A Thousand Water Bombs. T. M. Alexander

said Fifty.

      ‘We all agree,’ said Jonno. ‘Get sending, Fifty.’

      ‘I’ll do it as soon as I get home. Operation Email will be complete by 1700 hours.’

      I was pleased I’d come up with the slogan, but that meant I was involved, which I wasn’t pleased about. I avoid trouble like surfers on Solana Beach avoid great white sharks. The email was bound to come flying back at us – outraged parents, abusing the class list system, an unfair advantage, the data protection police . . .

      ‘I’m going back to the art room before the bell goes. Coming, Fifty?’

      ‘Sure.’

      On the way I tried to talk him out of it. He doesn’t like trouble either. But he was dead set on it.

      ‘It’s on your head,’ I said, but it wouldn’t be, would it? It would be on Tribe’s.

      I checked the computer before I went to bed. The email was there. And it was from Fifty, making him prime suspect if the Head found out. He could have at least used his mum’s address.

      From: [email protected]

      Subject: SOMETHING YOUWANT, FOR SOMETHING YOU DON’T

      Date: 22 May 16:47:45 BST

      To: undisclosed-recipients

      At the summer fair on Saturday there is going to be a Give and Take stall. Please bring something you don’t want, to swap for something you do.

      No money involved. This is an environmentally friendly stall.

       three days until the swap shop

      We were all hanging around by the gates before school, except Copper Pie.

      ‘Have you ever known Copper Pie be late? asked Fifty.

      I thought about it. ‘No,’ I said.

      ‘Never,’ said Bee.

      ‘He’s probably trying to avoid the water bomb production line,’ said Fifty.

      ‘Has he even done one?’ I asked.

      ‘Don’t think so,’ said Fifty.

      ‘How many are ready?’ asked Bee.

      I looked at Fifty to see if he knew. His face was blank, so I answered. ‘About . . . four hundred?’

      ‘So will you finish in time?’

      ‘We will if we bribe some more kids,’ said Fifty.

      ‘I’ll help,’ said Bee. ‘You will too, won’t you, Jonno?’

      ‘If I have to, but I’m going to make a lip shield first so I don’t end up like them.’

      He pointed at me and Fifty. Our lips had stopped bleeding but they were still a peculiar dark red colour, like we’d been gnawing raw meat.

      Thanks to Bee’s organisation, at lunchtime there were four Tribers (no Copper Pie – off sick according to Miss Walsh), three of the Year 5s from the day before (two were off sick, probably with lesser-known lip fever, and one had given up) and three new ones. In between bombs she told us how much stuff she’d already collected for the Give and Take, and how many kids had told her they were bringing cool things to swap.

      ‘Don’t forget we’ve got to go back to that lady who said she’d sort through her rubbish,’ said Jonno (Swap Stall Deputy).

      ‘Let’s go after school,’ said Bee. ‘And then I need to do some cleaning. Some people are really disgusting – there’s chewing gum on the French horn.’ Something sticky from someone else’s mouth – yuck.

      BEST ITEMS

      Boomerang

      French horn

      Heart-shaped hot water bottle with no stopper

      Mini darts set

      Car seat with sticky patches

      Set of skittles

      New red and yellow stripy tights

      Half of a pair of crutches

      A typewriter

      Pair of snow boots

      Fruit bowl

      An old-fashioned pram

      ‘But what about the meeting?’ I said. (It was Wednesday.)

      ‘Let’s postpone,’ said Bee. ‘Too much to do before Saturday.’

      ‘Let’s have a meeting after the summer fair instead,’ said Jonno.

      ‘Good idea, in the Tribehouse with cakes,’ I said, remembering the fantastic marshmallow cupcakes Bee made to bribe the Alley Cat girls, ages ago when Tribe was new.

      ‘Same,’ said Fifty.

      ‘There’s no time to make any,’ said Bee. Shame!

      ‘I’ll get Mum to buy some,’ said Fifty.

      Water bombs waiting in the art room, ready to burst, a pile of treasures in Bee’s garage, ready to swap, and a tray of cakes waiting in the Tribehouse, ready to eat. It was all going too well . . .