by Cath Crowley
‘Clearly, I want you to say you like me and dump Francesca.’ His face gets the way it does when his pasta is overcooked. ‘I’m joking.’
‘You’re not; I can tell. You know, I liked you all through Year 7 and I liked you in Year 8 and then I liked you in Year 9. I even liked you when you weren’t here. But you never even looked at me, not till you found out I had a girlfriend.’
‘That’s not true.’
‘It is. No one looked at me like a boy before that. And then Francesca came along and she liked me. She’s gorgeous and not just in looks, I mean she’s kind and funny and yeah, I like her. I never imagined when you and I started hanging out that you’d want anything more than friends. You’re not even planning on being here next year, are you?’
‘I wasn’t. But now I’m not sure.’
‘I’m not giving up Francesca because for the next six months you want me to cook for you and drive you around.’
This is all going wrong, I think, and as I do the lid bounces off the pot and nearly hits Corelli in the face. ‘It’s gluggy now,’ he says. And then he slams me with the closer. ‘She’s back tomorrow.’
‘You didn’t tell me.’
‘I kept trying. You’ve been treating me worse than the plague.’
He’s right. I knew he was going to tell me and I didn’t want to hear. ‘I have to go home.’ But I sit there for a while longer because my feet won’t move.
‘Well?’ Corelli asks after a while. ‘Do you want some dinner or are you leaving?’
That’s the million-dollar question, I think, as I sit on a park bench waiting for Mr Faltrain. I lean back and look at the sky. It’s orange and empty. All the birds have gone for the winter. How do they know where they’re meant to be? Maybe whoever told them could let everyone else in on the secret.
34
ALYCE
I haven’t been working at the neighbourhood house for long but it’s enough to make me realise that the reason I’ve never had contact with the people I help is that it’s not any fun. It’s much better to help them from a distance.
‘I still don’t understand,’ I say to the kids I’m playing cards with this afternoon.
‘What are you, stupid?’ Foster Williams asks. Foster Williams always asks me if I’m stupid even though I’ve told him I have one of the highest IQs in the state for my age. ‘If you put the same card down then it’s canasta.’ He shakes his head. ‘It’s still your turn.’
I thought canasta would be better than Scrabble. We stopped playing that last Friday because the only words the kids wanted to spell were ones that I didn’t think Janet would want on the board. ‘There.’ I put a card down.
Foster shakes his head. ‘Another dumb move. Two wins to Foster Williams,’ he says, and shuffles again.
A girl my age called Tracy laughs. She looks at me with smokey-lined eyes and perfectly messy hair. I push up my glasses and look back. ‘Nice skirt,’ she says in the same voice Susan would use. Who needs to go to New York? I’m in a city where I don’t belong every day.
‘You’re doing well this week,’ Janet says near the end of my shift. ‘Mr Jacobson mentioned that you helped him fold his washing.’ She puts her hand on my shoulder. ‘Maybe let him fold his own underwear next time.’
‘The kids hate me.’
‘They’re testing you.’
Usually I’m good at tests. But it’s like this one is written in another language. I asked to watch TV with the kids the other afternoon and they made me be the antenna. I knew it was useless because the human body won’t improve a bad reception but I did it anyway.
I was holding my arms up when the old woman from my bus stop walked in. She looked at me and snorted. ‘Are you stupid? That won’t help.’ I know it won’t help, I thought. I’m trying to bond with the children. ‘Get out of the way, Alyce,’ Foster yelled. See, I’m bonding, I thought.
‘Alyce, love, this is Roberta,’ Janet said. ‘She visits the centre a lot. Could you make her a cup of tea?’
‘Don’t make it as weak as your face.’ Roberta laughed and the kids joined in.
‘No,’ I say to Janet this afternoon. ‘They really do hate me.’
‘Roberta’s teasing. She likes you. I wondered if you could stop by her unit on your way home? She hasn’t been in for a few days and she always comes on a Friday for the biscuits.’
I don’t want to. I’m scared of Roberta. She smells, too.
‘She only lives one street down from you. I’ll feel better if I know she’s okay before the weekend.’
‘Okay, I’ll go.’ Anything has to be better than another game of canasta.
I knock on the door of unit one. ‘Hold your horses.’ Feet shuffle on the other side of the wood. ‘Who’s there?’
‘Alyce Fuller.’
‘I don’t know anyone by that name.’
‘I made you tea at the neighbourhood house.’
‘That’s right. You’re the one who makes it weak and never brings me a biscuit.’
You never asked for a biscuit, you old cow. I take three deep breaths to control myself. I haven’t been this angry since the government wouldn’t sign the Kyoto Agreement. Old people are meant to bake cakes and say ‘dear’ a lot.
‘Janet sent me to check you’re all right,’ I say when she opens the door. Roberta’s dressing gown flaps open and her white legs remind me of plucked chickens. I look away. Her place is neat, but I have a feeling that if it were lighter I’d see a layer of dust over everything. I don’t want to sit down in this place where her bed, kitchen and couch are all in the one room. Through the side door I see a tiny bathroom and it makes me feel sad. There’s a smell in the air, too. ‘Soup,’ Roberta says, watching me. ‘Stinks, doesn’t it?’
‘No.’
‘Don’t lie. I can’t see well but I smell good. The Meals on Wheels people drop it off early on Fridays.’ She waves at the foil container. ‘It fills the place.’
‘Would you like me to heat it up for you?’
‘Can’t be fussed.’ She waves her bandaged hand. ‘Burnt myself last time I tried.’
‘It can’t be very nice cold.’
‘What does it matter? I can’t taste anything. Sit.’ She waves at a chair. ‘Tell me about yourself.’ She curves forward and chews her lip the whole time I’m talking. ‘You must bore the living daylights out of your friends,’ she says after a while.
For a second I think I’ve heard wrong, but a sentence like that is hard to mistake. ‘I used to. Sometimes I still do,’ I say, and then it seems like a good time to leave.
I call Janet when I get home. ‘Roberta’s fine.’
‘You sound like it didn’t go well.’
‘She said I was boring.’
‘It takes longer to get to know some people than it does others.’
‘None of them want to get to know me.’
‘For heaven’s sake, Alyce, you’ve only just started. Do you want the truth?’
No. ‘Yes.’
‘You look like you’d rather be anywhere else but there.’
‘I’m scared.’
‘I know. Keep trying with Roberta and Foster. I have a feeling they’ll let you in eventually. So, will we see you next week?’
‘Yes,’ I say. But I wonder: if I hadn’t already sent off my application, would I go back? I feel like an idiot in that place. I want to walk in there with the list of things I’ve done and say, ‘Here. I’ve helped people for years. I’m good at it. Now let me help you.’
I call Andrew after I hang up from Janet. He’s the one I want to talk to about this. I want to check that he’s okay, too. I keep thinking about him, tearing the bits off his sandwich and throwing them to the birds. He’s sat in English all week, staring out of the window half of the time, and trying to act like he’s not staring at Gracie the other half.
‘You could have asked me how I was at school,’ he says. ‘Only you’re not talking to me in front of Faltrain.’
‘It’s not easy. I’
m Gracie’s –’
He cuts me off. ‘What do you want, Alyce?’ ‘
To talk.’
‘You’ve got a boyfriend for that,’ he says, and hangs up.
I can’t sleep. I’m so mad at Andrew. I replay the phone conversation over and over. Each time I give him a piece of my mind. I replay my conversation with Roberta, too. I call her rude and old and mean. I guess I’m no Angelina Jolie. I pull out Brett’s book. I put it back again. I think my life is best kept in my head.
35
GRACIE
I feel strange sitting on the bench on Saturday. Kally’s taken over my old position. She warms up and it’s like I’m watching another person try my life on and get comfortable in it. This is what I looked like when I started: a small girl on a field with the boys, hoping I’d kick goals.
Beth Hunter’s on the ground in defence. Natalie’s on as striker. Joanna is in goal. ‘We’ll leave the girls on a bit longer, this morning,’ Coach says. ‘Let them get the feel for the play.’
‘You think that’s a good idea?’ I ask.
‘I hear on the grapevine you made a few visits to the boys during the week and knocked some sense into them. I think they’ll be okay. You want to handle the pre-game talk?’
‘Really?’
‘I’ll sit back and watch.’
I look at every player. I eyeball Flemming a little longer so he doesn’t make the mistake of believing that things are okay between us. They’re not. It’s his fault I’m on the bench when I’d kill to be in the game.
‘We’re playing one of the roughest teams today so be careful. They’ll figure it’s an easy win because Martin and I are gone and there are some new players on the field. But they don’t know how good Kally is in the midfield. They don’t know that nothing gets through Beth in defence. They don’t know how good Natalie is as a striker. What they definitely don’t suspect is how good at shooting for goal Corelli has become. I’m changing your position to striker.’
‘Really?’ he asks.
‘Really. Francavilla, you’re in midfield.’ I run through the other positions. I tell them who’s on the bench. And then I say, ‘Remember. We’re all on the same team out there.’
Before they walk on, the goalie from the opposition calls out to Kally. ‘Want to save us some time and forfeit now?’
‘I’m surprised you know what forfeit means,’ she answers, and slowly raises one finger. ‘Okay. I’m acting way tougher than I feel.’
‘You’ll be right.’ Francavilla slaps her on the back. ‘Faltrain has to kick them in the balls sometimes.’
‘You got to find their balls, first,’ Singh says.
Okay. Now I’m more than a little jealous. The whistle goes. They’re on. And I’m not.
‘First rule of coaching, Faltrain. Keep your eyes open.’
‘It’s too painful to watch, Coach.’
‘So, do something about it.’
‘I don’t know what to do.’ Kally’s getting hammered out there. It’s rough and she hasn’t got a handle on the play. Every time she gets the ball they take it. Most of the time they take it and leave her on the grass.
Our team’s helping all they can. Francavilla’s helping her a little too much, if you ask me. Even Flemming passes her the ball. But she’s drowning and they can’t hold her up. Natalie’s still standing. But let’s face it: she’s not getting the ball very often. Joanna, on the other hand, is getting the ball over and over in goal. She’s holding her own. So is Beth. The score’s 3–0 when the whistle goes for the end of the first half. It could be worse.
‘You’re on, Faltrain,’ Coach says as they walk over. ‘It might help to think what I’d say to them.’
‘Okay. Act like you.’ That shouldn’t be too hard. The first thing Francavilla says when he reaches me is, ‘I’ve got Kally’s back in the midfield, Faltrain.’ Clearly my little talk the other day scared him.
‘Then stop checking out her front. It’s not a singles bar out there.’ Being like Coach is easier than I thought.
I look at Kally. There isn’t time for nice speeches. ‘You’re scared, that’s the problem. You see those guys running at you and you’re panicking.’
‘Smart people panic when they see a bus about to hit them,’ she says. Her legs are bruised. Her hair has seen better days.
After the game I’ll show her sympathy. Right now, I’m giving it to her straight. ‘If you lose here, forget state trials. Your confidence will be shot and you’ll play like crap again. Get in there, get under them, get around them, get the ball.’ I throw in a bit of Martin advice at the end. Hey, it worked for me.
The whistle goes and Kally gets knocked down. Again. ‘You know,’ she says, getting up. ‘I’m really sick of that.’ She finds the ball. She pauses a second and then she runs, right at the biggest guy in the midfield. She’s got the ball before he knows she’s there. ‘Nat,’ she yells, and kicks. Natalie passes to Corelli who slams it to goal. ‘Forfeit that, you losers,’ Kally says. And she runs for the ball again.
Did Kally go off in the midfield? Yes. Did Natalie kick a great goal on the whistle? Yes. Did we win? No freaking way. Was it the best game I can ever remember? It was definitely close. It’s a shame I was watching from the side.
Flemming takes a long time packing his bag. He wants to talk; I hear it in the way he folds his jumper instead of stuffing it away. I hear it in the way he slowly ties his shoelaces. ‘They played good out there,’ he says eventually.
I can’t stand that those words are the ones that come out of his mouth first. Not, ‘I’m sorry you weren’t out there playing because I’m such an idiot.’ Maybe he thinks that passing to the girls a few times in the midfield makes up for what he did to me.
I don’t bother with the lead-up. I don’t bother explaining that it’d be a good idea for him to at least apologise. I tried that last year and he didn’t change. ‘Everyone was right,’ I say. ‘You’re an idiot. Martin might want nothing to do with me but he wants even less to do with you. Coach told me you were trouble because you were stupid.’ I’ve twisted the truth, but I’ve hit my mark.
Flemming’s face ripples with anger and hurt and shame. That’s the thing about fighting with your friends. It’s so much more dangerous than fighting with an enemy. You can hit them at close range and aim the shot exactly where you want it to go.
‘No one wants to hang out with you. Not Alyce. Not me. Not Martin. Not Coach. You might be on the school team but I still feel sorry for you. Because you’ve got nothing else.’
Flemming nods, picks up his bag and leaves. I let him go. The friendship was over long before today.
36
ALYCE
Gracie told me what she said to Andrew yesterday. I go to his trials this morning because I’m more worried than angry. I call his name and when he looks at me I don’t recognise his face. ‘Watch out. You don’t want to get caught talking to an idiot. Didn’t Coach and Knight and Faltrain tell you?’
Something becomes clear for me, then, something frightening. All last year we thought that Andrew couldn’t control his temper. He was controlling it, though: he didn’t show half the anger he was feeling. It’s in his face, today. He’s always thought he was stupid and now he’s had it confirmed by the people he trusted the most.
Water takes a long time to absorb heat before it boils, I think, as he runs onto the field. Andrew’s hit 212 degrees Fahrenheit today and something bad is going to happen. I feel it. The only person who might be able to stop it is Gracie. She’s too far away, though. So his luck has finally run out.
‘Your mum told me you were here,’ Brett says, standing beside me. He looks across the field. ‘Man, he’s going to kill someone.’ I feel sick watching Andrew as he slams into boys and takes the ball.
‘Idiot,’ Brett says. I want to tell him to be quiet. We learnt in Physics that the quietest sound an average eighteen-year-old boy can hear is twenty micropascals. Sometimes, though, words travel where it’s not scientificall
y possible, because they’re meant for you. I’ve heard people whispering about me all through high school. ‘Idiot,’ Brett says again, and Andrew looks up. He sees us holding hands and loses his balance. I hear the sound of his knee tearing: scientifically possible or not.
GRACIE
I’m laughing as I walk off the field from state trials. Kally and I played better than ever. Dan’s leaning on his car, waiting. ‘You’re early,’ I say, and then I stop smiling. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘There’s been an accident.’ I know what he’s about to say. Call it sixth sense. Call it common sense. Flemming’s been playing too rough for too long. ‘Is he alive?’ I ask.
‘He fell on the way to goal and tore his knee ligament. Coach reckons he’s out for the season. Do you want me to drive you to the hospital?’
Last year I would have been there in a second. I would have run to that hospital. Everything Flemming’s wished for is gone. Mum went on and on about injury at the start of the year when I was stuffing around in school. ‘You don’t have an indefinite shelf life,’ she said. ‘You need a career to fall back on.’ I figured we’d have a shelf life long enough to get us to the World Cup and beyond that was too far to see.
‘I have to study,’ I say. Dan and Kally don’t argue. We get in the car. What happened to Flemming is my worst nightmare. He’ll be staring out the window of his hospital room, like I’m looking out the window, now. I see grass and parks and he’ll see places he can’t run. But I’ve been following him too long.
I can’t say everything’s okay between us when it’s not. He was willing to let me lose what I loved so that he could hold on to it. If he’s sorry, if he needs a friend, he has to come to me this time.
‘What are you thinking?’ Dan asks.
‘That I’m glad I’ve got a plan B.’ That I’m glad I’m not Flemming. That I want to leave the part of me that was him behind. Mum was right. When someone steals the soccer ball, the game stops. You can’t score goals with air.
