A Thousand Water Bombs Read online

  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!

  www.tribers.co.uk

  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

  Goodbye, Copper Pie

  the school summer fair

  ten days to the summer fair . . . and counting

  nine days to go and no definite plans yet

  only eight days left

  a week to go

  six days till D-day

  five days to prepare the arsenal

  four days till the bombs drop

  three days until the swap shop

  two days till blast-off

  summer fair eve

  lift-off minus 22 hours

  a sell-out

  cakes at the Tribehouse

  two giant yellow rubber gloves

  Show and Tell

  Bee’s mum is sad

  Bee’s mum is mad

  Flo pushes her breakfast round her bowl

  the kangaroo court

  old-fashioned detective work

  a friday feeling

  the rest of friday

  a change of venue

  Flo is the thief

  Mr Dukes

  the ballerina’s head

  show and tell

  deluxe fat cat

  Chicken Piri-Piri

  the mountain board

  road trip

  chicken piri-piri

  bunking off

  telephone calls

  making friends with Marco isn’t easy

  problem not solved

  a Tribe of five

  a sticky situation and not from surf wax

  strong plunging waves, with shifting beach breaks

  boring, boring, boring

  welcoming Marco and Ed

  Goodbye, Copper Pie

  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.

  ‘OK, if that’s what everyone wants. But it won’t take five of us to sell water bombs.’ Bee was in Sergeant-Major mode.

  ‘Too right, said Copper Pie. ‘They’ll sell themselves.’

  ‘Drench your favourite teacher for 50p,’ said Fifty.

  ‘Is that how much we’re charging?’ I asked. I started to calculate how much money our stall was going to make.

  ‘How much do they cost?’ asked Bee.

  I’d already found the best price on the internet. ‘You can get a thousand water bombs for £14.50 including delivery.’

  ‘Wow! A thousand serious soakings of seriously sad members of staff,’ said Fifty. ‘An excellent afternoon’s fun.’

  ‘How much does one cost then?’ asked Copper Pie.

  ‘Work it out, idiot,’ said Bee, which was a bit cruel because Copper Pie doesn’t even do adding, so dividing . . .

  ‘They’re 1.45p each,’ I said.

  I ignored the rolling eyes. What’s the point of calling me Keener if I don’t have all the answers?

  ‘We can’t charge 50p then, can we?’ said Bee.

  I didn’t see why not but I waited to find out.

  ‘We can. We can charge what we like,’ said Fifty. ‘What matters is how much people will pay for them, not what they cost.’

  ‘I don’t think that’s fair,’ said Bee. ‘We should charge enough to make some money, but not squillions.’

  Jonno nodded. Shame. I wanted to side with Fifty – a thousand balloons at 50p each would be £500! But Bee and Jonno were probably right. It wouldn’t be Tribish to fleece all the other kids we’re at school with. We like to get along with everyone . . . well, almost everyone. It’s part of what we agreed when we formed Tribe.

  BEING TRIBISH MEANS:

  • Being fair, not fleecing.

  • Looking after the world, not throwing rubbish in the street.

  • Not being mean, except to seriously nasty people like Callum and Jamie.

  • Liking our horrid patch in the playground, even though it smells.

  • Liking Copper Pie, even though he smells (it’s his diet, according to Bee).

  • Doing the right thing if we can work out what the right thing is.

  • Being loyal to each other.

  • Only lying if it’s really necessary (or really funny).

  • Not lighting random fires (only applies to Fifty).

  ‘All right, how about 10p each?’ said Fifty.

  ‘And three for 25p,’ added Bee, in her new role as Financial Director of Tribe Water Bombs Limited.

  ‘Whatever,’ said Copper Pie. ‘I’m gunning for Miss Walsh. I’ll track her until she’s in a crowd and then chuck one over the top. Smack, straight on her head.’

  ‘That’ll make you popular,’ said Bee. (Copper Pie’s not what you’d call one of our teacher’s favourites.)

  ‘I’ll be undercover.’ He thinks he’s some sort of spy, but he’s actually a redheaded football hooligan.

  ‘So what else are we going to sell? We’ve got a whole table,’ Bee asked. We all looked at each other. Bee looked at us. ‘No ideas? That’s good. Because I’ve come up with something.’

  ‘What a surprise!’ said Fifty. ‘Bee in charge.’

  She swung her head so that her black fringe flew in the air, letting Fifty see the mean look she was giving him.

  ‘Bring and Buy.’

  ‘Isn’t that what the W.I. do?’ I said. ‘Bring jam and buy more jam.’

  ‘What’s the double you eye?’ said Copper Pie.

  ‘It’s that glasses shop on the telly. Buy one pair get a second free,’ said Fifty, winking.

  ‘Soooo not funny. It’s the Women’s Institute,’ said Bee. ‘And who cares who else does it? If it’s a good idea, it’s a good idea. Full stop.’

  ‘Comma,’ said Fifty.

  ‘Exclamation mark,’ said Jonno.

  WHAT’S THE W.I.?

  Watch it!

  Warm ice

  Wicked idea

  What if?

  West Indies

  Way in

  Wrought iron

  White ink

  Welly it

  ‘Semi-colon,’ I joined in.

  ‘Can’t we have a proper talk without making up silly lists? We’re not in Reception any more.’

  ‘Remember the water tray,’ said Fifty. ‘I liked the blue sailing boat.’

  ‘Cut!’ Bee sliced the air with her hand like one of those karate fighters who leap in the air and shout ‘Nee haa’. ‘It’s only half Bring and Buy really, because instead of people bringing something for the stall and then buying something in exchange, my idea is we forget the money bit and just do swaps. That’s really green. Bring what you don’t want and take something you do want. I
t’s perfect.’

  ‘But the summer fair’s all about money,’ said Fifty.

  ‘Says who?’ said Bee.

  ‘Well . . . why else have one?’

  ‘If it was only about money, the Head could send round a collecting tin. The fair’s meant to be fun. And because it’s run by the kids it’s meant to show the parents and the grannies what a brilliant school we are.’

  ‘I like it,’ said Jonno.

  ‘What? School?’ said Copper Pie.

  ‘No, Bring and Buy. I like it.’

  ‘Good,’ said Bee. ‘So, you lot can do the water bombs and I’ll sort out the swap stall.’

  ‘I’ll help you, Bee,’ said Jonno.

  ‘Weirdo,’ said Copper Pie. ‘Water bombs or the W.I. and you choose —’

  ‘He chooses to save the planet,’ said Bee, with a smug smile.

  ‘We’ll need loads of stuff to swap,’ said Jonno.

  ‘Why don’t you get the rest of the school to donate things?’ I said.

  Bee groaned. ‘Keep up, Keener. That wouldn’t work. If they give their stuff to us they won’t have anything left to “bring” on the day of the fair to swap for a “buy”.’

  Good point. I decided to leave it to them.

  Bee’s plan was to go round all the houses on her estate with a wheelbarrow and collect old books and toys and jugs and garden gnomes. Jonno said he’d do the same, but that DVDs might be more popular than creepy miniature men with long white hair, Noddy hats and fishing rods. Fifty thought remote controls that don’t work anymore would be good because his baby sister, Probably Rose, likes to chew them.

  ‘We don’t want rubbish,’ said Bee.

  ‘Yes we do,’ said Fifty. ‘Anything that doesn’t get swapped can go on a massive bonfire afterwards.’ (Told you: Fifty and fires!)

  ‘No way, we’ll take it to the charity shop. We need to recycle, not add a great cloud of smoke to the air we breathe.’

  ‘But I do love a fire. Couldn’t we have a tiny, hardly-even-hot one?’

  ‘Someone sit on him,’ said Bee. Copper Pie did. Fifty squealed like a piglet. Jonno took no notice – he was really keen on Bee’s idea.