The Suitcase Kid by Jacqueline Wilson

wondered if I’d made it myself.
    â€˜You’ve done quite a professional little jobthere, Andy. You’ve quite a way with wood,’ he said, turning the boat backwards and forwards admiringly (but making Radish feel terribly seasick in the process).
    â€˜Not me. Graham made it for me. He’s my sort-of brother,’ I said proudly.
    â€˜I thought you always moaned about all these sisters and brothers of yours,’ said Mr Peters.
    â€˜Not Graham. We’re mates, Graham and me.’
    â€˜That’s good. Well any time you want to bring him along with you he’d be very welcome. Some Saturday, say?’
    â€˜Oh. Well. He’s got lots of homework to do. And he shuts himself up with his computer for hours. I’m not sure he could spare the time,’ I said.
    Mr Peters just nodded. He didn’t seem to mind either way. But I did.
    I wanted to keep Mr and Mrs Peters all to myself. They’d become my sort-of grandparents and I didn’t see why I should have to share them. It was enough bother having to share my mum and my dad.
    And yet I liked Graham a lot. He wasn’t busy
all
the time on Saturdays. He’d like to see Radish sailing his boat on the pond. He’d like Mrs Peters and her seed cake. He’d especiallylike Mr Peters and the little lean-to at the back of the house where he did his woodwork.
    But what if it all got spoiled? What if Mr and Mrs Peters fussed round after Graham and I got left out again?
    But what if it was fun? I could show Graham all my secret places in the garden and all the special things Mr and Mrs Peters had made for me and Radish, and maybe they’d fuss over me a bit while he was there so he could see they liked me a lot. And maybe Graham could do some whittling with Mr Peters while I did some sewing with Mrs Peters and then we could all join up for tea and cakes and that way no-one would be left out.
    I stayed awake even longer than Katie trying to sort it all out in my head. (There was no problem about asking Katie. No way. Never.)
    But the next morning I waylaid Graham on the stairs and asked him over to the Peters’ place on Saturday.
    â€˜Oh, I’m not sure I could make it. I’ve got lots to do. No, thanks Andy, but I’d much rather not,’ he gabbled.
    I was mad. I thought he’d be thrilled to bits. Well,
grateful
at the very least. But it turned out I had to go down on my knees and begbefore he’d agree to go with me. And even then he moaned and groaned all the way.
    â€˜This is mad, Andy. They’re your friends, not mine. This old man won’t really want to meet me. And I wish you hadn’t shown him that boat. It was just these bits of old wood nailed together. I made it too quickly, it wasn’t any good at all.’
    â€˜Well, Mr Peters thought it was
ever
so good. He’s dying to meet you, Graham. He wants to show you all his woodwork stuff and you can have a go at making something together.’
    â€˜I can’t do things with anyone watching. I go all fingers and thumbs. Dad says I’m useless. Oh Andy, why can’t you mind your own business,’ said Graham, giving me a shove.
    But I didn’t shove back. I understood. No wonder Graham was a bit of a wimp. Anyone would be, with the baboon for their dad. I suppose he loved Graham but he certainly didn’t seem to like him. He was always nagging at him to act like a
real boy
. If the baboon was an example of a
real man
then they’re a pretty duff species. My mum is
mad
wanting a bloke like the baboon. Mad mad mad. Still, I don’t suppose there’s any way I can like it so I’ll just have to lump it. Even though un-Uncle Bill is a blooming big lump.
    â€˜It’s OK, Graham,’ I said. ‘You don’t have to feel shy. Mr Peters is ever so nice and he never ever shouts or gets shirty.’
    â€˜I don’t feel a bit shy,’ said Graham fiercely, going red.
    He went even redder