9781416900610

Chapter One

There are two parts of my day I don't like very much. The first part is before school; the second part is after school. They're so bouncy since Dad left. I don't mean bouncy like when you're on a bouncy castle and everyone's jumping up and down and bumping into each other and it's a good laugh. I mean bouncy like when you're on a bouncy castle and everyone's jumping up and down and bumping into each other but nobody's in control so you're scared in case you fall off and get hurt. That kind of bouncy.

When Dad lived with us, which was until five months ago, I didn't bounce much because I knew where I was. We all did. Ever since I can remember, he would come in from working nights at the furniture warehouse just before Mum started out for work at the knitting factory. He would make us our breakfast, have a chat, take us to school, then go to bed. After school, Dad would collect us, make our dinner, have a chat, wait until Mum got home, have a row with her, then go to work again. So we were never alone. We didn't need childminders or babysitters or nothing.

Now it's all changed and I don't like it one bit. I've told Dad a million times I don't like it and he says all Mum has to do is ask and he'll be back in a blink but she hasn't asked yet and says she never will. I keep hoping she will change her mind because everything's a mess. Take this morning, right? Our kitchen at quarter to eight. It was already feeling bouncy. One reason was because Mum wasn't even up yet.

She should have been -- she's supposed to set off for work at eight but she'd just kept snoring when I called her earlier. I suppose she's very tired -- she was at Mingles with her friend Bridget until one o'clock this morning. Mum and Bridget go to Mingles for Singles three times a week to find Mr. Right because neither of them found him first time round.

This time round Mum says her first choice is the actor Ross Clooney because you might as well aim high. She has not had much luck so far, which is good news as far as I'm concerned. The sooner Dad comes back the better, and he doesn't need competition from American film stars.

Another reason I'm feeling bouncy is I'd just asked my two sisters, Gemma and Sasha, to sponsor me for Children in Need, but they're being really mean about it. "But it's for little children who haven't got nothing, no clothes or food or nothing," I said, showing them the cute picture of Pudsey Bear with his little eye bandage on in the corner of my sponsor sheet.

"Little children who haven't gotnothing?"Sasha tutted. "It'sanything,stupid. Haven't you heard of double negatives?"

That's just typical of Sasha since she started at The Magna with Gemma. She began in September, and it's only November now, but it's as if she's in a secret society or something and sisters still at primary, like me, aren't allowed to join. Still, I'm not one to give up easy, so I tried again. "Please sponsor me for the children who haven't not gotanything,"I repeated.

Gemma scowled. She's in Year Nine and does that a lot. "What, like we have?" she snapped, combing her fizz-bomb hair over her Coco Pops.

"Spot on," agreed Sasha. "They should be fund-raising for us -- look at this crud!"

She showed me her knife, which had got the last dregs of orange marmalade clinging to it, except it was more green than orange. "We have to eat mould. Even South American kids in the rainforest don't have to eat mould."

Then Gemma goes, "Anyway, like you'll last twenty-four hours without talking." And Sasha goes, "Yeah, talk about mission impossible."

I'd chosen to do a twenty-four hour silence, if you hadn't already guessed. It was either that or a sponsored spell and I'm no good at spelling so I didn't have much choice. Mr. Sharkey, my headmaster, is going to shave his head, and Mr. Idle, my form teacher, is playing a rugby match dressed as one of the Ugly Sisters fromCinderella.

My ugly sister, Gemma, snatched the sheet from me. "As I'm feeling generous, I'll give you one p," she said eventually.

"One p? Wow, thanks!"

"One p an hour," she added, as if that made it any better.

Then Sasha went: "Put me down for that too." Copycat.

"You're both mean," I told them.

Gemma poked me in the back with the end of her comb. "I'd rather be mean than fat like you. Look, my comb's disappearing in all that flab. Help! Help!"

"Get off!" I yelled, pushing her away. It wasn't like she had room to talk, neither. I hate our Gemma sometimes, I do.

Luckily we heard Mum clattering down the stairs, so Gem backed off and returned to slurping her Coco Pops. There was a gap of a few seconds while Mum slipped into her flat working shoes in the hallway. You can hear the "plat-plat" sound they make on the cushion flooring. At last she came in looking half asleep and struggling to get her arm through her cardigan sleeve. "Make me a coffee, someone," she said, her voice as rusty as an old tin of Whiskas.

"You haven't time, you'll be late," I pointed out. I knew she mustn't be late. At Pitt's, where Mum works with Bridget, they give you warnings. Mum had already had a verbal warning, and the next stage was a written warning, and after that it was a final warning; then you were out.

Mum glowered at the wall clock and sighed. She wasn't going to risk being late again. "Car keys?"

"Treacle tin," we chanted.

"Thanks."

She grabbed the keys, grabbed a bag of crisps from the cupboard, and grabbed a two-pound coin out of the dinner money jar. Grab. Grab. Grab. Gemma and Sasha looked at each other, knowing one of them would have to do without lunch if she didn't put it back by Friday. I was all right. I took sandwiches.

I saw Gemma mumble something, and grew worried in case she started anything nasty. I hated it when that happened, so I thought I'd better say something nice quickly. "Did Ross Clooney turn up?" I asked.

Mum's face softened immediately. "No," she said, smiling, "he sent his apologies but he had commitments. He said next week."

"Aw, never mind," I said sympathetically, but I was glad really.

"Oh, please." Gemma sneered.

"Never mind 'please,'" Mum said, her eyes alight. "For your information there's a lookalike competition Sunday night, and there's going to be a Ross Clooney among them. Even if he's only halfway toward the real thing, he'll be worth a bit of a smoochy-woochy, won't he?"

"Oh, puke-a-rama," we all said, and she laughed, puckering up her lips and pretending to kiss him. I sighed with relief because she was so happy, and I knew she wouldn't bite my head off when I asked her what was happening after school.

I never know, see. Sometimes it's straight to the childminder, Rosie's; sometimes I go next door to Nathan's mum and wait until Gemma and Sash call for me; and sometimes I'm allowed to walk back on my own. Oh, except Fridays. Dad always picks me up Fridays. I know where I am one day a week.

We've got an after-school thing called the Avenue Z Club, but Mum won't let me go to that. She says it's too expensive even though she hasn't even asked. I wish she would let me go because it looks brilliant. It's in this old mobile hut at the back of the school playground. If you stand right up on your tiptoes, you can see through the club's windows and there are craft tables and computers and baskets full of dressing-up clothes and a sweet shop and purple sofas and bean bags. It looks really inviting. The supervisor is a lady called Mrs. Fryston who comes into assemblies and tells us what's going on that week at the club.

Mrs. Fryston has grey hair but a young face, so you can't tell if she looks young for her age or old for her age. Whatever she is she's always smiling and seems patient and kind, even when Mr. Sharkey teases her and calls the club kids "the mob in the mobile" and her "the nut in the hut."

During the last summer holidays, Mrs. Fryston did an "All the Fun of the Circus" theme and arranged for jugglers and clowns to come in and show everyone how to do tricks and fall over properly. I'd have given anything to have been there that week or any week, but first I had to persuade Mum and that's not easy.

"Where am I after school today?" I asked.

"What day is it?" Mum said, still in her Ross Clooney dream.

"Wednesday."

"It's Rosie's then, isn't it?" She sighed. "Pick you up at half-fiveish. Gotta go."

Blowing air kisses to no one in particular, Mum turned to leave, but I stopped her and reminded her Rosie couldn't do Wednesdays no more because she's got the twins and her spaces are used up.

Mum looked puzzled, as if it was news to her, which it wasn't, and took a deep breath in as she tried to fasten her coat. The coat stretched and flattened her boobies. She's big, Mum is; we all are, but she's the biggest. Today she fills the door frame behind her like a soft green leather mattress with buttons. "Go to Rosie's anyway. What's she going to do, turn a little girl out on the street?" she said.

I know Rosie won't do that but she'll still be annoyed. Mum already owes her three weeks' money. "Can't I just come home by myself? I promise not to use the deep-fat fryer or answer the door to strangers," I pleaded.

Mum wasn't having it, though. "No, Sam, not with these dark evenings. Just do as you're told, or I get confused. I'm off; make sure you lock up properly and someone put the bin out. See you."

"See you," we chorused.

"You are the weakest link, goodbye!" Gemma goes under her breath.

Gemma and Sash left ten minutes after Mum. I was last. I like being last. I like it when the house goes quiet and all I can hear is the ticking of the clock and the noise from the boiler when the pilot light whooshes. I like locking the door and checking it is done properly so no burglars can get in. It makes me feel important.

Chapter Two

Ican walk it to school easy. All you have to do is go down to the bottom of Birch Rise, where I live, go past Birch Court, where the old people live, and then cross over at the bottom by the shops and you're on Zetland Avenue (Avenue Z for short) and Zetland Avenue Primary School is at the far end opposite the library. Five minutes tops.

I wouldn't say I loved school, exactly, but it's miles better than home at the moment. In class I sit with Nazeem Khan, Dwight Baxter, and Aimee Anston on the Yellow Table. They wouldn't be my first choice of partners, to be honest, but we're bunched together right next to Mr. Idle's desk at the front because we need the most help. We're all a bit rubbish at things like reading and writing. We're also way behind on merit marks. There's a bar chart behind Mr. Idle's desk, showing all the different coloured tables' totals, right? You should see the yellow bar. It's only as high as a postage stamp. Everyone else's look like tower blocks. The trouble is, see, as well as earning them, you can have merit marks taken off for stuff like talking when it is "inappropriate," being rude, or not doing homework. That's the main problem on our table -- Aimee's rude, Dwight never does his homework, I talk all the time, and Naz does all three. We might start off the day with, say, twenty merit marks between us but by the time school is done we can have lost the lot. Mr. Idle says we are our own worst enemies.

Anyway, that's the Yellows. When I arrived in class, Aimee was talking about how stupid all this sponsor money thing was. "I'm not collecting a penny," Aimee goes. "It's all a rip-off anyway -- the money never gets to the people. The pop stars keep it all."

Naz pulled a face. "Yeah, but what about the trip to Radio Fantastico? That's got to be worth two weeks' pocket money, guy."

Mr. Idle knows one of the best presenters at Radio Fantastico -- Tara Kitson -- and he wangled a slot on her show for us, as part of the radio's Children in Need week. The studios are small, though, so the whole class can't go; only one tableful. We had a discussion and decided whichever table raised the most money should be the table to go. It was a heated discussion because Sam Riley, who goes to that Avenue Z Club I told you about, kept arguing that it wasn't a fair method since the rich kids would win, but not many agreed with him. Sam's usually quiet, but he wouldn't back down, even when Aimee said to him, "So what's your problem? You're a rich kid, aren't you?" His parents own a greeting card shop in the Jubilee Arcade. Sam told her his parents' income was beside the point. Anyway, everyone had a vote and that's the way it went.

Guess what else? Tara Kitson told Mr. Idle that Radio Fantastico might be linking up live with the Children in Need presenters at the BBC, but she was not sure when, so there was a chance we might get on telly. Even Aimee couldn't deny she'd like to go on the telly. "Well, you lot raise the money, and I'll come along for the ride." She sneered. "Not that we've got a hope, unless Sam takes up stealing again."

I went bright red. Do you remember Pokémon cards? Well, once, in Year Three, Aimee had dared me to steal some out of the cloakrooms with her or she wouldn't be my friend, so I did. Trouble was, I got caught and she didn't. In fact, she told the teacher she had tried to stop me, and they believed her. Aimee is a very good liar. Now she believed it herself and brought it up every so often to make me feel bad. I don't know why she's like that with me. I've never done nothing to hurt her.

Luckily Naz ignored her and said, "Dwight's got four squids ten and I've got two squids and nought pence and Sam's got -- what was it?"

"Thirty pounds," I said proudly, thinking of all the coins half filling the empty crisp tube on my bedside cabinet. They came from Rosie my childminder and the mums of Rosie's other kids and going round Birch Court on pension day, which I thought was a stroke of genius. "Oh, no, wait!" I added, remembering this morning. "Thirty pounds and forty-eight p."

Naz nodded wisely. "Thirty forty-eight. Not bad, guy. But I bet that still means we're well bottom. The Greens have got over fifty and the Reds have got nearly seventy. I don't know about the rest of them but it's gotta be more than us."

We glanced across the classroom, first to the Red Table, then to the Green, then to the rest of them. Everybody beats us Yellows in everything.

"Come on, Anston -- you could at least try," Naz pleaded. "That Tara is such a babe. She deserves to meet me."

Aimee finished sharpening a pencil and blew the shavings all over Naz's side. "Why should I?" she said. "Nobody makes an effort for me."

That was such a fib, but never mind -- I'm sure you're getting the picture of what she's like. Then Dwight goes: "You know Brody Miller in Year Six? She's got over a hundred squid on her own!"

Brody Miller is famous in our school. She's a child model and has been in catalogues and telly adverts and all sorts. If you look in the Argon catalogue on page one hundred and fifteen, she's the one second from the left with the long auburn hair and dazzling smile, sitting on the BMX bike. Not that I'm always looking at her picture, in case you're wondering. She goes to the Avenue Z Club as well. It's not fair.

"Well, that's nothing," I said, glancing at the merit chart, fed up of never getting no recognition for nothing. "I'll easily have that by Monday." Don't ask me why I said that because I don't know.

"How?" Aimee goes. "Your family is always broke. They're not far off being trailer trash, I've heard."

That really hurt. "Well," I said, thinking fast and fibbing like mad. "When I got home yesterday, all the residents of Birch Court had done another collection for me -- I never asked them or nothing so it was a real surprise -- they said they were fond of me and wanted to help. Anyway, that came to -- wait for it -- fifty pounds."

"Yes!" Dwight said, punching his fist in the air.

Everyone looked really chuffed, apart from Aimee, who just looked suspicious. I decided to add a bit more. "And then I phoned Dad. I told you he was collecting at the warehouse, right?"

Everyone nodded, and I did too because at least that bit was true. "Well, he told me he's got well over sixty pounds already..."

"That's..." Naz paused to add up, which he's rubbish at. "Masses over a hundred. So wicked, Wesley!"

I held my hand up. My mouth hadn't finished yet. I was still stinging from the trailer trash bit. "And he's put a collection box down in the Almighty Cod. You know how busy that gets at weekends." Dad lives above the Almighty Cod now. It's a chip shop on Sandal Road.

Aimee looked at me double-well suspiciously and said: "You never mentioned that yesterday."

"I'm not a bragger, Aimee. They don't call me Brody Miller," I told her, looking her straight in the eye.

"Yellows rock!" Naz grinned, slapping me a high five.

You won't be surprised to know I was a bit quiet the rest of the morning, wondering what I was going to do. The sponsored silence was on Friday and all the money had to be in by next Wednesday. I'd dropped myself right in it and no messing. I'd just have to come clean at lunchtime, that was all, and put up with all the "liar, liar, pants on fire" stuff. Aimee would be in her element and get really nasty with me, probably, but I'd just have to take it. I was kind of used to it from her, if you must know.

That was my plan, anyway, until we lined up for assembly, and Mr. Idle asked us all how we were getting on with our collections. We all muttered, "Fine," "Okay," "Not bad" -- things like that.

He put out his arm to hold Naz, who was first in line, away from the door frame while the Year Fours trooped past. "Fine? Okay? Not bad?" Mr. Idle moaned. "I want more than that, Year Five! I've got to play rugby dressed in a wig and makeup, not to mention a bikini top stuffed with my wife's old tights. If I'm humiliating myself in front of a crowd of two hundred people, I want fantastic, incredible, and record-breaking, never mind okay and not bad. Understood?"

"Oh, don't get your wife's knickers in a twist, Mr. Idle," Naz goes, and everybody laughed.

From farther down the line, Sam Riley's voice piped up that he still thought the visit to Radio Fantastico should be made by kids who do something special.

Mr. Idle sighed hard. "We've had this conversation already, Sam, but, for the sake of argument, something special such as?"

"Writing a poem," Sam said quickly, "or a catchy verse at least."

"And I expect you just happen to have one handy?" Mr. Idle asked.

"Funny you should mention that," Sam quipped and everybody laughed. Sam was quite popular, though he didn't have one special friend; he just mixed with everybody. I twisted round and could just see the top of his fair head -- he's a bit of a shrimp, height-wise.

"Don't listen to him, Mr. Idle," Aimee called out. "The table with the most money wins it and that's going to be us. Sam Wesley's got way more than a hundred pounds all by herself already!" She dug her elbow into my stomach, as if daring me to deny it. Of course, I couldn't then, could I?

Mr. Idle beamed at me. Full on, straight in the eyes. "Is that so, Sam?"

What could I do? Deny it with everybody looking at me? "Yes," I said, "it's true."

"That's excellent. Well done."

Aimee winked at me, a massive smirk on her face. She had tricked me into telling another big fat lie, and she knew it, and she knew I knew it.

Me and my big cake-hole.

Excerpted from Starring Sammie ... by Helena Pielichaty
All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.

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Starring Sammie . . .

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