Buried Alive! by Jacqueline Wilson Page B

I’m good at this!’ Kelly yelled immodestly.
    Her mum was even better. She passed Keanu over to my mum, hardly bothered to take aim, gave the ball a sharp little tap – and got a hole in one!
    â€˜Well done, well done!’ said Dad, and patted her on the back.
    Dave gave her a great-big-kiss-on-the-lips – a very different sort of kiss from the kind Dad gives Mum.
    Mum didn’t look in a kissy mood at all. She thrust Keanu at Dad and took aim. She didn’t get a hole in one. Or two or three or four. Dad kept telling her to hold her club at a different angle and Mum’s lips got tighter and her knuckles whiter as she gripped the club and whacked. Her score was six.
    Dean scored six too. He did much better than I’d expect of a little kid his age.
    Then Kelly’s mum’s boyfriend Dave had a go and he scored
another
hole in one. There was another great-big-kiss-on-the-lips. They even made
noises
. Biscuits imitated them delightedly. Mum nudged him and frowned. I’d have died of embarrassment if I was Kelly but she just laughed and said if they went on like that she’d have to tip them in the waterfall to cool them off.
    Then it was Dad’s turn. He still had Keanu. He tried to pass him over to Biscuits and me, but we backed away. Kelly rescued us and took him herself. Dad took a long time, bending his knees and peering at the hole and swinging his club around.
    â€˜Come on, mate, get on with it,’ Kelly’s mum’s boyfriend Dave said, wiping Kelly’s mum’s lipstick off his chin.
    Dad looked a little irritated and hit the ball. He didn’t get a hole in one. Or two. He scored three.
    â€˜Here, I thought you were meant to be an ace golfer!’ said Kelly’s mum’s boyfriend Dave, looking amused.
    â€˜Yes, but no-one can play properly on these little Mickey Mouse greens,’ Dad said quickly. ‘Come on, boys, get a move on. We’re holdingup the next players.’
    I turned round and saw to my horror there was a little queue of people waiting to start their game. They’d all be watching me.
    â€˜I don’t want to play!’ I mumbled.
    â€˜You might be good at golf,’ said Biscuits cheerily. ‘Shall I go next then?’
    Biscuits was brilliant! He very nearly got a hole in one himself, but it just bounced over it. He sunk the ball with just one more quick putt.
    â€˜Wowie!
I’m
good at golf!’ said Biscuits, doing a little joggy up and down dance, making everyone laugh.
    I was glad for him – and yet I wished he’d made a real muck-up of it. Then I wouldn’t be the worst.
    â€˜Come on, Tim,’ Dad yelled at me. ‘Everyone’s waiting.’
    â€˜Look, it’s OK, I won’t play,’ I said. ‘I don’t mind a bit. I don’t want to make all these people wait.’
    â€˜Don’t be so silly, Tim,’ said Dad, and he came striding over to me. He lowered his head. ‘Don’t show me up in front of all the others,’ he hissed. ‘Just get on with it.’
    I tried. My hands were slippy as I seized the club. I took a wild swing. And missed completely.
    â€˜Hey, hey, careful!’ said Dad. ‘No, you’ve got to keep your eye on the ball. Have another go.’
    I tried. I did hit the ball this time. About a centimetre.
    â€˜Hit it a bit
harder
, Tim,’ said Dad, sighing. ‘And hold the club with your hands together. No wonder you’re so useless.’
    I tried again. I could hear giggling behind me. Kelly and Biscuits were talking together, looking at me.
    It was cold in the moonlight, with a sharp breeze off the sea, but I was burning hot. I took another swing and the ball went careering off in totally the wrong direction.
    There was a great scornful whoop. Not from behind. Not from in front. From above. I looked up.
It was Prickle-Head and Pinch-Face!
    â€˜Oh no. Oh Dad, please. I can’t play any more. Don’t