Gracie Faltrain Takes Control

by Cath Crowley

  I slam the door of the library. The wood bounces against the frame. I feel better than I have in days.

  ‘Annabelle,’ I say when I get to her locker. ‘Tell Woodbury to meet me in the park next to the school at five o’clock tonight.’

  ‘And why would I do that?’

  ‘Because if you don’t, I’ll tell everyone that I challenged him to a kick-off and he didn’t turn up. You wouldn’t want your boyfriend’s mates thinking he’s scared of a girl, would you?’

  ‘Dan’s not scared of you.’

  ‘Then there shouldn’t be a problem.’

  ‘Faltrain,’ Martin calls as I’m walking to class. ‘Wait up.’

  ‘Get lost, Martin.’

  ‘We need to talk.’

  ‘About what? How you told Annabelle I’m scared my dad’ll leave again?’

  ‘Is that why you’re still mad at me?’

  ‘I’m mad because you’re an idiot. Annabelle is the reason I can’t try out for the Firsts and you’re talking to her like she hasn’t done anything wrong.’

  ‘Faltrain, I’m sorry. I should’ve kept my mouth shut. But I thought if Annabelle knew about your family, she’d understand why soccer’s so important to you. I thought maybe she’d call her friends off. But she’s only one of the reasons Yoosta won’t let you play. It’s in the rules that the competition is strictly boys only.’

  ‘You don’t think of me as a girl when I’m on the team.’

  He laughs and scratches at his arm. ‘I pretty much think of you as a girl all the time, now, Faltrain. Those guys are fierce. I don’t want you to get hammered every match you play.’

  ‘I won’t, Martin. When I’m out on that field I don’t feel like a boy or a girl. I don’t think about that at all. I think about winning and taking the shot. I think about soccer.’

  He keeps scratching at his arm. ‘I know. Flemming knows too. He feels bad that he let you down. The whole team does. We all saw what you did for Corelli. So, we decided: either you try out, or none of us do.’

  In my whole life I’ve only heard three things that have made me so happy I could cry. Dad telling me he’s coming home. Martin telling me I’m the one. And this.

  ‘What?’ Coach roars at practice after school. The whole team has turned out to support me and it feels great. We’re all standing in front of him except for Corelli, who’s standing with his testosterone, ready to run, near the door. ‘What are you telling me, Knight?’

  ‘That if Faltrain doesn’t try out, then neither do we.’

  ‘I don’t have a team without you.’ Coach is moving from angry to desperate. Any minute he’s going to cry.

  ‘Exactly,’ Martin answers.

  ‘I’ve tried already,’ he says, sitting down and sighing. ‘Faltrain, I’ve been in there at least three times, and every time he tells me the same thing. The Inter-school Sports Board has to waive the rule. And they won’t.’

  ‘Then we don’t enter a team,’ Flemming says. ‘Simple.’

  Everyone leaves one by one after that, feet dragging across the ground. Martin and Flemming and I stay. I have that same feeling I get when I lose a game. Except this time it’s worse. I’ve lost the entire season in one day.

  ‘So I should let the Board know we’re out?’ Coach says, his eyes drifting upwards, like a kid who has lost his balloon. Martin and Flemming look at me. I find myself looking for that balloon, right along with Coach. There’s only one right answer. I want so bad to give the wrong one, but I start to shake my head.

  ‘Wait . . .’ And then there’s a tiny knock on the door. ‘Alyce?’

  ‘Hi,’ she says shyly, so soft the wind outside almost steals it. She doesn’t look at me directly, just passes two pieces of paper over. As soon as I read them I want to hug her so hard she squeaks. But I can’t get close enough. My angry words from this morning are still sitting between us.

  ‘So that’s what you’ve been up to.’

  ‘I didn’t want to tell you until I was sure it would help.’

  ‘What is it?’ Martin asks. ‘Hand it over, Faltrain.’ He takes the paper from me and starts to laugh. ‘Has Yoosta seen these?’

  ‘I gave copies to him this afternoon,’ Alyce answers. ‘He’s read my email to the paper explaining what’s happening to Gracie and their reply to say that they are very interested in writing a story about it. Seems it’s a topical issue.’

  ‘Have you heard back from him?’ I ask.

  ‘That’s what I came to tell you. He called me into his office after the last lesson. He contacted the Board. He says this could convince them to let you on the team. This isn’t the sort of publicity they need or want when the finals, and some of the matches, are being televised and reported in the local papers.’

  ‘Does that mean I’m in?’

  ‘I don’t know, Gracie. But I think you should get your mum to make another appointment with him. Get her to bring your dad too, and tell her to take this.’ Alyce hands me another letter. This one’s from the paper to Mum and Dad, explaining that they’re very interested in writing my story.

  ‘But Mum didn’t write to the paper.’

  ‘I know that,’ Alyce says, and smiles. ‘But no one else does.’ Like I’ve always said, there’s more to Alyce than meets the eye. A whole lot more.

  As we walk outside Flemming’s smile is bigger than anyone’s. ‘Alyce saves the day,’ he says, kicking the ball hard and chasing after it.

  That’s the first time he’s said her name, so I’m betting that blush on her face goes all the way down to her toes.

  ‘We should celebrate,’ Martin says. ‘What do you want to do, Faltrain?’

  I look at my watch. Four forty-five. ‘I’d like to buy Alyce a doughnut. I just have to do one small thing on the way.’

  ‘One small thing, huh?’ Martin says, looking at the crowd of kids standing in the park. ‘There must be fifty people here.’

  I recognise some of the guys from the off-season games. They seem taller, though. I guess guys can grow a lot in a few months.

  ‘What are they waiting for?’ Flemming asks.

  ‘I’ll take a lucky guess and say – Faltrain,’ Martin answers. He turns to me. ‘What did you do?’

  ‘I challenged Woodbury to a kick-off.’

  Martin stares at the crowd. ‘Good plan.’

  ‘It seemed like it was at the time.’

  ‘You want some help out there?’ he asks.

  ‘Nope. This is something I have to do alone.’

  As I move, the crowd closes in like a fist with fifty fingers. ‘Actually,’ I look back at Martin and Flemming and Alyce. ‘Maybe you could just make sure that this is something I do alone.’

  The four of us walk out into the middle of the crowd. This isn’t exactly how I imagined it. ‘Life never is, Faltrain,’ Jane would say. I know she’s right, but just once, I wish that things would turn out as I picture them in my head. And I’d like this to be that one time.

  ‘See you invited some friends along, Woodbury,’ I say when I reach him.

  ‘I can’t help it if there are a lot of people who want to see you beaten, Faltrain.’

  ‘It’s a shame they’re going to be disappointed.’

  ‘How do you want to do this?’ he asks.

  ‘We play a twenty-minute game. Just you and me against each other. The one who scores the most wins.’

  ‘Who are the goalies?’ he asks.

  ‘You pick yours. I’ll pick mine.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ he says, walking over to the crowd and talking to a guy at least twice my size. Martin starts moving towards the goal.

  ‘Good luck, Gracie,’ Alyce says.

  ‘Thanks. And Alyce, I’m sorry I yelled at you today.’

  She shrugs. ‘We can talk about it later, Gracie. Now, get out there and use your anger in a good way.’ She sounds like one of those videos they make us watch in Personal Development classes and Flemming starts laughing next to her.

  ‘Good luck, Faltrain,�
�� he says. ‘Although something tells me it’s Woodbury who’s gonna need it.’

  The light is dropping by the time we start. It’s hard to see. Shadows of birds cartwheel across the sky. The crowd casts dark shapes. Woodbury and I stand opposite each other. The ball sits on the ground between us. ‘When the whistle goes,’ he says, ‘it’s whoever kicks first.’

  It seems like hours before someone blows the whistle. I keep my body tense, ready to jump. I take a quick look at Woodbury. He’s standing the same way. We’ve both got everything to lose. And everything to gain.

  The sound hits the air and my legs move a second too late. Usually I’m quicker than light, quicker than breath at the kickoff, but today my nerves are sand in my blood.

  Woodbury has feathers in his, hundreds of them. He races down the field, feet cradling the ball. I’m too far behind to stop him. He swings to the right before goal and kicks. The smack of his boot is hidden in cheers.

  But it’s my old friend in the square today, confident, unafraid. Martin dives left and catches the ball. Score nil. If I keep playing like this, though, it won’t be for long.

  I shake my arms and wait for Martin to throw the ball back onto the field. He sends it as far as he can in my direction. Woodbury and I chase it. I get there first and kick it forwards. I’m a second ahead – less, half a second – but it gives me the edge. I slam the ball and hope it’s hard enough to take the goalie by surprise. He slaps it like a summer fly, lazy with heat.

  ‘Good try, for a girl,’ someone calls out from the crowd.

  If I lose today, I won’t be the player who wasn’t good enough. I’ll be the girl who wasn’t good enough. Woodbury’s goalie tosses the ball in, and I follow it like my life depends on it. My soccer life does.

  I have the edge, now. Because I’m more desperate than Woodbury. I go in hard. Over and over again. I’ve had to play like this all my life because on that field I have more to prove.

  ‘Get under them, Faltrain, get around them,’ Martin always said. So I do. I race around Woodbury, dancing with the ball in the dark afternoon. I crash it into the net, a wave of leather hitting the back like the shore.

  ‘Go, Faltrain,’ Flemming calls from the side. Alyce gives a little half squeal like she does at the matches when she gets excited.

  ‘Lucky kick,’ someone yells.

  Lucky, hey? How’s this for luck. I head the ball forwards after it’s thrown in and race hard. Woodbury’s close, but as always, not close enough. He doesn’t have a chance. This is what I do. I run faster than anyone else. I kick goals. I remember once my dad said after a game, ‘You play like a champion. But I have no idea how you do it.’

  I knew what he meant. Why are some people good at things and others not? He and Mum aren’t great at sport. Alyce is more like them than I am. But somewhere along the line I learnt to run. Somewhere I learnt to pass and kick and shoot. No one taught me. When I watched my first soccer game I knew. That field was home.

  I can feel Woodbury give up beside me at about the sixteen-minute mark. He moves slower. His feet fumble at the ball. He can’t catch up now and he knows it. I could ease up and still win, but I don’t. I launch the ball like a boat; watch it sail across the sky. I keep slamming it into the net. I keep winning.

  Someone blows the whistle. Flemming and Martin and Alyce run towards me. ‘Guess there are a lot of disappointed people out there, Woodbury,’ I say. ‘And you must be one of them . . .’

  Martin grabs my arm and pulls me away.

  ‘I haven’t finished talking yet,’ I say, and then I notice the crowd moving in on us.

  ‘Quit while you’re ahead, Faltrain. One person you can win against. Fifty, I’m not so sure.’

  ‘Loser,’ Flemming says to Woodbury as we leave.

  Martin walks Alyce and me home to my place. ‘Why don’t you call your parents and tell them you’re staying for dinner?’ I ask her. ‘You want to stay too, Martin?’

  He shakes his head.

  ‘What’s up? You’ve been quiet all the way home.’

  ‘Geez, Faltrain. You hammered the guy in front of all his mates and you didn’t even shake his hand.’

  ‘You reckon he’d have shaken mine if he’d won?’

  Martin shrugs. ‘Forget it, then. See you tomorrow.’ He waves goodbye to Alyce and walks off.

  I should have known it was too good to be true. The old Martin might make an appearance every now and then, but he never stays around for long.

  12

  The important thing to remember about lying? You’re probably not the only one who’s doing it.

  Jane Iranian

  ‘So you’re saying you want me to lie, Gracie Faltrain, is that it?’ Mum asks as we sit down to dinner.

  ‘Let’s not think of it so much as lying as not telling the truth.’

  ‘She’s your daughter, Bill.’

  ‘Well, you would have written to the paper if you’d thought of it,’ Dad answers.

  ‘Mum, if it makes you feel any better, you can write to them and wait for a reply, but do it tonight or it’ll be too late.’

  She slams my dinner down in front of me. Alyce jumps.

  ‘Now that would be a waste of time, wouldn’t it? Tell me again what it is you want me to say to the principal tomorrow.’

  ‘Say we’ve spoken to the paper and they’re prepared to write a story about how unfair this is, about the fact that until this year the school hasn’t had a girls’ soccer team and so I haven’t had a choice. Tell Yoosta to tell that to the Board.’ I read from Alyce’s notes while she looks guilty beside me.

  ‘Bill, I’m really not comfortable with this. Can’t you talk to him?’

  Whoahh there, Mum. I need a shark tomorrow, not a jellyfish. ‘You’re the one who spoke to him before; he already knows you,’ I reason with her. ‘I’m not asking you to outright lie. Just bluff a little.’

  ‘You owe me after this. You owe me dishes every night and rubbish bins on Thursdays.’

  ‘Anything you say, Mum.’ Anything to have the chance to be in the game.

  ‘Remember, winning is the most important thing.’ I give Mum a pep talk before she walks into Yoosta’s office after school. She gives me the look that says, ‘You are no daughter of mine. You were dropped on my doorstep at night by strangers.’

  I quit while I’m ahead. One thing I know about Mum: you don’t want to push her too far. She’s just as likely to turn around and do what she thinks is the right thing.

  Dad, on the other hand, is plasticine in my hands. Actually, looking at him before he walks into the office, he’s just plasticine. No good to me at all. He stands there twisting his fingers together and looking guilty. Mum’s definitely my only hope.

  Martin and I hang around in the corridor until Yoosta invites them into his office. After that we get as close to the door as we can.

  ‘So, Mr Yoosta,’ Mum says, ‘we’ve written to the paper and they’re very interested in the Inter-school Sports Board and their policy of discrimination against girls.’

  ‘As I said to you before, Mrs Faltrain, I sympathise with Gracie. I have been at many of her matches, and she is a remarkably strong player.’

  I elbow Martin in the ribs. ‘Hear that?’

  ‘However,’ Yoosta keeps going, ‘I do think it’s an exaggeration to suggest that the Board has a policy designed to discriminate against girls.’

  ‘The paper doesn’t think it’s an exaggeration,’ Mum says.

  ‘I have spoken to the Board and advised them that should Gracie be excluded from the competition, you will make this an issue in the media. Is that correct?’

  ‘That is correct, Mr Yoosta.’

  ‘That being the case, they have given me the authority to advise you that your daughter can play in the competition. They do not want that sort of publicity.’

  ‘It’s as easy as that?’ I can hear suspicion thick as Corelli in her voice. Don’t blow it, Mum.

  ‘I did assure them that I would do everythi
ng in my power to dissuade you, Mr and Mrs Faltrain, but I can see where your daughter gets her determination from. I must say this, though. The competition is rough. There will be boys twice her size on that field.’

  ‘Mr Yoosta, my daughter is one of the best players on that soccer team. She has trained with those boys since she was in Year 7. She has proved herself countless times, kicked countless goals and, although I’m not proud to admit it, kicked countless heads.’

  Go Mum. Go.

  ‘My daughter may do many stupid things . . .’

  Don’t go there, Mum, don’t go there.

  ‘But one thing I know for sure. I’d be more worried about the other players than her.’

  Now would be the time to stop. Unless you want me playing on the prison soccer team.

  ‘Very well,’ Yoosta says as their chairs scrape on the floor. ‘I just want you to be sure about this. Have you seen the Firsts play? I have to be honest with you; I believe Gracie will get hurt.’

  His words make Mum hesitate. ‘Thank you for your concern,’ she says, ‘but this is something that Gracie has to do.’

  Martin’s spinning me around in the corridor when they walk out. ‘I take it you’ve heard, then,’ Mum says. ‘I don’t want to know how.’

  ‘You are legends.’

  ‘Just prove him wrong, Gracie Faltrain. Just make sure you prove them all wrong.’

  ‘Relax.’ This is what I’m good at. This is what I was born to do.

  ‘So what’s your plan for the tryout match next week?’ Flemming asks through a mouthful of chips.

  ‘Same as always,’ Martin answers for me. ‘Steal the ball and kick the goal and kick anyone who gets in her way.’

  ‘And if some guys play rough and slam into you?’

  ‘They won’t,’ he jumps in again. ‘She doesn’t need a plan for that.’

  ‘I’m just saying,’ Flemming says, grabbing his jacket, ‘it doesn’t hurt to be prepared.’

  ‘She’s prepared.’