Free Betsey Biggalow Is Here! by Malorie Blackman Page A

trainers. She’d got them at last. Mum handed over the bag she was hiding behind her back. Betsey opened the bag and . . .
    “What’s the matter?” asked Sherena.
    “Oh!” Betsey couldn’t say anything else. Her eyes started stinging and there was a huge, choking lump in her throat. Botheration! These weren’t the trainers she wanted. Where were the ones with the white fronts and the black soles and the red laces? Where were her special trainers? Still in the shop – that’s where!
    These ones were pink and grey and didn’t have any black writing on them like the ones she wanted.
    “Betsey . . .” Gran’ma warned. “Your mum had to take time off work to buy those for you.”
    “Don’t you like them, Betsey?” Mum asked.
    “They’re lovely,” Betsey whispered.
    “Put them on then,” urged Desmond.
    Betsey sat down and, oh so slowly, she put on her new shoes.
    “They look boss!” Sherena smiled.
    “The best trainers I’ve ever seen,” said Desmond.
    Gran’ma Liz didn’t say anything. She just watched Betsey.

    “Can I go and show them to my friend May, please?” Betsey asked Mum.
    “Go ahead then.” Mum smiled. “But don’t stay with her too long. You’ve still got your morning chores to finish.”
    Betsey ran out of the kitchen. She couldn’t wait to get out of the house. She looked down at her feet. These shoes weren’t her special trainers. These shoes were just horrible. Betsey ran all the way to May’s house – sprinting as if to run the trainers right off her feet. At May’s house, Betsey knocked and knocked again. May opened the door. Worse still, May opened the door wearing the very same trainers that Betsey had wanted so much.
    “Hi May,” Betsey said glumly.
    “Hi Betsey,” said May. “I was just going to the beach. Coming?”
    Betsey shrugged. “Just for a little while.”
    So off they went. But things weren’t right. No, they weren’t. By the time Betsey and May reached the beach, they were having a full blown, full grown argument.
    “Well, my trainers are the best in the country,” said May.
    “My trainers are the best in the world,” Betsey fumed.
    “Talk sense! My trainers are the best in the universe,” said May.
    “I hate you and your trainers,” Betsey shouted. “And I hate these ones I’m wearing and I hate
everything
.”

    “And I hate you and your smelly shoes too,” May stormed.
    Betsey and May stared and glared and scowled and growled at each other.
    Then Betsey started to smile, then to laugh, then to hold her stomach she was laughing so much.
    “What’s so funny?” May asked, still annoyed.
    “Botheration! Imagine hating a pair of shoes!” Betsey laughed. “You hate my shoes and I hate your shoes. And both pairs of shoes are probably laughing at us for being so foolish.”
    “All this fuss over a pair of trainers,” May agreed with a giggle.

    “Come on! Let’s have a run. Things are always better after a run on the beach,” said Betsey. “I’ll race you to that palm tree yonder.”
    “Ready . . . steady . . . go!”
    And off they both sprinted, faster than fast. They leapt over the sand and through the lapping water, kicking up the spray as they went, laughing and laughing. Until finally, they both collapsed in the shade of the palm tree Betsey had pointed to. Who won the race? Neither May nor Betsey cared.
    Betsey glanced down at her wet shoes. They were all right! Not the ones she’d wanted, but a present from her mum just the same. A special present. A wonderful surprise.
    “Look at that!” said May, surprised. May pointed to her trainers. The red colour in her laces was running down the white front of her trainers and over the black writing. May’s trainers didn’t like getting wet – not one little bit. Betsey glanced down at her own trainers – still grey and pink and no running colours anywhere. She jumped up.
    “May, let’s walk along the beach for a bit longer,” said Betsey. “We can collect shells