by Cath Crowley
‘What do you think?’
‘I think some dreams get you killed. But I know better than to stand in your way.’
‘So you’ll talk to the principal?’
‘Yes, and as of now you’re relieved of duties at the shop. We’re making enough money to hire someone else and you’ll need all your spare time to study and train.’ I kiss her hard on the cheek.
‘I worry for you so much. You kick your way through life without seeing how dangerous it can be.’
‘Danger’s part of the fun, Mum.’
‘Gracie, do you remember one summer, when you were in Year 4 at school? You and Jane wanted to sleep outside in your dad’s tent.’
‘We heard noises in the back yard.’
‘You two were scared out of your minds, and you still wouldn’t come inside. Too stubborn, the pair of you.’ Mum shakes her head at the memory. ‘Jane was so white in the morning from lack of sleep I was embarrassed to take her home.’
‘But we were fine.’
‘I know,’ she says, and touches my hair. ‘But I can’t bear to see you scared, Gracie. You’re my daughter. I guess what I’m saying is, play if you have to; just don’t be too proud to come inside.’
‘I won’t. I’ll be okay.’
I never told Mum, and neither did Jane, but I wasn’t afraid that night. I knew the shadows on the wall of the tent were trees, not monsters, not ‘psychotic maniacs, Faltrain’, like Jane kept whispering. She begged to go in the house, but Jane hardly ever got scared, so I wouldn’t let her. I knew she’d be disappointed if she did.
‘See,’ I said when the sun came up the next morning. ‘We were fine.’
‘Next sleepover, Faltrain, we stay in my house, in front of the TV, like normal people do.’ She stuffed her sleeping bag into its cover with little punches.
‘That wouldn’t have been half as much fun, though, Jane,’ I said.
The fun in life is the adventure. The fun is in taking chances.
9
Great boyfriend, great soccer, great life? What a load of crap.
Gracie Faltrain
‘Gracie, didn’t your mum give you the message?’ Jane asks when she calls before school.
‘I didn’t have time to call back. There’s a lot going on here. Yoosta’s been trying to keep me off the Firsts team. So has Martin. But we’re making an appointment to see Yoosta later on today. One meeting with Mum and he’ll be on our side.’
‘That’s great.’
‘I know. It means I have to train hard. The tryout games are in just over a week. That’s not a long time to get ready.’
‘What’s Martin’s story, then? Why’s he trying to keep you off the team?’
‘He says he wants to protect me. He’s gutless, Jane. I don’t even want to speak to him anymore. The only thing I’m saying to him is, “I told you so”, after the tryouts. Until then, I’m planning on ignoring him.’
‘Don’t you have a match tomorrow?’
‘Don’t need to speak to play.’
‘I guess not. But Faltrain, Martin is your friend.’
‘He’s not acting like it. Why are you on his side?’
‘I’m not on his side.’
And we’re back to where we were in our last phone call. There’s a note in Jane’s voice that I haven’t heard before. I’m not sure if she’s mad at me, or if she can’t think of anything else to say. In best friend land, both are deadly.
I’m saved by the doorbell. ‘That’ll be Alyce, Jane. I have to go.’
‘Sure, Faltrain – well, good luck with the whole Firsts thing,’ she says, and hangs up.
‘Who was that?’ Alyce asks.
She looks at her watch after I tell her. ‘It’s eleven-thirty at night over there. Is anything wrong?’
‘Not everyone goes to bed at seven, Alyce.’
Nothing’s wrong with Jane, unless you count that after eleven years of friendship we might finally have run out of things to say. I push Alyce out the door. Some thoughts are too awful to stand still for. If you do they’ll sink into your skin and make you think about them all day.
‘So is it true, Gracie?’ Annabelle asks, walking up to Alyce and me at lunchtime. ‘I heard you and Martin broke up.’
Suddenly lunch doesn’t seem so appealing. ‘You heard wrong.’
‘It came from a reliable source.’
‘Oh yeah, and who was that, Susan’s writing on the toilet door?’
‘Martin, actually.’
‘You’re a liar.’ Martin might be acting like an idiot lately, but the last person he would talk to about me is Annabelle Orion.
‘He told me he’s sick of being with a girl who thinks she’s a boy.’
‘Whatever you reckon,’ I say, but even as I do, I can feel the day folding in on me like a letter. Annabelle is about to lick the envelope and post me to Siberia.
I’ve known her as long as I can remember. I’ve seen her lie to teachers about me. I’ve seen her lie to the whole school about me. Her eyes get greener; greedy, like she has stolen a whole chocolate cake and needs to eat it quickly before someone takes it back. She talks slowly today, lets her dessert sit on the plate.
‘He said that you’re always out to prove something – he reckons you do it to show your dad how good you are, to make sure he sticks around.’ It’s the last two words that convince me. They’re straight out of Martin’s mouth.
Annabelle knows she’s won. She smiles, puts me through the mail slot and lets the metal flap clang shut. From inside the box I can hear her slowly licking each finger, finishing her cake.
It’s not that I believe her about Martin and me breaking up. He knows if he did that without telling me first it’d be him getting broken. It’s that he gave Annabelle a part of me. The biggest part.
You’ll be sorry, Annabelle. Everyone will. Mum will beat the Sports Board and then I’ll beat everyone trying out for the Firsts. The bad guys never win. Everyone knows that.
Everyone except the bad guys, that is.
Mum is yelling so loud when I get home I can hear her from the street. I haven’t seen her mad like this since they stopped showing the old movies on Sunday afternoons. ‘There were two coaches from the other teams there. One of them told me that I should control my daughter, Bill. Control her. As if she were a dog that needed a leash.’
‘Perhaps you should relax, Helen,’ Dad says. Looking at Mum today, there’s no way even Dad will be able to calm her down. It’s like he’s facing a tornado with a kite strapped to his back.
‘He said the other schools felt it would be ridiculous to have a girl playing in an all-boys’ competition. I said the only ridiculous thing was that sort of attitude in the twenty-first century.’
Dad starts laughing.
‘What?’ Mum snaps.
‘I was remembering another time I saw you this angry.’
There’s a time for strolls down memory lane, Dad, and this is definitely not one of them. We’re having a crisis.
‘You’d seen me with my sister and thought I was on a date,’ Dad says.
‘She looked so surprised when I tipped that drink over your head.’
‘She liked you right from the start,’ he chuckles.
Mum doesn’t even seem angry anymore. My dream of the Firsts is starting to look like a car wreck on the side of the road.
‘Guys, focus,’ I say, walking into the lounge room. ‘I’m still not allowed to try out. We still have a problem.’
‘It’s not polite to listen at doors, Gracie Faltrain,’ Mum says. ‘No, at the moment they have not changed their minds. But you have earned the right to be on that field. And you will be on that field.’
It seems pretty clear to me tonight, though, that there’s no way I’m playing in that competition. If Yoosta faced Hurricane Helen and it didn’t change his mind, I can’t imagine anything that will.
‘It doesn’t look like parental intervention will help,’ Alyce says when I ring her.
‘What? A
ll I know is that if Mum can’t help, I’m stuffed.’
‘I’m sorry, Gracie.’
‘Sorry won’t change things. Everyone thinks that the girls’ team is where I belong. It’ll help my leadership skills, Yoosta said. I know where I’d like him to shove his leadership skills. Right up his . . .’
‘Gracie,’ Alyce cuts me off. ‘I have to go.’
‘What?’ The single biggest catastrophe of my life and she has to go? How about saying she’ll be over in five minutes to watch TV and eat as many blocks of chocolate as it takes to make me feel better? ‘Alyce, I thought you could come over and watch a DVD.’
‘I can’t tonight. Maybe after the game tomorrow?’
What could she possibly have to do that’s more important than helping me? The rules of friendship clearly state it has to be something big: a death in the family, a fire in the home.
‘I’ve got homework.’
Homework? ‘It’s not even a school night.’ Alyce Fuller, you are not normal. I hold on to the phone for a few seconds after she hangs up, listening to the long beeps echoing in my ear like a flat-line signal from ER. Gracie Faltrain, welcome to the end of your life.
I email Jane and spend the next half an hour staring at my inbox waiting for an answer. I guess she’s not available either. Great boyfriend, great soccer, great friends, great life? What a load of crap.
10
They’re muscles.
Declan Corelli
Yeah, right. Muscles. Spelt b.o.o.b.s.
Gracie Faltrain
There’s nothing more disappointing than an empty inbox. Welcome Gracie Faltrain. You have no messages. Nada. Zero. Zip. Zilch. I can’t believe Jane didn’t write back. What, she’s so busy in England that she doesn’t have time for me anymore? I eat breakfast slowly, filling up that small hope that she’ll call before I have to leave.
Usually soccer takes my mind off everything; even the thought of playing is enough. Not today, though. It’s in my head that this won’t be my team for long and it’s ruining the day like rain.
‘Hey, Faltrain,’ Corelli calls out to me on my way up to the field. ‘Can we talk?’
I follow him round the side of the change rooms. ‘What?’
‘I wanted to ask. My brothers are home from uni for the weekend.’ His words are going all over the place like his kicks.
‘What is it, Corelli?’
‘They’ll be watching me.’
‘So?’
‘Pass me the ball?’
I can’t stop thinking that he has the chance to try out for the Firsts and I don’t. What makes Corelli good enough to play and not me? Some testosterone? No boobs? I have more testosterone than Corelli. And he has more boobs.
‘If you want the ball, take it,’ I say. Corelli shouldn’t get a place just because he’s a boy. I’m better than him. I’m better than all of them. And I can’t afford to feel pity for anyone if I’m going to prove it. I need the old Gracie Faltrain.
‘Sorry, didn’t realise you were trying out for soccer girl of the year,’ Corelli says. He acts tough, but I can see the hurt carving up his face.
‘Come on, now. You know you’re the only one on this team with a real chance at that title.’
‘You can’t drive life in reverse, Gracie,’ Dad said when he moved back home after the National Championships. ‘So make sure you’re happy with the direction you’re going.’
Clearly I have a different model of car from his, because warming up today, I feel like my wheels are spinning backwards at high speed. Martin tries to catch my eye but I ignore him. He doesn’t come over to talk. Lucky for him. It’s hard to be goalie with both your kneecaps smashed in. So everyone in the school thinks I can’t cut it in the Firsts? Well watch this.
I let Flemming have the ball for a minute and then I run in and take it. Just like old times. I can’t afford to look at the faces of my team; I focus on the ball. My legs are faster than everyone on the field. I scoot past Singh, Francavilla and Maiden. I arrive at the goal with time to spare. No one’s on my back. I take the shot. Goal one: Gracie Faltrain.
‘What’s the matter with you?’ Flemming asks on my way past. I ignore him. I’m my own team again. I run at the ball. I swerve around the opposition’s defence and then past Corelli, who’s standing there like an idiot. It’s not my problem his brothers are watching. I fly in and score goal number two.
‘Faltrain,’ Martin says at half time. ‘Don’t do this.’
‘Do what?’
‘You know what. Stop playing like you’re alone out there.’
‘I am alone, Martin. That’s the point.’ I turn away and wait for the whistle to start me again.
I’m ten minutes into the next half when I make my mistake. I look up. And in the background I see Corelli’s entire family, pressed against the wire fence, watching. He’s standing like Alyce at a party, all on his own with nothing to do.
He’s close enough to take the goal and far enough away for him to be a hero if he makes it. His eyes are small round dots, two tiny sprinkles alone on a huge cake. ‘All right, all right.’ I kick the ball in his direction. It lands so close even Alyce couldn’t miss it. I ghost along beside him, blocking anyone who gets in his way. I didn’t give him the ball so he could stuff up.
Corelli runs in close to the goal square, lines the ball up perfectly, and takes the shot. He’s jumping around with his shirt over his head like he’s kicked the winning goal in the World Cup. ‘He looks like a complete idiot,’ Flemming says, but he’s smiling.
‘At least now we know where he gets it from,’ I say. ‘Listen to that.’
‘Go Corelli, woo hoo!’ echoes from the crowd.
‘And that’s his mother,’ I laugh. ‘Ten bucks says she does the Mexican Wave on his second goal.’
‘You’re on.’
When play starts again I move towards the ball and line up another shot for him. I’m ruined. I can’t play for myself anymore. And soon I won’t be able to play with the team, either.
Corelli kicks two goals. The whistle goes. His family does a sort of dance. ‘Pay up, Flemming.’
‘No way. That’s not a Mexican Wave. What is that, Corelli?’
He’s too busy dancing himself to answer. Singh rubs my hair. ‘Thought for a second the old Faltrain was back.’ Francavilla picks me up and shouts like a crazy man. I feel shut out the whole time, though, because I know I won’t be there when they win in the Firsts. I’ll be watching from the side. It’s not the team’s fault, but I can’t stand to be with them just the same. It hurts too much to be around what I can’t have.
Jane still hasn’t emailed me when I get home. It’s the first time I haven’t spoken to her after a game. ‘It’s not over till it’s over, Faltrain,’ she’d say if she were here. I pick up a piece of chocolate and sandwich it between two chips. ‘Oh it’s over, Jane. Believe me, it’s over.’
11
The world’s brutal. And if you’re not the sort of person who can leap into it head on then you’re the sort of person who gets squashed in the rush.
Gracie Faltrain
‘You’d think they’d want to know how I’m doing,’ I say over breakfast on Monday morning. ‘Neither of them has called all weekend. Alyce didn’t even come to the game. I could be dead, for all they know.’
‘You’re not dead,’ Mum says. ‘And some people do have lives that don’t revolve around you . . .’
Ouch. Lucky for me the phone rings and cuts Mum off. She looks like she has a whole lot more to say.
‘Hi,’ Alyce says when I answer. She acts as if she hasn’t done anything wrong.
‘I’m sorry, who’s speaking?’
‘Gracie, I just rang to say I’ll meet you at school today. I’ve got some homework to do in the library.’
‘What homework is more important than me?’ I ask after I hang up.
‘More importantly, what homework haven’t you done that Alyce is doing?’ Mum answers.
‘None.’
> ‘Don’t “None” me. Get to school and find out. I’ll keep fighting, but you need to stay out of trouble.’
Alyce is sitting at one of the computers when I walk into the library. ‘What homework did we have?’
‘You know – that assignment for English. You already handed it in.’
‘I did?’
‘Stop worrying about schoolwork and start thinking about the tryouts.’
‘No point in doing that. I’m ready enough for the girls’ team.’
‘Gracie, there’s nothing wrong with a girls’ soccer team.’
Maybe that’s why Alyce has been ignoring me. She’s mad. ‘I never said a girls’ team wouldn’t be good. It’s just, it won’t be my team. I won’t be playing with Martin and Flemming and Francavilla, the guys I started with.’
‘I said stop worrying. I have a feeling that everything will work out fine.’
That’s easy for Alyce to say. I’m not like her. I can’t sit back and wait and hope that I’ll get what I want. That’s why she was alone until we became friends. It’s why she’ll never get Flemming without my help. It’s why no one likes her. That sounds harsh, I know, but the world is harsh.
Last night on the news they showed this riot that erupted at a football game. The crowd started pushing and all these people were trampled. Dad saw the look on my face and flicked the channel.
He doesn’t get it. I see stuff like that every day. I see Annabelle Orion walking over the top of Alyce because she’s too little to matter. I see myself, sitting on the sidelines of the most important competition of my life, because I’m a girl.
‘I’m not like you, Alyce. I can’t sit back and wait for things to be okay.’
‘Gracie, you’re yelling. People are looking at us.’
‘Have some backbone, Alyce. Who cares if people are staring?’
She turns around to her computer and keeps typing. Typical. No wonder Flemming doesn’t know she’s alive. Being good gets you where Alyce is. Waiting gets you where Dad is. It gets you nowhere. If I can’t play in the Firsts then at least I’m going out with some dignity. I’ll show every boy in that competition that I’m good enough to beat them, that the only reason I’m not playing is because they’re too scared to go up against me.