A Thousand Water Bombs
Read A Thousand Water Bombs Online
Authors: T. M. Alexander
T. M. Alexander likes to eat wine gums in the cinema. Her favourites are red and black. She writes in a little room hidden away behind a secret door
that’s disguised as a bookcase. She keeps a box of emergency food under her desk, in case the door ever gets jammed and it’s some time before anyone notices she’s missing.
Find out more at www.tmalexander.com
Get to know the Tribers!
Have you read these other Tribe books?
The Day the Ear Fell Off
Labradoodle on the Loose
Monkey Bars and Rubber Ducks
To Mum and Dad, who made me believe I could do anything.
First published in Great Britain in 2010
by Piccadilly Press Ltd,
5 Castle Road, London NW1 8PR
www.piccadillypress.co.uk
Previously published as:
Goodbye, Copper Pie
© T.M. Alexander, 2010
This edition published 2012
Text copyright © T.M. Alexander, 2010
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 copyright owner.
The right of T.M. Alexander to be identified as Author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN: 978 1 84812 294 9 (paperback)
eISBN: 978 1 84812 300 7
Printed in the UK by CPI Bookmarque, Croydon, CR0 4TD
Cover design by Patrick Knowles
Cover illustration by Sue Hellard
Contents
ten days to the summer fair . . . and counting
nine days to go and no definite plans yet
five days to prepare the arsenal
three days until the swap shop
two giant yellow rubber gloves
Flo pushes her breakfast round her bowl
making friends with Marco isn’t easy
a sticky situation and not from surf wax
strong plunging waves, with shifting beach breaks
the school summer fair
‘Keener, can you believe it?’ said Fifty.
I shook my head.
He was staring at Copper Pie, who had just blasted a ball into the top left-hand corner of the goal. We watched Copper Pie get a slap on the back from his partner on the stall, none other than
Callum – the meanest and nastiest boy in our class . . . in our year in fact . . . in the whole school probably, maybe even the world, the universe, etc.
‘Can you believe he’s gone over to the dark side?
I shook my head again. There weren’t any words for how I felt.
I looked across for the hundredth time. How could Copper Pie, my oldest friend, be running a stall at the summer fair with
Callum
? Copper Pie was the one who saved me from being bitten by
Annabel Ellis in nursery, the one who tickled me to stop me from holding my breath and fainting in the nativity play, the one who ate my lunch every time I didn’t like it.
If anyone had told me that he would desert me, desert Tribe, I’d have said they were lying. No way would he ever, ever leave: that’s what I would have said. But I was wrong.
I’d been looking forward to the summer fair for ages. We all had, because in Year 6 you’re allowed to have your own stall. And of course the five Tribers (me,
Fifty, Jonno, Bee and Copper Pie) were doing one together (I’ll fill you in on the details later). But at the last minute Copper Pie switched allegiance big time to do ‘Save or
Score’ with Callum.
For a pound you could choose either three shots at Callum in goal or three turns in goal trying to stop Copper Pie scoring. Their sign said,
Save three goals or score three and win a
fiver
.
And to make it worse, their stall had the biggest queue. There were masses of dads and toddlers and a few girls and even some mums waiting for a turn. Every time there was a good save or an
awesome shot the crowds oooh-ed and aaaaah-ed. Copper Pie was in Man United Away (all black). Callum was in Liverpool Home (red). I wished they weren’t the centre of attention. Showing off in
front of the rest of Tribe. It didn’t seem fair. We, the loyal ones, were doing a stall
together
, the way you should do if you’re friends. And we’re best friends, better
than family.
THE TRIBE FAMILY
FIFTY: Small and likes fire.
BEE: Sleeptalks whole conversations.
KEENER: Is a keener (and surf dude).
COPPER PIE: Football mad, junk food mad, and gets mad about ginger jokes.
JONNO: Looks mad – big Afro and glasses– but isn’t. Has moved house and school loads of times, but this time he’s staying . . . with Tribe.
If you want to understand how I felt, imagine your mum had left you and chosen another family, a better one, tidier or funnier or better looking. Imagine her having a great time with them, while
you stood at the side and watched.
I wanted to bang my head against something hard, except that it would hurt. I wanted to smack Copper Pie in the face and yell, but I’ve never hit anyone and I didn’t want to start
with him because he’s a lot more experienced with his fists. I turned away and looked back at Fifty. He sighed. We didn’t need words to know what the other one was thinking.
Bee and Jonno were sitting cross-legged under our table, talking to each other. I thought about joining them . . . but I didn’t. I stayed where I was and watched all the people enjoying
themselves.
There was nothing left on our stall. We ran out twenty-two minutes after the fair started. It didn’t matter – we’d made loads of money.
I thought about having a go on ‘Splat the Rat’. I’m good at that. If you watch the people who go before you, you can count how many seconds it takes the rat to slide down the
pipe. So, when it’s your turn, all you have to do is count and, when you reach the magic number, wham the stick at the space below the pipe. Everyone else waits for the rat poke its nose out,
but by then it’s too late.
I decided not to have a go. I knew it wouldn’t make me feel any better. How could it? Tribe couldn’t carry on without Copper Pie. I can’t explain why. It’s not as though
he was the leader or anything – we don’t have one. But he was part of its beginning and we agreed no one could leave and no one could join. So it was broken. Tribe was broken.
ten days to the summer fair . . . and counting
I’d better start at the beginning.
Ten days before the summer fair we had our first meeting in the new Tribehouse. The Tribers built it in Fifty’s garden over the weekend with lots of help from my dad and Copper Pie’s
dad and no help whatsoever from me because I had tonsillitis. Dad and I had planned to go surfing but I woke up on Saturday with the scratchy throat that always means I’m not going to be able
to eat anything but ice cream for a few days. Mum gave me my usual banana-coloured medicine, told Dad the road trip was off and went out shopping with my sisters. She’s a doctor so
you’d think she’d be sympathetic, but you’d need to be bleeding to death with no pulse for Mum to take any notice.
In a way it was lucky that I was ill because the phone went and we were there to answer it, which we wouldn’t have been if we were halfway to the coast with a couple of boards on top of
the car.
‘Keener. It’s me.’ It was Copper Pie. ‘My dad’s mate, the one who said we could have his shed, says it’s now or never. Fifty’s mum says it’s OK to
go over. Get your dad too. No one answered at Jonno’s. Bee’s on her way. It’s time to build the —’
I passed the phone to Dad, because talking was like someone sanding my flesh.
‘Fine,’ he said. ‘I’ll be right over with my tools.’
Dad spent all weekend over at Fifty’s. I sent notes from the living room sofa with design ideas, which they ignored. Good job too, because when I finally saw the Tribehouse there
wasn’t a single thing I’d have changed. (Except I’d have liked a hammock.) Fifty’s dad had even cut a hole in the fence and made a little gate so we can get straight into
the garden without going through the house – it’s the Tribe cat flap.
At the meeting, all of us, except Fifty, were sitting on the bench. It’s the only bit of furniture so far. Fifty was sitting on the safe. (I brought it from home.) It
holds all our fact files and the tin for Tribe funds (which is empty except for an I.O.U. that says:
Tribe owes Fifty’s mum two hours’ hoovering
. It’s payment for the
see-through plastic she bought for the windows of our hut). There’s loads of other stuff too: Bee’s rolled-up scroll where she wrote our aims, the Save the Stag poster that we used to
make the Head give back our bit of the playground rather than bulldoze it, photos that we’re meant to be making into ID cards. Actually . . . it could do with a clear out.
We’d done the fist of friendship so it was time for business.
‘Right, you know what we’ve got to sort out tonight?’ said Bee.
‘Yes, boss.’ Fifty saluted.
‘Thank you for that.’ Bee did a fake smile. ‘It’s one week till —’
‘Ten days,’ I corrected her.
‘Thank you for that, Keener!’ I got the same smile.
‘It’s a week . . . and a bit . . . till the summer fair. We’ve had loads of ideas and done zilch, zero, nothing. So today we need to decide
exactly
what we’re
doing. Agreed?’
‘Yes, Bee,’ I said.
‘Same,’ said Fifty.
‘I thought we’d decided,’ said Copper Pie. ‘Bombs!’ He did an evil I’m-going-to-kill-you-all cackle.
‘Yes, definitely bombs,’ said Jonno. It’s funny – when Jonno first came along he seemed to have all the ideas. I don’t know if you can pass them on, like head lice,
but we’re all ideas people now.