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
