Gracie Faltrain Takes Control

by Cath Crowley

  ‘But how can I talk to him about all that stuff if I don’t know about it?’ Alyce asks before she walks into the library after the final bell.

  ‘Do what kids do every day at school,’ I say. ‘Make it up.’

  ‘I don’t want to lie about myself, Gracie.’

  For someone who spends all her time reading, Alyce doesn’t have a whole lot of imagination. ‘It’s not lying. You use most of the truth and mix it with about three-quarters of lies to make your life sound a bit more interesting.’

  ‘What parts should I lie about?’

  How can Alyce be so dumb and so smart at the same time? She has no idea how to survive at school. It’s like in soccer: there are some plays you have to keep to yourself until the last minute. If I was Alyce, and I’d been born with an IQ that was rocketing up the charts like a bullet, I’d keep it under wraps. I’m not saying I wouldn’t use it, but you wouldn’t find me sitting up the front of the class advertising myself as Einstein. I’d hang back, slouch a bit, pretend I didn’t care.

  In all the years I’ve known Alyce, she has cared about everything. In Year 6 she ran a stall at the school fete to raise money for the environment. In Year 7 she put leaflets in the school tuckshop about the evils of junk food.

  ‘Justine Fern did all that stuff, too,’ Alyce said when I tried to talk to her about it last month. ‘She’s just as smart as me. Why don’t kids pick on her?’

  Justine knows what every other person in the world does. Open yourself up as much as Alyce has over the years and you’re an easy target for people who are out to make themselves look better by making someone else look stupid. Alyce gave away the key to herself years ago. And she never changed the locks.

  I couldn’t tell her that, though. It would hurt too much. ‘Justine Fern had the body of a twenty-one year old when she was five,’ I said instead. And Alyce nodded sadly in agreement. It was mostly truth. With about three-quarters’ worth of lies mixed in.

  I can’t tell you what happened between Alyce and Flemming in the library today because I wasn’t there. What I can tell you is what happens after. Flemming turns up for practice half an hour late.

  ‘You think you can waltz in here whenever you feel like it?’ Coach yells. ‘We’ve got our first big match at the end of this week. Give me five laps. Plus the five that everybody here on time has already done.’

  Flemming smiles the whole ten laps.

  ‘Doesn’t prove a thing, Faltrain,’ Martin says.

  But it does.

  I have this feeling tonight that things are on the up. Alyce has made a tiny step towards Flemming. Martin doesn’t know it, but he’s stepping towards his mum. And on Saturday, we’re going to show everyone who thinks that the tryouts were rigged that they’re wrong. Watch out, Firsts. Here comes Gracie Faltrain.

  20

  The only good Faltrain is a dead Faltrain.

  Dan Woodbury

  ‘Hey,’ Woodbury says to me after his team wins the toss on Saturday. ‘You may as well stay on that bench. You don’t stand a chance.’

  I can’t believe this guy. Even I know the definition of denial. ‘It’s not like I haven’t beaten you at least twice before, Woodbury.’

  ‘And you’re going to pay for it today.’

  ‘What, angry that a girl’s better than you?’

  His face crumples like a used chip packet. His fists clench. ‘I don’t care that you’re a girl. I care that you’re a. . .’

  ‘Hey.’ Flemming walks over. ‘Ref says we’re about to start.’

  The whistle goes and there’s no more time for talk. The crowd roars. I tune everything out. My voice is the only one that matters, the only one I trust. I listen to that. And focus on the game.

  I steal the ball from Woodbury and run towards goal. I sweep to the left and then to the right. I kick to Flemming who kicks to Corelli who passes to King. He shoots for goal. Flemming’s voice whoops through the crowd. Us one. Them none. ‘Get used to it, Woodbury,’ I say.

  I love to win. I love the sound of cheers. I love the thumping in my chest. I love it all. We’ve got a perfect system. I’m too fast at the kick-off to be stopped. Flemming’s too fast at the pass. Corelli’s just too unpredictable. And we’ve all had six years at predicting him. We’re strong. So strong there’s only one way to stop us. Unfortunately, we don’t see what that is until it’s way too late.

  They start their plan a minute before the second half begins. Martin is the first to go. It’s brilliant; even I have to admit it. He’s a sitting target in the goal. All they do is kick the ball hard at him before the whistle. The ball’s not in play so Martin doesn’t have to defend, but he acts on reflex. He’s not expecting the kick and his timing is off. It hits him right between his fingers. From the middle of the field I hear the bone pop.

  The whole team runs towards him. ‘Probably just a dislocation,’ the first-aid guy says to Coach. ‘He’s off, though.’

  This is war, I think as Martin walks over to the bench. No one dislocates any part of Gracie Faltrain’s boyfriend if they want to live.

  ‘Shame about Knight,’ Woodbury says while we’re waiting for the second half to start. ‘Accidents happen, though.’

  ‘There are eleven accidents in this game. And not one of them is Martin.’

  The whistle goes. Woodbury’s on me like a coat in summer, heavy and thick and suffocating. He runs so close we’re blurred. Flemming kicks the ball high in my direction. It curves across the sky. I shake off Woodbury and sprint towards it. But not for long.

  I reach the ball just as he narrows the gap between us. His fist thumps into my ribs and my scream cracks the day. I stumble forwards, spitting the ball loose like he’s given me the Heimlich manoeuvre. My hands hit the ground, and then my head. My bones feel like glass under my skin.

  I’m on the grass, desperately trying to catch my breath, when Woodbury kneels down beside me, his voice loud enough for the ref to hear. ‘Are you okay, Faltrain?’

  ‘That the only way you can win?’ I manage to get out. ‘Are you happy now?’

  ‘Not really,’ he whispers. ‘I was aiming a little higher.’

  There isn’t time to answer him. His face tangles with the sky. And I don’t remember anything else.

  ‘We lost,’ Flemming says, sitting next to my bed in the hospital while Mum and Dad talk to the doctors. ‘By three goals.’ I’m not sure what hurts him more, those words or the big black eye he’s wearing.

  ‘What I don’t get,’ I say, ‘is how the referee didn’t card Woodbury for knocking me out.’

  ‘Gracie, Dan Woodbury and the referee were in parallel with each other. His vision was running along a 180-degree line, completely impaired,’ Alyce says.

  ‘Huh?’ Flemming looks at her through his good eye.

  ‘Woodbury put his back to the ref and blocked his view,’ I translate Alyce-speak for everyone. ‘So what happened to you?’ I ask Flemming.

  ‘Tom Dawson hit me about ten minutes after you passed out. He got sent off but they didn’t care. With you and me and Martin off the field, they’d won the game and they knew it.’

  ‘I can’t even remember being carried away.’

  Martin suddenly finds his strapped fingers very interesting. Alyce pulls out her book. Flemming checks his eye again in the mirror.

  ‘Tell me she didn’t. Tell me my mum didn’t run onto the field and carry me off.’

  ‘Sorry, Faltrain,’ Martin says. ‘It could have been worse, though.’

  ‘How? How could it have been worse unless my dad came running on after her and told Dan Woodbury to stay away from his baby?’

  There are a few seconds’ silence out of respect for my dead reputation.

  ‘At least I was unconscious.’ I should look nice and relaxed in those pictures the reporters were taking.

  ‘Cheer up,’ Flemming says. ‘Corelli’s down the hall getting stitches in his leg and Francavilla is having two in his fist.’

  ‘They hurt his fist?’
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  ‘He cut it on their defence’s teeth after Corelli got kicked in the leg. He’s out for the next game.’

  ‘What about you, Martin?’ I ask. ‘Can you play next week?’

  ‘Yep. I was lucky. They’re only dislocated.’

  ‘Sounds like I missed a good game of soccer.’

  ‘They weren’t playing soccer out there, Faltrain,’ Martin says after Flemming and Alyce leave. ‘They were playing us.’

  ‘So next time we go in harder.’ My bruised rib and wrist ripen like fruit as I speak.

  ‘Harder than a dislocated finger, a sprained wrist, bruised rib, black eye, two sets of stitches. . .’

  ‘Enough, Martin.’

  ‘You were lucky Woodbury didn’t break anything.’

  ‘I get it, okay?’ Every bone in my body gets it.

  ‘My mum said something once that I’ve never forgotten. I was in Year 4 but they’d put me in the Year 5 team. A few of the kids had a bit of a go at me, for getting ahead of myself. “Marty,” Mum said to me, “there’ll always be people like that. People who want more than they’ve got so they take a little from everyone around.” I remember thinking they’d only be able to take it from kids who let them, weak kids. “No, Marty, you’re wrong,” she said. “They try to take it from the strong ones. Because those people have the most of what they want.”’

  ‘So they want to take what we’ve got but we won’t let them.’

  ‘I wasn’t talking about them taking from us,’ Martin says. ‘It was the other way round in the summer competition. We made them angry because that’s how we played. And now we’re paying for it.’

  ‘We played to win, Martin.’

  ‘And we loved every minute of it.’

  ‘We didn’t deserve what happened to us today. We did our best in the off-season games – there’s nothing wrong with that. We followed the rules.’

  ‘Well, it looks like the rules have changed, Faltrain.’ And he waves goodbye with bandaged fingers. ‘Now let’s see how you like them.’

  It’s a sad team that gathers before Coach at practice on Monday. A black and blue and bruised team.

  ‘We took a beating on Saturday, it’s true. A hard, harsh, brutal beating.’ Coach walks like he’s the one who took the hits. ‘But we can get up again.’ He raises his hand in a fist and then opens it, like he’s letting a bird free. Except he realises that there’s nothing in it but air.

  ‘We were up against guys playing dirty,’ Flemming says. ‘Next time it’ll be a different team.’

  ‘They’ll play the same,’ Corelli says. ‘You heard them.’

  ‘Heard what?’ I ask. No one answers. ‘Heard what?’

  ‘After the match was over, Woodbury told Knight to get used to it. That every team hated us for how we played in the off-season games. That no one was going to be humiliated this season when the final is televised and scouts are on the lookout for state players,’ Flemming finally tells me.

  ‘They won’t get away with playing like that every match,’ I say.

  ‘They got away with it last time,’ Francavilla answers. ‘I’m the one who’s on the bench for a week.’

  ‘The point is,’ Martin says, ‘even if they don’t take us out, it’s a harder match. Those guys are stronger than most of us and they’re not scared to knock us down.’

  The whole time our team is kicking back and forth the reasons why we’re going to lose on Saturday, I’m getting angrier. ‘We beat every one of those teams in the off-season games. We can do it again.’

  ‘Maybe you don’t remember all of the last match, Faltrain, on account of you being unconscious, but they had no trouble beating us,’ Corelli says.

  ‘This time it’ll be different,’ I answer.

  ‘Oh yeah?’ Francavilla asks. ‘And how’s that?’

  ‘Because this time, we’ll be ready for them; we’ll train harder.’ If there’s one thing Gracie Faltrain doesn’t do, it’s back down. I won’t be beaten by Dan Woodbury or anyone else. Some things a person can’t walk away from. If we don’t play in the Firsts competition this season then we’ll never be able to look each other in the eye again. I’d rather stare at Flemming’s black eye than at no eyes at all. I know how Corelli’s feeling today because I feel it too. But giving up is the same as letting them beat you, and I’d rather go down on the field than on the sidelines. I’d rather go out fighting.

  ‘Training harder won’t make a difference,’ Flemming says.

  ‘What’s our other option – quit after one game?’ I ask.

  Flemming punches his hand quietly against his leg. ‘I didn’t say I wanted to quit.’

  ‘Then let’s stop talking and start working,’ Martin says.

  We push ourselves tonight, even though we’re hurting. I kick the ball hard at Martin. He slams it back, favouring his good hand.

  ‘We’re not going to win on Saturday,’ Flemming says to me after practice while we wait for Martin to finish packing his stuff. ‘Not unless we change the way we play.’ He picks at the dirt stuck to his shoes.

  ‘What do you mean?’ I ask.

  He flicks his eyes behind me.

  ‘What’s up?’ Martin asks, slinging his bag over his shoulder.

  ‘Nothing,’ I say, and grab his hand.

  Flemming leaves us at the end of his street. But his words stay with me long after he disappears.

  I flick through the weekend paper tonight before I go to sleep. My ad for Mrs Knight is in the classifieds section. Please let her find it, I think. Martin needs some luck. He needs to win. I cut out the tiny box and keep it. Martin might want to remember, one day, where the best part of his life started.

  21

  Boy meets girl. Girl meets ground.

  Local News Weekly

  ‘That’s kind of funny,’ Corelli says, looking at the headline from one of the local papers on Tuesday before practice.

  ‘Yeah, it’s hilarious. Have you read the article?’ I grab the paper off him. ‘Declan Corelli cried like a baby after he was kicked in the leg . . .’

  ‘It doesn’t say that.’

  ‘No. But a picture is worth a thousand words.’ I turn the page to the shot of Corelli being carried off the field. ‘Not so funny now, is it?’

  ‘It’s humiliating for all of us,’ Flemming snarls, and snatches the paper. ‘But it won’t happen again. We have to win on Saturday.’

  ‘We will,’ I say, ‘no problem.’

  A page of the paper blows from his hand before he can catch it. He throws the rest on the ground.

  ‘They took us by surprise last week,’ I tell him. ‘This Saturday, we’ll be ready.’

  22

  Gracie, that colour really suits you. You look so good wearing the ground on your face.

  Annabelle Orion

  ‘That guy wasn’t in the off-season games,’ I say, looking at number nine from the opposition this Saturday. ‘I would have remembered him.’

  ‘He can’t be in Year 12,’ Corelli answers.

  ‘Rumour has it he was kept down,’ Francavilla says, making himself comfortable on the bench. ‘For ten years. They call him Truck.’

  ‘Good name.’ I can’t stop staring at him, mainly because he can’t stop staring at me.

  ‘Is it just my imagination, or does he seem kind of fixated on Faltrain?’ Flemming asks.

  Truck points in my direction and draws a hand across his throat. ‘I don’t think it’s just you,’ I say as I watch him do it.

  ‘You should sit this one out, Faltrain, at least for the first half till we know what we’re up against,’ Martin says.

  ‘No way. With Francavilla out, you need me.’

  ‘Stick close to Flemming then. I’ve got a bad feeling about this.’

  The sun disappears behind the clouds as the whistle goes. I take off after the ball and concentrate on playing. The other team concentrates on me. Truck speeds up behind me, gaining as I run towards goal. ‘Get out of the way, girlie,’ he yells as he overtakes.r />
  ‘Girlie?’ I’ll show you who’s a girlie. Guys like Truck pick on kids they think are weak. I heard him taunting Corelli earlier about his crap kicks. He has a point there, but being a girl doesn’t make you weak. Being a girl doesn’t leave you vulnerable on the field.

  ‘Faltrain!’ Flemming calls as Truck does a three-point turn and slams into me. ‘Watch out!’

  I’d like to think that Truck wasn’t aiming for my boob. I’d really like to believe, like the ref obviously does, that he knocked me in the heat of the moment. But I know my boobs. They’re not all that big. You really have to look for them.

  ‘Time,’ Coach shouts, and runs towards me. The team crowds around.

  ‘That had to hurt,’ Corelli says.

  ‘You’d know,’ Singh answers for me. I’m in too much pain to say anything.

  ‘You need to swap with me,’ Martin says. ‘It’s too rough out there.’

  ‘Go goalie? No way.’

  ‘Faltrain, I’ve never said it before, but I like everything, um, exactly where it is on you.’

  ‘Believe me, Martin. So do I,’ I answer, wishing I’d let Mum talk me into that padded bra last year. I drag myself to a standing position. ‘Now, let’s play.’

  I’m only standing for about five minutes. I turn to see Truck racing towards me, elbows up. My normal instinct would be to run, to dodge him and keep moving towards the goal. But not today. I stand still, like a rabbit on the road. A rabbit with both paws covering her boobs for protection. Truck roars past me, just close enough to clip my chest. His momentum knocks me sideways, sending me flying, body bouncing on the ground like I’m landing on a trampoline.

  ‘She’s dead, Bill,’ I hear Mum yelling at Dad, her face fuzzy in the background.

  ‘She’s not dead, Helen, she’s still breathing.’

  ‘Do rabbits even have boobs?’ I hear myself say. My ears are ringing. Everything is as foggy as winter.

  ‘She’s got brain damage, Bill.’

  The fog clears an inch, just enough to make things visible. I have boob damage, not brain damage. ‘I think we should all stop talking now. And get me to a hospital.’