.

  15

  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 16

  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 17

  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-18

  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

  19

  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.'

  20

  '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.'

  21

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