by Cath Crowley
‘You sure about this?’ Flemming asks. ‘You stand to lose more body parts than any of us. You’re smaller and you’re a target.’
‘I’m sure.’ A woman with a camera takes a picture of us from the side of the field. Her camera whirrs and clicks. What’s worse than total humiliation? Total humiliation on the front page of the paper. Total humiliation on TV.
‘Ready to die, Faltrain?’ Woodbury asks me on his way past.
‘Look, I know you’re angry about the off-season games. I get that. But what about calling it even, today?’
‘Get lost,’ he says, and I can’t blame him. I had to try, though. It always works in the movies.
‘You need to be ready for a fight. A fair fight,’ Coach said in his pep talk. ‘Create space the way we used to. Listen to each other the way you used to. Play like you’re playing for the state. And there’s a chance you just might.’
Fat chance of that, Coach, I think as the whistle blows. Let the games begin.
Flemming kicks off. We all run. I get to the ball first. I don’t have time to take it, though. ‘Faltrain, to your left,’ Singh yells. Woodbury slams me in the shoulder and keeps running. The ball is glued to his foot until he scores. I’m still on the ground when he drives it home.
I’m aching already, but I drag myself up. Maiden mouths ‘Sorry’ at me from the goal. ‘Don’t worry,’ I yell. It’s not his fault. We knew this was going to be tough.
We start again. I’m a kid in the ocean, waves thumping over me, salt pumping into my mouth. I can’t keep my face above water. I can taste blood from my fall.
I only get the ball once in the first half. I’m moving fast, but I’m surrounded. Someone shoves me in the back and I go down. I don’t see who does it, but as I’m lying there a foot sinks into my stomach. I curl up on the ground as the whistle goes.
‘What the hell are you playing at out there?’ Martin yells in the break when I limp to the edge of the field.
‘You’ve been watching?’ I ask.
‘Yeah, I’ve been watching. You’re lucky to be alive.’
‘We’re playing like you told us, Martin.’
‘You idiot, Faltrain.’
‘What?’ I’m nursing a hernia here for you, Knight. ‘Don’t call me an idiot.’
Martin’s voice is like a magnet, drawing the rest of the team in. ‘I didn’t tell you to lie down out there and let them run right over the top of you. They’re ahead by three goals. I said don’t fight dirty. I didn’t say don’t fight.’
‘What are you saying we should do?’ Flemming asks. He’s ready to follow again. And Martin is all geared up to lead. I love it. I feel like yelling across to that photographer, ‘Make sure you get a picture of this.’
Martin keeps talking as he pulls on his soccer top. ‘Faltrain, you want to sit this one out?’
‘No way.’
‘Good. We need you in there. Wrecker, you swap with me for a while. You look like you could do with a rest. Now everyone, listen in. You have to play like we used to. We knew exactly what everyone else on the team was thinking last year. I could predict, down to the last second, when Faltrain was about to run for goal. She’d flick her leg back to give herself a bit of momentum and go. Corelli, how do you know when Singh is about to kick the ball to you?’
‘He runs at me and says, “Corelli”.’
‘Don’t be smart. What else?’
‘He looks like he’s about to fart.’
‘I’m concentrating,’ Singh whines.
‘Yeah. And it looks like you’re about to fart.’
‘We need to go back to how we used to be, moving like parts of the same car. Forget that they’re willing to take you out. Start playing how we did in the Championships and they won’t have time to knock us down. They won’t have time for anything at all.’
‘I’ve got your back, Faltrain,’ Martin says while we’re waiting for the ref to start us.
‘Same goes for me,’ I answer. ‘I thought you’d given up on soccer.’
‘I’ve changed my mind. For today.’
It’s a small sign, but I’ll take it.
Their midfielder takes the ball after kick-off, but Flemming slides across and steals it. And then he sends it to me. I move fast, confident. Woodbury runs at me again. He thinks he knows me. He thinks I’ll send the ball to the right. I flick it to the inside of my left foot, instead. At the last minute I move it to the outside. By the time Woodbury realises I’m passing the other way, it’s too late. Martin has it. And he’s heading towards goal.
He gets there and he’s surrounded. But we all know what to do. Coach taught us years ago. We fan out and the opposition follows. Martin kicks to me. I kick back to him. He’s facing the wrong way, but I know what he’ll do. I know him. He flicks his leg up and sends the ball flying over his head. It’s a beautiful thing to see. It lands right in the corner of the goal. Their keeper lands on the ground. And the score is one to three.
Wherever Corelli’s mum is in the crowd, she’s doing the Mexican Wave. I’d put money on it. She’s not dancing alone. Coach is at the side waving his arms around like he’s at a disco. But the night is still young.
‘Don’t relax yet, Faltrain,’ Martin warns.
But I do. And that’s the great thing. I haven’t felt this good in months. I’m the old me. I’m the girl who can score goals better than anyone on the field. And I’m going to enjoy every last second of this game.
The kick-off is theirs, but I know exactly where I have to be. Because I know Flemming. I’ve played beside him for years.
He takes possession and kicks. The ball moves and I arrive a second before their midfielder. He’s good. I’m better. I run with the ball, blocking him the whole way, my arm held out for balance. I’m sailing through sky. Nothing can stop me.
‘Over here,’ Martin calls, and I kick to him, high over the top of the defender’s head. Martin passes to King, who is already in position. He traps it with his chest, flicks it to his knee and then kicks it into goal.
Two: three.
There are ten minutes to go. We can’t win, but we can tie. Sometimes a tie is the best you can hope for. Sometimes it’s all you deserve.
Woodbury is too quick when play starts again. He’s as desperate as we are. And he has every right to be. Like Alyce said, sometimes there’s not a bad guy. Sometimes there’s just another side. He’s flying down the field, so fast that no one can catch him. He’s in the middle of one of those golden moments, you know, the sort you only have once in your life. If he kicks this we can’t even tie. There’s no way.
Martin runs after him. He pushes harder than he ever has before. Even I can’t keep up with him. He overtakes Woodbury by a neck near the opposition’s goal and takes the ball. He changes direction quickly, light, like a bird spinning in the air. His whole body seems as though it’s made of water, it moves so easily. He starts to run but there’s a crowd of opposition players in front of him, ready to steal the ball, ready to fire it in for the final goal of the match. I go in behind the pack. ‘Trust me, Martin,’ I whisper.
Martin kicks hard and sends it into them. To anyone else it looks like he’s throwing the game. But I’m the shadow near all those players and he knows it. He trusts me. I’m smaller than them. I’m faster. I’m better. I slide in and scoop out the ball. I flick it to the side where Corelli is waiting. Flemming is in position. He catches it when Corelli boots towards him. There are only three minutes on the clock.
Flemming storms up the field, feet sheeting like rain. He dodges anyone in his path. He doesn’t hit back at the defender at his side. He doesn’t need to. He’s a second ahead of him. And he trusts that it’s enough. The crowd is roaring at Flemming as he barrels along. He’s faster than I’ve ever seen him before.
I run too. We all do. Not because we think he’ll need the help, but because it’s amazing and we want to be there when he kicks that goal.
He moves into the square and we spread out around him, protection in c
ase he needs us. No one moves to interfere. He might not make the shot, but he’s earned the right to decide the play.
One minute to go and a defender blocks him. It would be so easy for Flemming to take him down. He doesn’t, though. ‘Faltrain,’ he yells, and I take the pass. He sprints out to the side, an impossible angle, but I know he can make it. In that last minute I kick it back to him. He takes the ball and sends it flying to the side of the goal. The keeper dives to his left and almost catches it. It’s a beautiful play on his part, too. We score on the whistle. It’s a tie. But ask any of us on the field today, on either side, and they’ll all tell you that we won.
‘Did you see that goal, Martin,’ I’m yelling as the crowd goes wild.
‘I did, Faltrain. And it was fantastic.’ Our whole team is piling onto each other like the old days, screaming and yelling. Coach piles on too.
I can’t help it, the sun hits Martin’s face and he looks so happy that I kiss him. He picks up the soccer ball and starts running. ‘Come on.’ He turns to me and races across the field. He kicks the ball and I chase him. I run even though I know that today, I have no chance of catching him.
‘Look, Faltrain,’ Martin says after we’ve dropped onto the ground. I follow his eyes. There’s someone talking to Flemming, handing him a card.
‘He made it,’ I say. And just as I do, that guy starts walking towards Martin and me.
The old Gracie Faltrain? Maybe she would have run off to meet him.
But I’m not leaving Martin today, not for all the scouts in the world.
46
Girl Scouted in Saturday’s Game Along with the Rest of Her Team.
The Daily Times
‘Not bad,’ I say, holding the paper while Flemming rewinds the tape of the match for the fifteenth time. ‘It’s a great picture of me. Woodbury looks okay, too.’ I’m shaking his hand in the photo. We’re holding the scout’s business card up at the camera and grinning.
‘Not bad at all, Faltrain,’ Flemming answers. ‘Where’s Knight? Isn’t he coming to celebrate with the rest of us?’
‘He’s on his way.’ And he is. ‘He’s just going to take a little longer.’
‘It’s not over till it’s over,’ as Jane would say. You better believe it. Not in the life and times of Gracie Faltrain.
MORE BESTSELLING FICTION AVAILABLE FROM PAN MACMILLAN
Cath Crowley
The Life and Times of Gracie Faltrain
Star noun: any large body like the sun, immensely hot and producing its own energy by nuclear reactions;
Soccer star noun: Gracie Faltrain
Goal-kicking, supergirl, soccer star. Gracie Faltrain is on her way. To the National Championships. To Nick. To everything she’s ever wanted. Or so she thinks. Gracie’s about to find out that life is messy. And hard. And beautiful.
Then her best friend moves away, the soccer team want her off the field and, after an unfortunate incident at the movies involving an ear (Nick’s) and a tongue (Gracie’s), Gracie has become a social outcast. And that’s when Gracie’s parents hit her with the worst news of all . . .
Before she has time to take a breath, Gracie’s rushing headlong into screwing up, making up and trying to keep it all together. Welcome to the life and times of Gracie Faltrain.
‘Teenage girls will love this book . . . a resounding success’
COURIER MAIL
‘[Crowley’s] rapid shifts of perspective spin us around, just like the best children’s books have always done and, hopefully, will always do’
WEEKEND AUSTRALIAN
‘Touching and hilarious, you’ll love it’
GIRLFRIEND MAGAZINE
Cath Crowley
Chasing Charlie Duskin
Charlie Duskin is running.
Fleeing from failures and memories and friends who have given up on her. And she’s not only running, she’s chasing things — like a father who will talk to her, friends who don’t think she’s as invisible as a piece of cling wrap, and an experience with a boy in which she doesn’t look like an idiot.
But Charlie Duskin is about to have the best summer of her life. She’s about to fall in love. She just doesn’t know it yet.
Jaclyn Moriarty
Feeling Sorry for Celia
Dear Ms Clarry,
It is with great pleasure that we invite you to join our Society.
We have just found out about your holiday. It is so impressive! You had four assignments, an English essay and a chapter of Maths to do. And you didn’t do one single piece of homework!
Fabulous!
Also we have a feeling that you have a History test today.
And you’re trying to study now? On the bus? With the Brookfield boys climbing onto each other’s shoulders to get to the emergency roof exit? And with Celia about to get on the bus at any moment? And you think that’s going to make a difference!!!
That’s really very amusing, Elizabeth. We like you for it.
You’re perfect for our Society and we’re very excited about having you join.
Yours sincerely,
The Manager
Society of People who are Definitely Going to Fail High School
(and Most Probably Life as Well!)
‘Elizabeth Clarry is exactly the sort of person I’d love for a best friend’
MELINA MARCHETTA, AUTHOR OF LOOKING FOR ALIBRANDI
‘I absolutely loved it. I wish I’d written it’
MARIAN KEYES
‘Moriarty’s writing is a hoot and her sense of irony perfectly placed in this hilarious addition to the genre of genuinely comic Australian young adult novels’
THE AUSTRALIAN
Jaclyn Moriarty
Finding Cassie Crazy
Protest in Mr Botherit’s English Class today!
Do you value your life?
Then say NO to Mr B’s Ashbury–Brookfield Pen Pal Project! WHATEVER YOU DO, DON’T WRITE A LETTER IN CLASS TODAY! If Mr B asks why, remind him that:
The reason judo is compulsory here at Ashbury is so we can defend ourselves against Brookfield students.
You can’t get in to Brookfield unless you have a criminal record.
Brookfield students don’t know how to read or write.
Year 10 is pretty crazy for best friends Lydia, Cassie and Emily, and when their English teacher starts the Pen Pal Project so that they can experience the Joy of the Envelope with boys from scary Brookfield High, life gets even crazier.
As Lydia turns into a secret agent and Emily a relationship expert, it is not so clear what is happening to Cassie. She is writing to someone, but not even her friends know what’s going on. Does she even have a pen pal? Or has Cassie really lost it?
The eagerly awaited, deliciously humorous new novel from the author of the award-winning bestseller, Feeling Sorry for Celia.
