Who Ate All the Pies? Page 2

  “Morning, Holly” – she yawned – “I thought I heard you. Couldn’t you sleep?”

  “The birds again.”

  “Ah!” She reached across me and switched on the kettle, her bony wrist jutting out from her dressing gown. Tracie does not have big bones like Dad and me but she is bony. She has bony wrists. Bony elbows. Bony cheeks. Bony-bones. “We’ll have to get you some earplugs,” she said.

  “Yeah.”

  “And at least you see more of the day, being up early.”

  “That’s true.”

  I ought to have warned you that Tracie and me always have conversations like this. Polite but boring.

  While Tracie made herself an instant coffee, I began piling stuff onto the worktop for my lunchbox. Smoky-bacon crisps, two chocolate bars (one for break, one for lunch), then cheese, pickle and bread for my sandwich stuff.

  “I can do that for you, Holly,” Tracie said. “You get some breakfast.”

  I took a deep breath. I’ve been making my own pack-up for school since I was six. I know what I’m doing. “That’s OK. I don’t mind.”

  “There’s plenty of fruit in the bowl,” she said.

  Fruit? As if! “I know,” I said. “Thanks.”

  I began with the cheese, trying to cut the orange block of Red Leicester in straight, neat slices. I could feel Tracie staring. After what seemed like a lifetime she went, “I was wondering…” – then stopped.

  That made me lose concentration, and my last slice of cheese had a fat wedge at the bottom. To level it out, I spread extra pickle on the thinner end. “You were wondering?” I prompted, ducking down into the fridge to find a tub of Petits Filous and a chilled carton of blackcurrant juice.

  “Are you still set against going to the presentation evening?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “But from what everyone tells me, it’s going to be so much fun.”

  “Yes, well, I … I just don’t fancy it.”

  “No?”

  “No.”

  “Can you tell me why?”

  I shook my head and squashed the lid down on my sandwich box. “Better go and clean my teeth,” I said and left her to her coffee.

  Later, as I walked to school with Lauren, I thought about Tracie’s question. Could I tell her why I didn’t want to go? Not really. How would anyone so slim understand how it feels to be the biggest in a group? To stand out like an elephant in a field full of gazelles? Especially when there would be a disco afterwards with everyone dressed up in sparkly, clingy party clothes. No way. It’d be just like when I was a bridesmaid at Dad and Tracie’s wedding.

  I’d had to wear this horrible pink dress with a tight-fitting bodice and floaty skirt. Just squeezing into it had been an achievement, and when the DJ’s lights bounced over me I felt like a sweaty iced doughnut. I still have nightmares about it. After that, I promised myself I would never, ever go to a disco again.

  Lauren brought me back to the present by waving her hand in front of my face. “Hello, calling Holly Woolcock, come in, please…”

  I shivered. “Sorry. Miles away.”

  “As usual! I was asking what you think.”

  “About what?”

  “About whether Mr Addy is going out with Miss Camara.”

  Mr Addy is our form teacher and Miss Camara is our classroom assistant. “The amount of time they spend in the library corner?” I grinned. “Definitely.”

  4

  The rest of the week was the same as ever. I got up, went to school, hung out with Lauren, came home, had a chat with Tracie, watched TV until Dad came back, ate and had a chat with him, went to bed.

  I hadn’t voted for my Players’ Player yet. I had got as far as making a neat copy of my points table on my computer, but I hadn’t filled it in. I’m always like this with big decisions; I take for ever to make my mind up. Lauren gets really mad with me sometimes if we’re doing group work. “Just say yes or no!” she’ll yell at me.

  What I did decide was that I’d suss everyone out at the Lutton Ash match. Watch them closely. See how they performed and then grade them. Like sports journalists did in the Sunday papers.

  Saturday morning was freezing and windy. I doubled up on my outerwear, especially as Dad and I were going to watch Leicester City against Colchester straight after the Lutton match.

  “Make sure you keep warm,” Tracie said, wrapping her cardigan round herself as she stood in the doorway.

  “You should come with us. It’ll blow the cobwebs off you!” Dad told her.

  My heart began to pound. Football was our thing, not Tracie’s. Please say no, I willed her.

  As if reading my mind, she glanced at me, then shook her head at Dad. “In this weather? No, thanks!”

  “Aw! See you about sixish, then.”

  “Fine. And remember what I told you,” she called after him.

  “Yeah, yeah,” Dad said dismissively and hurried to the car.

  “What do you have to remember that she told you?” I asked as he started the engine.

  “What? Oh, nothing important.”

  We arrived at the ground half an hour before kick-off. Even after I’d jogged round the field and we’d had a short pre-match shooting practice, I still didn’t want to strip off. I gave Dad my stuff to carry just seconds before the match started.

  “Eh, Hol” – he grinned – “look at the ref; she’d terrify Robbie Savage, she would.”

  I turned round. This I had to see! The Bev that Hannah had told us about was chatting to Hannah, Katie and the Lutton Ash coach. She was shorter than all of them, but had much broader shoulders and solid calves that bulged beneath her black socks like turnips. As she nodded at something Hannah said, I could tell there was a no-nonsense air about her. I smiled. The Angels wouldn’t get away with a thing today, and that meant I could concentrate on grading my team-mates on skill, bravery and the rest.

  I gave Dad a quick cuddle, then went to stand with the gang.

  We huddled together and waited for Hannah’s pep talk – but every time she tried to speak, her hair whipped across her face and she kept having to spit it out of her mouth. “Pht! Puh! Pah! OK, girls. As you can see, it’s really windy today. So what do we need to do?”

  “Wear an ultra-protective moisturizer,” Amy stated as she smoothed on her lip-gloss.

  I was the only one who giggled. Amy cracks me up with her comments, but everyone else takes her far too seriously. They don’t realize that half the time she’s only winding them up.

  “Anything else?” Hannah asked. “With the ball?”

  “Keep it low,” Lucy said.

  That was a point in her Players’ Player column from me right there. For knowledge. Except there wasn’t a knowledge column. Maybe there should be one? Oh, heck!

  “Nice one! Keep it low or it’s going to end up going all over the place, except where you want it to go, so be aware of the ball and be aware of one another.”

  “Be aware of that number 5!” Megan added and everyone laughed. Number 5 had been the nastiest of the bunch last time.

  Bev held her arm up to show she was ready if we were. I twisted from side to side, raring to go. I loved this moment just before the whistle blew, with the whole match ahead of us. I loved it when I was watching City and I loved it when I was playing. I loved it because once that whistle went, anything could happen. That was what made football brilliant.

  We had lost the toss earlier, so we were playing into the wind. Gemma kicked off, passing back to Nika, who dribbled forward – but she was already struggling, fighting to keep the ball at her feet and stay upright at the same time. All the Angels had remained in their half and, as Nika prepared to pass, three of them crowded round her. She looked up, saw there was nowhere to go and back-heeled the ball. Good tactic. Worth a point from me. Unfortunately there was no one behind her to receive it and it rolled out for a Lutton throw-in.

  “One of you!” their coach bellowed from the touchline. “Shell! Look sharp!”

 
My heart leapt. Action stations! I ran forward to the edge of the box, ready to defend once the throw had been taken. And guess who Shell was? Little old number 5.

  At least she can’t foul anyone taking a throw-in, I thought, watching as she grabbed the ball. Well, I was right, she didn’t foul. In fact, what happened next was really funny. When she went to throw the ball in, her arms flew forwards but the ball flew backwards! The wind must have caught it. Everyone laughed, including the ref – but not in a nasty way. It just looked amusing.

  “Take it again.” Bev smiled.

  Shell looked grim and determined this time – but exactly the same thing happened; just as one of the Angels got free and she aimed, the wind had other ideas and carried the ball backwards.

  “And again!” Bev called.

  Shell shook her head. “You do it,” she snarled at one of her team-mates, kicking the ball at her in a temper. As the replacement Angel took up position, Shell backed towards me. Glancing over her shoulder to make sure there was nobody behind her, she caught me still grinning. Her eyes narrowed darkly. “What are you laughing at?” she asked.

  “Nothing. It just looked funny,” I told her.

  “Not as funny as you do, fatso,” she growled.

  A lump came to my throat. Nobody had ever called me names on the pitch before. At school a few times, but never at football. I felt my stomach clench but I didn’t say anything. I’m not very good at comebacks. The throw-in had been taken and I concentrated on that instead.

  For the next fifteen to twenty minutes we dominated, and play rarely came anywhere near Megan, Lucy and me at the back. Lucy moved up to midfield to assist from there, but the wind was definitely on Lutton’s side and every attempt we had saw the ball whipped wider, higher or further than intended. “We can’t buy a goal today,” Megan said, banging her hands together to keep warm.

  “I know,” I said, on red alert as one of the Angels almost careered into Dylan – before checking herself as Bev came into her eyeline. “It’s not fair.”

  “And boring! I hate matches like this when there’s nothing to do. I wish I’d brought something to read!” Megan spoke too soon. A defending Angel in the right-hand channel found herself with the ball at her feet and whacked it as hard and low as she could. It scythed through the grass and found their horrible number 5 just inside our half. She stopped the ball with her boot, turned, then dribbled it forward, the Lutton Ash spectators roaring her on. “Go on, Shell!” “Have a shot!” “Finish it! Finish it!”

  My heart was thumping. No way was she going to finish it! Not after what she’d called me. Usually Lucy’s the speedy one, but I sprinted as fast as a deer to intercept that ball. Shell looked up, saw me coming and hesitated. Instead of shooting there and then she attempted to kick the ball forward, hoping to run onto it. Nuh-uh – not happening. I had closed her right down by then and simply stuck my leg out to deflect the ball behind for Megan to clear.

  Then something weird happened. Shell threw herself on the ground, right where my foot had been, and started rolling around, clutching her shin in agony. “Ow! Ow! That kills!” she cried. “She did a sliding tackle on me! They’re well dangerous! Ow! Ow! Ow!”

  “Referee!” voices from the touchline bellowed.

  I had my hands on my knees, puffed out from the run. When I glanced up I saw two angry faces, a man and a woman; they were pacing up and down and pointing at me. “Dangerous play, referee!” the man called.

  “Ow! Ow! Ow!” Shell continued.

  By now a couple more of the Angels had gathered round the writhing player, bending over her like she’d been shot or something, and I was beginning to feel worried. What if she wasn’t faking? Maybe I had caught her shin by accident… I didn’t think I had, but I’d been so focused on getting to the ball I might have done. What if I’d broken a bone or something?

  A stern voice behind me soon cleared up that idea. “No foul. Free kick to the Parrs,” Bev said briskly, nodding at me.

  “What?” the woman from the touchline shouted in disbelief. “What? Are you blind, referee?”

  Bev’s head snapped round and I swear I saw her nostrils flare. “’Scuse me?” she asked.

  “I said, are you blind? That’s my daughter down there injured.”

  “In case you hadn’t noticed,” the man added.

  “Injured? The only thing that’s injured is her ego. Now I suggest you keep your opinions to yourselves, or I’ll have you and all your supporters ten yards back for the rest of the match. Is that clear?” Her words came out like ice cubes. Freezing cold and definitely clear.

  The woman scowled and the man opened his mouth, but he closed it when Shell jumped up and started chasing the ball again – though not before she had mouthed “whale meat” at me. I was really beginning to dislike that girl.

  Lucy, the twins and I were rested for the start of the second half. I was glad, as it gave me a chance to watch my team-mates in action and because I was feeling tired and hungry. I hadn’t eaten breakfast and my stomach was beginning to rumble.

  We began strongly. With the wind in our direction we played as if we had wings, and our forwards bombarded the Lutton Ash end. It wasn’t long before we scored twice in quick succession, with a third goal minutes later from Jenny-Jane.

  After JJ had scored, Shell and the number 8 seemed to target her, often backing into her accidentally-on-purpose when she wasn’t even near play. Even Bev missed some of their sly digs.

  “Unbelievable!” Hannah kept saying, pacing up and down and signalling a rolling motion across to Katie. “Absolutely unbelievable. Holly, are you ready to go back on? I think your stable presence is called for. JJ will end up lamping one of them otherwise.”

  “OK,” I said and began stretching my calf muscles.

  The first thing Shell did when she saw me coming back on was sneer. “Here she comes. Wobble, wobble, wobble. No need to ask who ate all the pies!”

  I ignored her. If Jenny-Jane Bayliss could keep her temper, just about, then so could I, just about. Instead, I replied by blocking every single ball that came her way.

  We won five–nil in the end. I wished it had been fifty.

  5

  There isn’t enough time on Saturdays between the end of my match and the beginning of City’s match to go home. Instead Dad and I head straight for Gilbert Way, with me pulling my City top on over my Parrs top and my tracky bottoms over my shorts, and swapping my boots for trainers while he drives.

  Now that the tension of the Lutton Ash match was over, my tummy was going, “Hello! Remember me?”

  “Dad, I’m famished! Can we have …” I almost said “a pie”, but stopped. Stupid Smelly Shell. “… fish and chips when we get there?”

  He hesitated. “I dunno, Hol…”

  I couldn’t understand why he was being so reluctant. “And mushy peas. It’d be rude not to have mushy peas!” I needed food. Lots of it. To fill my empty tummy and to fill that other empty hole which seemed deeper after the name-calling.

  “I was thinking we could call in at a cafe or something … for a change,” Dad mumbled.

  “Aw, why? Fish and chips, please! It’s what we do! And I’m starving.”

  “I know, but…”

  “Mouth-watering succulent crispy fried fish…” I am really good at adjectives and went on and on – “… delicious golden brown chunky home-made chips …” – until Dad shook his head in submission and laughed.

  “OK, OK, you win; you’ve convinced me.”

  So we walked along Aylestone Road towards Gilbert Way, taking huge bites of fish and dipping hot, tasty chips into our peas one at a time. Mega-tasty! In the ground afterwards I talked Dad into buying us a bag of chocolate éclairs from the refreshment kiosk. You have to have something to chew at half-time as well as your fingernails, you know! It’s the law.

  Hey, remember I was saying anything could happen in football? Well, we were one–nil down when Iain Hume came on as a sub and scored in the eighty-ninth minute. Ye
s! We chanted, “Ee-aye-ee-aye-ee-aye-oh, up the football league we go!” in the car all the way home.

  Tracie was just as happy as we were when we returned. Her face shone when Dad greeted her with a huge peck on the forehead.

  “How’s my adorable wife?” he asked her.

  “All the better for seeing you both.” She turned to me. “I heard the City score on the radio. What about you? Did you win?”

  “Five–nil!”

  Tracie pretended to look astonished. “Five–nil! Brilliant!”

  “Hols played a blinder,” Dad added.

  “As she always does!”

  Not true, but I let it pass.

  “So what have you been up to?” Dad asked her.

  “I’ve been experimenting with Gordon Ramsay.”

  “Have you now? Where is he? I’ll kill him!” Dad joked, pretending to search under the table.

  I laughed, happy to hand him over to Tracie. “I’ll leave you lovebirds alone,” I told them, planning to fill in my Players’ Player form while the morning match was still buzzing in my head. “See you later.”

  “Don’t be long. Dinner’ll be ready in five minutes,” Tracie trilled, swatting Dad’s hand as he patted her bottom.

  Five minutes? I was still stuffed from lunch; no way could I eat in five minutes. I pulled an apologetic face, quickly wiping my mouth with the back of my hand in case I had any chocolate round it. “Eek! Sorry, Tracie, but I’m really full from the fish and chips. Is it OK if I have mine a bit later on?”

  “Well…” She frowned at Dad, then glanced towards the hob where various pans were boiling away. “I suppose so.”

  “Cheers!” I bolted upstairs and switched on my computer. Time to get down to business.

  6

  I printed off the empty table and pencilled in my scores. In the end it didn’t take that long. I think it actually helped that I didn’t know any of my team-mates from school or anything, because I didn’t feel I had to give more marks to people just because they were in my class. I bet some of them were in a real tangle over who to vote for – Megan, for one. Petra was her best friend but she was only so-so as a player. Megan couldn’t honestly vote for her.