A Thousand Water Bombs (2 page)

‘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.

‘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.

‘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. It’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.

‘We’ll have to make sure all the kids at school know to bring things on the day to swap,’ he said. ‘If not they’ll only bring money.’

‘Posters,’ said Bee. ‘We’ll ask the Head. And maybe an announcement in assembly. She’s bound to agree if I explain what a good use of resources it is. I’ve
just thought – if it works, the school could do a swap stall for Earth Day.’ (Bee’s meant to be suggesting something for next year’s Earth Day, when we’ve all gone to
senior school.)

So the summer fair was all agreed. We handed in our Tribe subs, had a chat about what to buy for the hut (not a lot because we only had £3.78) and then it was time for Fifty to have his
tea so we all dived through the cat flap and went home. I walked with Copper Pie for a bit. His plan was to buy all the water bombs himself and co-ordinate an attack on a series of key targets,
including his little brother, Charlie.

If only he’d stuck to his plan.

nine days to go and no definite plans yet

The next day I was running across the playground to catch up with the other Tribers when I was ambushed by Flo – the little sister with the not-so-little voice.

‘Keener, what are you going to do at the fair?’

‘It’s a secret.’

‘That’s not nice, I’m your sister.’

‘You’re not nice,’ I said.

‘I’ll tell Mum,’ she said.

‘You don’t have to,’ I said. ‘She already knows you’re not nice.’

I should have been ready for it, but I was busy thinking about all the things we needed to do before the big day. She got me on the left shin with her sparkly purple trainers.

‘I’ll find out what it is. And I’ll tell everyone not to have a go on your stall because you’re mean.’

And then the right shin.
Ow!

‘All right, all right,’ I said. I didn’t want anyone to catch me being pulped by a Year 3. ‘I’ll tell you.’ I leant down to whisper in her ear.
‘We’re selling home-made chocolate babies.’ Flo
loves
babies. She smiled, a rare and frightening sight.

‘I want one for free.’

‘Fine,’ I said. ‘Just don’t tell anyone. We don’t want loads of stalls selling home-made chocolate babies.’

When I made it to our patch under the trees – the home we share with stag beetles, longhorn beetles and other weevils all identified by our resident entomologist, Jonno – I found Bee
in tears.

‘What’s up?’

‘Shall I tell the terrible tale?’ said Fifty.

Bee nodded.

‘Bee’s dad has left home.’

Crikey. I searched my stupid head for something to say but all the words were hiding in the creases of my brain. I don’t know anyone who’s divorced, except Fifty’s Uncle
Terry.

‘But he’ll be back,’ said Copper Pie.

‘It’s just a question of when,’ said Jonno.

So, not divorce,
I thought.
Something more complicated.

‘He says he’s not coming back until the twins find somewhere else to squat.’ Bee sniffed between every word.

Now I understood. The twins have jobs and a car and are really old. Bee’s mum likes having ‘her boys’ at home but Bee’s dad keeps trying to chuck them out. He’d
obviously given up and moved out instead.

‘Do you know where he is?’ said Jonno.

Bee shook her head. ‘They had a row and then he went to football and didn’t come back.’

Copper Pie made a strange noise and wriggled.

‘What it is?’ said Fifty. ‘Are you trying to burp?’

‘He’s at mine. I think. Bee’s dad. Maybe. At mine. Maybe.’ It came out of C.P. like a volley of bullets.

‘What?!’ shouted Bee. ‘Why didn’t you tell me right away?’

Copper Pie looked worried. More worried than when he was sent to the Head for throttling Jonno (before Jonno was a mate).

‘Don’t kill me.’

Bee didn’t – she was too busy crying.

‘Is he at yours or not, Copper Pie?’ I asked. It seemed as though someone should. There were too many ‘maybes’.

‘Yes, but I didn’t know it until Bee said she didn’t know where he was.’

‘You aren’t making any sense, Copper Pie,’ said Jonno. ‘Have you seen Bee’s dad?’

‘No.’

‘So why did you say you had?’ I asked.

‘Because I saw his trainers.’

‘But no body,’ said Fifty.

‘No. If there was a body I’d have known it was Bee’s dad.’

It wasn’t the most straightforward of conversations.

‘We’re not following you,’ said Jonno.

‘There were two big trainers at the top of the stairs when I left for school. And when I was in bed last night I heard Mum and Dad laughing so I reckoned there was someone
—’

‘Laughing?’ Bee hunched her shoulders and stared down at the floor.

Jonno nudged Copper Pie who caught on pretty quickly . . . for him anyway.

‘Maybe not laughing. No. More like crying.’

I winked at him. You could tell he felt uncomfortable about harbouring the criminal at his house, even if he’d only just realised.

‘Why would Bee’s dad go to yours?’ asked Jonno. I forget that he doesn’t know everything about us. He’s only been here a few weeks but the rest of us have been
friends forever.

Bee’s dad and Copper Pie’s dad play football together on Wednesdays and Sundays. It’s a team for old people and Copper Pie says they’re Rubbish with a capital R. He also
says that on Wednesdays, the football’s in the pub. It made sense that Bee’s dad had gone to a mate’s. That’s what I’d do if I ran away. I’d go to Jonno’s
because he’s got a fantastic bedroom with loads of techy stuff and his mum and dad are cool and he’s got no brothers or sisters to mess things up.

‘Come home with me after school,’ said Copper Pie. ‘We’ll see if he’s still there.’

‘No, thanks,’ said Bee. ‘If he doesn’t want to live with us, you can have him.’

Oh dear!

I really wanted to get on with the water bomb discussions. Should I ask Dad to order them? Should I make a sign for the stall? Who was making posters? What should we put the money in? But
something told me we were meant to carry on with the sorry-your-Dad’s-gone discussion so I shut up and let Jonno and Fifty try and make things better.

Jonno asked Bee why her dad didn’t want to live with her brothers. She told him about all the things they DIDN’T do: wash up, wash their hands, wash their feet, change their socks,
clean their teeth, cook, put the toilet seat back down, change the sheets, go to the supermarket, turn the telly off, clear away after tea.

And then she told him all the things they DID do: eat everything in the fridge even if it says
Don’t Eat
, watch telly till three o’clock in the morning
on loud
, bring
friends home without asking, borrow Dad’s stuff and lose it, sleep in till lunchtime, borrow money from Mum (Dad won’t lend them any) and
never
pay it back. Eat even more. Stay
in bed even later. Watch more telly.