by Cath Crowley
I run through the rain towards the hall, feel the water seep up through the bottom of my shoes, soaking my feet. My hands beat with nerves. I need to go to the toilet. Real bad.
The guys are already there, waiting for the warm-ups before the game. There’s nowhere to sit so I lean against the wall, facing everybody. Martin stands next to me. He’s the only one who says hi.
‘Right.’ Coach runs in. ‘Get into pairs. Give me twenty stomach crunches.’
‘You go first, Faltrain,’ Martin says. ‘I’ll count.’
I pretend I’m too puffed to talk.
‘You all right?’ he asks.
‘Yeah. Course I am.’ I don’t want Martin to talk about the game. I don’t want him to know I was standing outside the change-room door last week, that I heard his silence.
‘Faltrain, do you remember that time we were playing soccer in the park and you kicked the ball into that picnic?’ he asks.
‘Yeah.’
‘The look on that little kid’s face when his ice-cream went flying.’ Martin laughs. ‘Poor little bugger.’
‘He was pretty angry, wasn’t he?’
For a second I forget why I’m upset. It’s hovering in the air, though. Like mist it settles over me again on the way out to the field, soaking through my clothes and onto my skin. I run past Mum, worry smudged into every corner of her face. There’s an empty seat next to her. She’s saving one for Dad. Just in case.
I wait for the kick-off. The seconds feel like years. My legs are cold. My hands are numb. I have to play the best game of my life today. I need to prove to them that they need me at the Championships. The only person who looks hopeful is Martin. He gives me the thumbs-up and then it starts.
I run fast. Chase the ball. Cut Flemming off to get it. He growls. Low. Mean. I don’t care. I ignore Martin’s call to pass. I’m headed for the goal. I swing back and kick but the sound is wrong. I hit it on the side and it goes straight to their defence. In less than a second it’s in their midfield. They score the first goal of the match. I look over at Flemming. My instincts tell me to run.
I should have listened. Coach leaves me on the field for the whole first half. The harder I try, the worse it gets. Me and the ball, the wind and my feet, we’re separate. I’m moving fast but it’s not enough. Finally I get the ball. Kick it towards the goal. Miss. The voice of the crowd drips downwards. The anger of the team is everywhere. Coach takes me off in the first ten minutes of the second half. It’s sweet relief.
I sit and watch us losing. The game is like a film where the actors’ mouths are moving out of synch with the soundtrack. Whenever we kick, someone’s just a second too slow to gain possession.
I’ve never felt like I did on the field today. Lost. Like my luck had completely run out. I hated the feel of all those faces in the crowd burning into me, watching me lose. I feel like I’ve stepped off the edge of something and below me there are acres and acres of black. I’m in that dream again but I’m not flying. I’m falling through currents of dark. The wooden seat scratches at my legs. I carve my name into it with my fingernail: Gracie Faltrain was here.
The siren goes. I wait for the team to walk off the ground before I stand up. Annabelle passes me as I’m leaving the field. For a moment we’re in step together. My left leg is moving forward at the same time as hers. I slow down my pace, kick my right foot forward and move into my own rhythm. She tells Susan that she and Nick are off to see a film. She makes sure I hear every word. I smile the whole time she’s speaking but I keep thinking, finish what you have to say. Go. And then I can find a quiet place. Cry on my own. I have no problem with tears. I have a huge problem letting Annabelle know that she’s upset me.
‘Coach, you got a minute?’
‘Make it quick, Faltrain. What’s up?’
‘I’m thinking about quitting the team.’
‘And why would that be?’
‘I’ve just had enough of soccer.’
‘WHAT?’ His hands are flexing. His nostrils are flaring.
‘What’s the real reason, Faltrain?’
‘That’s it.’
‘Listen up, because you’re only going to hear this once from me. When you ran onto the field that first day you played I thought, what on earth have I done?’
‘Thanks, Coach.’
‘Shut up and listen. But, Faltrain, you play like you belong out there. At least you did. You’re one of the reasons we’re going to New South Wales. I know why you’re quitting. I’ve heard the guys talking. They’re not too happy. Think about why that is. The little kid who ran out onto that field three years ago had guts. If you find her, let me know. I’d like to bring her to New South Wales. I need her there. You, though, well if you don’t have the guts, I don’t want to take you. Now what do you say?’
‘I won’t change my mind, Coach. You’ll need to replace me.’ I couldn’t change my mind, even if I wanted to. Whenever I played now, I’d see the faces of the guys on the team. I’d hear that voice. When Coach called me off, even though we were losing, every player except Martin was smiling.
‘See you later, Gracie Faltrain,’ Flemming said, just quietly, so that only I would hear.
ANNABELLE
I don’t know anything about soccer, Nick. Explain to me again exactly why Gracie was put on the bench?
COACH
I thought I had Faltrain with the bit about the guts. I’ve never seen a kid that stubborn.
One day we’re playing brilliantly and the next day my left midfielder’s gone left field and my team’s calling for her blood. Blood, sweat and tears, I tell them. Not her blood, though. Not my tears.
‘Knight!’
‘Coach?’
‘Get her back before the Championships. We’ll never win without a strong midfield. And make sure she understands – she comes back, she plays as part of the team.’
MARTIN
‘Get her back,’ he says. Like it’s as easy as buying some milk. I’d have more chance trying to win the lottery.
‘It’s not fair, Martin. Other guys miss and don’t get forced out of the game,’ she says to me after the match. ‘I’ve won the game for us so many times and this is the thanks I get.’
‘Don’t you get it? You were on the bench because you wouldn’t pass the ball, Faltrain, not because you missed the shot,’ I say as her mum pulls up in the car beside us. She gets in and locks the door.
‘Quitting’s not the answer,’ I shout through the glass. I hate it when she ignores me.
You play soccer like no one I’ve ever seen before, Faltrain, scooting along like you’re on wheels. You go so fast no one can catch you – they don’t have a hope and they know it. You’re not even on the ground most of the time.
You have to come down sometimes, though. People get tired of watching from below.
Something about her reminded me of Dad. She looked like she’d been cut in two. One part of her had stepped one way and the other part was lying on the ground. Don’t just lie there, Faltrain. Get up. Change things. If you don’t then life just moves over the top of you.
Like Dad. The real him went for a swim one day and didn’t come back. He’s just a pile of clothes on the beach now, sagging and warm after he took them off. I see him staring at the TV, but he’s seeing nothing. He looks at me, but it’s like I’m on the screen too. Karen steps around him quietly. Sometimes she lies next to him on the couch. His arms look like they’ve lost their bones. She lifts them around her but they just fall to the side. If his arms won’t work then there’s no way he’s going be able to swim back.
GRACIE
Martin gets smaller as we drive away and I’m glad. What does he know about losing?
‘Do you want to talk about it, Gracie?’ Mum asks.
‘No.’
‘It might help.’
‘Nothing will help.’
Water rises up from the tyres, spraying into the gutter. Everything I see is dripping. Soaking. Our breath coats the windows, fogging them ove
r. The smells of mud and sweat and soccer fill the car. I wind the window down and let the rain spatter in.
HELEN
I feel like crying for her today. For the jumper dragging on the ground. For the look of confusion on her face. She has no idea how to fail. My moth’s flown out of the hothouse and the winds are cold. You’ve got to lie in that bed now you’ve made it, Gracie, I think as she walks past me after the game, people calling out to her, making a hundred little fingerprints on her wings.
The game from the
bench
18
fatal adjective: causing death or disaster,
as in ‘a fatal blow to the head’
GRACIE
My life is starting to come undone. Slow, like the zip on your jeans that gradually works its way down to show your pink Bonds hipsters to the world. You don’t even notice the pink as you’re walking around during the day, but then you find yourself in the toilet thinking, I can’t remember having to pull my zip down. You realise with horror that you didn’t have to pull it down because it was undone all along.
I don’t know if everyone is talking about me because things have started to go badly or things have started to go badly because people are talking about me. In the end, what does it matter?
I walk out of the toilets today with my dress tucked into my undies. It’s the end of the washing week and I had to wear the ones Grandma gave me for Christmas. No one should have to see those. A family of five could go camping in them.
I walk all the way down the hall, no idea that Annabelle and Nick are behind me, checking out the real Gracie Faltrain. I think I am actually humming. That is, until Alyce pulls me into a classroom, shuts the door and points at my skirt. Well, that explains the sudden breeze. There’s just no dignity in floral underwear.
‘Thanks,’ I say, but my face is a sheet of ice and I leave without smiling. I don’t need her sympathy. ‘That was harsh, Faltrain.’ Jane’s voice is in my head but I ignore her. I walk back into the corridor fully clothed and feeling naked. I am an outcast. No, it’s worse than that. I am an outcast with bad underwear.
A second before Alyce ended my walk of shame I saw Nick and Annabelle. Laughing and holding hands. I wanted to yell out at them, ‘You’re not meant for each other.’ I mean, who is organising all this? Why give me all those signs only to snatch Nick away at the last minute? Mum and Dad were wrong. There’s no such thing as fate. Fatal yes. Fate no.
ANNABELLE
Did you see those undies?
NICK
You have to admit, she has a great body.
MARTIN
Geez, Faltrain, what were you thinking, wearing those things?
ANNABELLE
You never see her dad. He’s left town, I bet. Ask Nick; he wasn’t there when they went on their ‘date’.
MARTIN
Shut up, Annabelle. Just shut your mouth about things you don’t understand.
ALYCE
I laugh when Annabelle tells the story in class, even though I wish everyone would just shut up and leave Gracie alone. I laugh even though it’s not funny at all.
MARTIN
I went looking for Faltrain after school today. I’d seen her face when she heard Annabelle talking about her dad. She looked like she’d lost everything.
I found her at the nursery, watering the plants. All I did was talk to her about soccer and she squirts me with the hose, left me completely soaked.
Bloody girls.
GRACIE
‘I told you before, Martin, I’m finished with soccer.’
‘Just like that? The team’s going to the Championships and you’re not coming?’
‘Yep.’
‘Faltrain, stop feeling sorry for yourself. Play like you used to and everything will be all right.’
‘I’m not feeling sorry for myself.’
‘Right. Giving up soccer, waiting around for that idiot Johnson to talk to you again, that’s not feeling sorry for yourself? He doesn’t like you anymore, Faltrain. Get over it.’
‘What would you know about anything, Martin? Just leave me alone.’
What would Martin know about losing the one good thing you have? I want to go to New South Wales with them more than anything. I keep thinking about them coming back with the trophy. It has everyone’s names engraved on it. Except mine.
Yesterday at assembly Coach introduced the Championship team to the school. One by one he called their names out. Everyone clapped. I should have been up there.
Without Jane, without soccer, every second at school is an hour. Everything is broken. Like a bike after a run-in with a semitrailer. What would Martin know about any of that? What would anyone know?
‘I know a lot, Faltrain,’ he says. And that’s when I squirt him with the hose. Just so he’ll shut up.
JANE
Faltrain, forget Nick. What about Martin?
GRACIE
There’s no way, Jane, I text back. Clearly the high altitude on the flight over has done something to her brain.
MARTIN
I remember once one of the guys asked what sort of a girl would play soccer on a boys’ team. She just kicked him one in his shins with her boot. I laughed my head off all the way home at the look of surprise on his face. I said to myself, now there’s a girl you don’t want to mess with.
What does she see in Johnson? I heard him last week badmouthing her to his mates. I thought, if he says one more thing, I’ll crack his head against the wall.
What would I know? More than you think, Faltrain. I know that getting on with it is more than just something you say. It takes guts. It takes going to sleep at night even though you know you might dream. It takes waking up, even though you know that for a second you’ll forget that she’s gone and for the rest of the day you’ll have to remember all over again.
HELEN
Gracie looks like a ghost at the nursery tonight. I can’t stand to watch her. Some things tell you who you are. They can’t be taken away. It’s not that simple. You have to cut them out if you’re going to leave them behind. That’s what she’s doing with soccer. What will happen when she finds out about her dad?
I could explain to Gracie how to fix everything but that won’t help. She’s got to work it out for herself. Instead, I talk to her about herbs that comfort and heal. I cut lavender for her to smell. I tell her that if we plant just this small piece, it will grow. I let my words spin out a trail behind me, a coat for her to wear. I hope that she is standing close enough to be covered.
19
finale noun: the last movement of a
piece of music
BILL
Helen calls me at the motel tonight. Her voice is quick and businesslike. ‘Do you want to make this separation permanent?’ she asks, as though the answer can only be yes or no.
The truth is somewhere in the middle, though, between Gracie’s smile and Helen’s eyes, and another life I could have lived. I hate travelling. I want my own bookshop, but we’ve got the nursery and two businesses would be crazy.
‘I don’t know what I want,’ I say, but as I say it I don’t see the coffee stains on the wall in front of me anymore. I don’t see the old chair in the corner of the motel room, the foam sticking out through faded fabric. I see Gracie and Helen instead.
When did I forget their faces?
She hangs up before I can say how much I miss them. I feel like I’m watching a play; it’s written about me but I’ve got no control. The curtain has fallen; the audience is applauding. It’s too early though. They’re clapping but it’s only halfway through the second act.
HELEN
The day I gave birth to Gracie I looked at him holding her and I thought, this is it. I am happy. If all I have forever is Bill and Gracie then I don’t need money. I don’t need things. I just need them.
Who are Gracie and I without him?
20
outcast noun: a person who is rejected
GRACIE
Mum tells me th
at bad things come in threes. She says this to me like it’s a good thing. ‘On my wedding day the car broke down, my bridesmaid got a blood nose and I ripped my dress.’
‘Get to the part that makes me feel better, Mum.’
‘Well, the day went off quite well after that. There are only a certain number of things that can go wrong.’
Mum was right when she said that bad things come in threes. She just forgot to mention that threes can happen more than once.
I flush the toilet at school today and the water just keeps rising. There are some of us out there who will admit to looking into the toilet bowl when they flush and some who won’t. As Jane says, ‘Everyone has to turn around to push the button and it’s human nature to look down.’ Anyway, I push the button and the level rises a bit. It keeps going; I’m transfixed as it rises and floods the rest of the toilets.
I run into the hallway, straight into Martin.
‘MARTIN!’ I grab his jumper and yell with the desperation of a drowning woman. ‘The toilet is flooding!’
If I’d had any sense of self-preservation I would have said it quietly, not with the same level of panic as the captain of the Titanic. There’s a little crowd gathering around me. Someone looks down and says, ‘Euhh, your shoes are wet.’