by Cath Crowley
‘He deserved everything he got.’
‘Why?’
‘Because he was trying to stop me scoring the goal.’
‘Isn’t that the point, Faltrain?’
‘They started it, Jane. You weren’t there. You don’t know what it was like.’
‘You’re right, Faltrain,’ she says. ‘I wasn’t there.’ Her voice dips in the middle like a lumpy couch.
‘Are you mad at me?’ I ask.
‘No, I’m not mad. It just feels like we’ve changed, that’s all.’
Here it comes. The kiss-off. The final nail in the coffin. The spin cycle of the washing machine. The last bite of the cake. Jane’s about to tell me it’s too hard being friends across all that ocean.
‘Gracie Faltrain, get yourself back in your room. I told you before. You’re grounded this weekend. That means no phone calls. No Martin. No nothing.’
Maybe you need to make that a little clearer, Mum. At least she’s saved me from hearing Jane say the actual words. She doesn’t need me anymore. It’s over.
‘Guess you have to go, then, Faltrain.’
‘I guess I do.’ Bye Jane. It was great while it lasted.
29
Me date Fuller? Right, like I’d go out with a girl wearing Orion’s boot mark on her arse.
Andrew Flemming
It’s time to face up to life the way things really are, Gracie Faltrain. Good things end. Someone always eats the last chocolate biscuit. Summer clouds over. Best friends leave. At least you still have Alyce.
‘So, did you study with Flemming after the game on the weekend?’ I ask on Monday morning.
‘He didn’t feel like it.’
‘Oh.’
‘We went out for dinner instead.’ Her voice rises like keys on a piano. Annabelle can’t help hearing.
‘Really? Did you do anything afterwards?’
‘We watched a DVD at my place,’ Alyce answers, already edging away. I grab her arm. Not so fast, best buddy. You’ll miss the show.
‘What’s going on?’ Susan asks.
I’ll handle this, I think. It’s going to take a little delicacy.
‘Alyce went out to dinner with Flemming on the weekend.’ I say it loud so everyone hears. Flemming and Susan have one of those on again, off again things. At the moment they’re off. And that’s how I’m planning on keeping it.
I make my next move as casual as I can. ‘So, Annabelle, I guess you’re taking Dan to the dance. Susan, who are you going with?’ Her mouth flat-lines as Mrs Tunnisi picks captains.
‘Andrew and Susan, choose your teams.’
Flemming takes me and Singh and Corelli. He takes everyone he can except Alyce; her smile reminds me of a kite Dad bought me once that couldn’t quite get off the ground. She’s picked last, like always, and by Susan. Even then it’s pretty clear she isn’t on anybody’s team. I give her shoulder a pat but she pulls away.
‘Alyce?’
‘We’re starting, Gracie,’ she says, and walks over to her position on the court. She looks beaten already.
I can’t take my revenge on Annabelle, though. She tells Mrs Tunnisi she wants to start the game on the bench. ‘What, scared of me beating you again?’ I ask.
‘You’re on my team, loser.’
I’ll never be on your team, Annabelle. You can bet on that.
I’m at the other end of the court when it happens. ‘Alyce,’ Susan calls, and signals for her to catch. The throw is the smallest bit too wide. The tiniest bit too far. Alyce has to chase it. Belinda Daly could easily reach the ball. But she doesn’t. And that’s how I know. It’s a set-up.
‘Alyce,’ I yell, but she can’t hear me. All her attention is focused on running. I’ve never seen her more determined to make it. I guess she figures with Flemming watching, she has something to prove.
I start to move but I’m too far away. Annabelle leans back on the bench and stretches her legs out lazily, like she’s a million miles away. She knows exactly where she is. She’s five steps from Alyce, who’s approaching fast.
I watch one of the best friends I’ve got fly over Annabelle’s legs and hit the concrete on all fours, like a dog begging. She’s trying to get up when Annabelle lands her foot on her arse and pushes her over again. It wasn’t exactly what I had in mind when I said Alyce’s destiny needed a bit of a kick.
Every kid in the class claps and shouts except for me. Flemming laughs like it’s stuck in his throat. He laughs like his eyes don’t know what his mouth’s doing. When Mrs Tunnisi finally notices Alyce on the ground, Annabelle is holding out her hand.
I can’t believe Alyce is about to take it. With her IQ you’d think she’d know the meaning of dignity. I get there in time to help her myself.
‘Get lost, Annabelle.’ Alyce’s knees are bloody. She’s got a boot mark on her backside. Game over.
Corelli walks with us to the nurse. Every now and then he tries to catch her eye and smile. Alyce doesn’t say a word.
By the time we come back for our bags everyone’s gone except for Flemming. He’s leaning against the change room wall, waiting for us. ‘Are you okay?’
‘A bit late to be asking now,’ I snap. ‘Don’t you have friends to hang out with?’
‘Gracie,’ Alyce says after he’s gone. ‘He didn’t pick me because I’m not good at basketball. This isn’t his fault.’
‘It’s all their faults: Annabelle, Susan, Flemming, Belinda . . . What?’ I ask, because she’s staring at me, shaking her head.
‘Nothing. I’ll see you after recess. I’m going to wash up before class.’
‘I’ll come with you.’
‘I’m better on my own.’
Alyce needs to tell Flemming to get lost if he’s going to treat her like she’s nothing. She won’t tell him, though. She won’t stop liking him. I’ve fed her chocolate. And now she knows how sweet it is she wants the whole block.
If you’ve never eaten chocolate before, though, eating the whole block can make you sick. Alyce sits in English after recess and quietly draws hearts on her page. Hearts. Alyce is strictly a squares and circles girl if she draws on her books at all. Most of the time she keeps every page neatly filled with the notes she takes in class. She’s not even listening today.
‘Alyce, what would you say is the main theme of the novel?’ asks Mrs Wilson.
‘Love,’ she answers. At least she’s right. And at least no one but me noticed that she hadn’t even heard the question.
I get to practice early and wait for Flemming. As soon as he shows up I drag him around the corner. ‘You should have picked Alyce today.’
‘What?’
‘For basketball. You let her stand there looking like an idiot.’
‘Why would I pick her when she can’t play?’
‘Because she chose you to work with us on the English assignment last week when she knows you can’t write to save yourself. You like her and you don’t even have the guts to say it. Scared of people like Annabelle?’
‘I’m not scared of anyone and that includes you.’ He pushes past me.
‘Ask Alyce to the dance, then.’
‘What?’
‘The dance next month. Ask her.’
‘I don’t want to ask her,’ he says. There’s a salty taste in my mouth. The taste of Alyce crying.
‘Faltrain,’ Flemming calls before I walk away. He looks around to check we’re alone. ‘Are you planning on telling Fuller what I said about her?’
‘You think she doesn’t know how you see her after what happened today? Alyce is the smart one, remember. It’s you who’s the idiot.’ Flemming wants it both ways. But he can’t kick Alyce in the teeth and expect her to smile about it.
Alyce isn’t the only one who looks like she’s been kicked in the teeth. Coach walks onto the field and tells us to do a warm-up jog. He spends the rest of the time watching us from the stands, calling out orders from there.
‘He’s freaking me out,’ I say to Martin as we kick to each
other. ‘He hasn’t said a word about Saturday.’
‘It’s coming,’ Flemming says, overhearing me. ‘I can feel it.’
At the end of practice Coach calls us all over. ‘Sit down, everyone.’ We wait for him to speak. He opens his mouth a few times before he starts.
‘I know you want to win, and the other teams are rough, but you played wrong on Saturday. I taught you guys in Year 7 how to open up space in the goal square. You spread out and then pass.
‘I still remember that goal Flemming kicked a minute before the whistle. It looked like we couldn’t win. And then you all moved as if you had one mind. The whole team fanned out like a pack of cards and the opposition followed. It was beautiful. You remember that, Flemming?’
‘I remember. But Coach, we’re still working together.’
Coach’s face dives a deeper shade of red. ‘You’re not playing like you’ve got one mind. You’re playing like you’ve got one brain. There’s a huge difference,’ he shouts. ‘Faltrain, you of all people should know what I’m talking about. You didn’t beg to be on the team in Year 7 to play like this. Every kick you made last Saturday was weak. No way will a scout look twice at you, playing like that.’ His words ache like a punch.
‘For the rest of the week we’ll work on tactics. But we don’t play like that again.’ He casts his eyes over every one of us. ‘Promise me.’
We all make some sort of sign at him. Only Martin nods clearly. Coach drops his arms, like he’s been carrying something too heavy, and walks off.
‘He’s right,’ Martin says. ‘You all know it.’
‘We’re allowed to play to win. Coach understands that, only he can’t say it because he’s a teacher.’ The air is thick and heavy; it slows down Flemming’s words and makes them hover longer than usual.
‘You heard him. Scouts won’t look twice at us if we don’t show them what we can do,’ I say.
‘She’s right,’ Francavilla agrees.
‘You think they’ll look twice at us if we’re knocked out in the first half?’ Flemming asks. ‘Yeah, Faltrain, you’re not kicking the best goals of your life. But you’re kicking.’
‘So, what, we lie to Coach?’ I ask. ‘He’s not an idiot. He watches the games.’
Flemming shrugs. ‘He can’t do much from the sidelines once the match has started.’
No one says yes. And no one says no. We’re at the end of the day but it’s not night yet. ‘Can’t see a thing,’ Mum always says when she’s driving at this time. ‘Sun’s gone. But the moon’s not bright enough to shed any light on the road.’
‘Who are you all?’ Martin asks. But he doesn’t wait for an answer.
There’s an envelope on the hall table when I get home. It has my name on it, and the newspaper’s address in the corner. I tip five letters onto my bed. All from women claiming to be Mrs Knight. All claiming to love their son, Martin.
‘Gracie?’ Mum knocks on my door. ‘Is anything wrong? You didn’t come and say hello.’
‘I had a long practice, that’s all.’ I move my body over the letters. ‘I’m starving though. I’ll be down in a minute.’
‘I saw that the paper sent you something.’ I can tell she’s been thinking about this since she got home. If forensics lifted prints from the envelope, Mum’s would be all over it. She’s been shaking it and holding it to the light like it’s a Christmas present.
‘You didn’t do anything stupid, did you, Gracie?’
‘Like what?’
‘Like try to contact Mrs Knight?’
Part of me wants to tell Mum the truth. Coach was right today. I’ve changed. I’m playing a different game. But sometimes you don’t have a choice, like Flemming said. If I lie down like Martin and Alyce, then who looks after them? Who looks after me?
‘It’s just a follow-up letter about the Firsts.’
Mum knows I’m lying, but she can’t say it. The only proof is the letters and I’ve already pushed them behind me on the bed.
‘Be careful, Gracie,’ she says softly, and closes the door.
I read all the letters before I go to sleep. I look for clues in them, but I’ve never met Mrs Knight, so how can I tell if she’s one of the writers? I love you, son, one letter finishes. It’s been too long, another one starts. I can’t live without you anymore, a third one adds as a PS.
Dear Marty, the last one starts, by now you must be in Year 12. I guess it seems like the world will end if you fail, but just remember it’s not whether you win or lose the game that matters, it’s how you play.
‘It’s her,’ I whisper. I’d bet my life on it. I don’t need to have met her to know. I’ve met her son.
I have to find a way to tell Martin the news about the letter without him spontaneously combusting. I have to find a way to convince him that this is the right thing.
Lying is a tricky business. Start with one and the whole thing snowballs. Pretty soon you’re rolling down to the bottom of a hill in a huge ball of ice. And that’s deadly. Just ask the person at the bottom.
Technically I haven’t lied to Martin yet; I just didn’t tell him I was putting the ad in the paper. ‘That’s a fine line, Faltrain,’ Jane would say to me. But it’s fine enough to see, and that’s what counts.
Anyway, who cares what you think, Jane? You’ve made it pretty clear that you don’t want me around anymore. This is my decision. I’m on my own.
30
‘We’re the only team everyone hates. What does that tell you, Faltrain?’ I ask. ‘It tells me we’re better than everyone else, Martin,’ she answers. ‘Faltrain, they should measure your head for science. I reckon it’s the biggest I’ve ever seen.’
Martin Knight
‘Stop telling me what to do, Martin,’ I yell during warm-up on Saturday. ‘You’re in goal, not on the field. You don’t know what it’s like.’
‘I know you’re better than this. It’s embarrassing watching you out there.’
‘Embarrassing?’
‘I used to love seeing you play. I remember once, you were blocked in on all sides, and you spun around and did an overhead kick. It was absolutely amazing.’
‘You’re still going on about that boy I took down, aren’t you? I’ve told you a million times, I couldn’t have made it any other way. I would have missed. We would have lost.’
‘So? Who cares? The old Faltrain didn’t even know the meaning of the word missed.’
‘Well the guy next to me in hospital explained it, you idiot. And he threw in a few more words, too, like humiliation and loser.’
Part of why I’m angry at Martin is because I know he’s right. I’m not playing like I was before. None of us are. But we can’t. The Firsts is a whole different game. With no space for risks.
We win the toss. Coach signals for us to take our positions. I don’t feel excited like I usually do. I haven’t felt that in weeks.
Coach calls time about twenty minutes into the first half. He’s a walking heart attack. ‘What are you playing at? It’s a bloodbath out there, and you’re all splashing around. You,’ he turns to Flemming. ‘The next time you aim for some guy’s head and not the ball, I’m aiming for you. That goes for everyone.’
I’m learning a few lessons about human nature today. Lesson one? People have a survival instinct hard-wired into their brain. It takes over at the first hint of attack. Sometimes it takes over before. There’s no space for sympathy out here. That path leads to the bench, or worse, hospital. There’s only room for three things: run, hit, win. And, sometimes, duck.
Francavilla soars past number nine from the opposition, arms half out. He runs like a chicken all the time now, his elbows bent into bony wings, ready to belt anything in his flight path. He keeps them at the perfect height: not high enough to get red-carded but high enough to hurt. Number nine stumbles like he’s drunk but keeps running.
No one sees that hit, though, because everyone’s looking at Corelli. A striker from the opposition is trying to rip him apart at the shoulders. Cor
elli’s discovered a new talent. His neck can spin almost three hundred and sixty degrees. ‘My head’s double-jointed,’ he says, and then he passes out on his face.
‘I hope his nose is double-jointed as well,’ Flemming says, watching him fall. After Corelli gets carried off, we play on, harder than before.
Flemming walks away at half time, so he’s not there for Coach’s speech. It’s a good thing. His voice is so loud it dints my skin. ‘Where the hell’s Flemming?’ he says, angry spit flying from his mouth. ‘Find him, Faltrain. I want to talk to him before he goes back on and kills someone.’
I see him behind the change rooms, slamming his fist close to number seven’s face, the guy who took Corelli out. Flemming stops short of punching him. A fight like that would lose him his place on the team, and he’s too smart for that. He’s out to scare. Or get revenge. Or both. ‘You try that again and I’ll find you,’ he’s saying. His face is twisted like a fist.
When the game’s moving, it’s easy not to think about what you’re doing, I guess. A push here. A kick there. Everything gets lost in the rush, in the noise. It feels right because the ball goes into the goal. But there’s no crowd around Flemming today. There’s nothing for him to hide behind. It’s one moment, picked out from all the rest. And it’s wrong.
I wonder what my moment would have looked like, picked out from all the rest, slamming that guy in the balls to make the goal. If it were just him and me on the field alone, if I wasn’t hidden in the crowd, I would have looked exactly like Flemming. I don’t want him to catch me looking. I leave without making a noise.
‘I don’t know where Flemming is, Coach.’ And I don’t. There’s no one back there that I recognise.
‘You’re doing well, Faltrain,’ Flemming says when he reappears on the field. ‘Keep playing to win.’ Number seven walks past us. There’s the smallest bit of blood on his cheek.
I nod my head towards him. ‘What happened to their striker?’
‘No idea.’ Flemming’s playing a dangerous game. What’s to stop that guy telling the ref? If the truth comes out Flemming’ll be off the field for the rest of the season.
