Gracie Faltrain Gets it Right (Finally) (9 page)

I oversleep this morning and I'm late for my Saturday school match. I blame my weird dream. Dan and I were swimming around as Map turtles. I know one of them was him because it had a lip ring and a calculator and it kissed me on the cheek.

Dad drives me but I still arrive ten minutes after the whistle. Coach shakes his head. ‘Had something better to do, did we?'

Somehow I don't think he's in the mood to hear that I couldn't sleep properly after dreaming about kissing a turtle with a lip ring. ‘Sorry, Coach.'

‘Warm up. We need you in the midfield. Flemming's about to kill Corelli.' I run on. It takes me a while to settle into the rhythm. My head's only half in the game and I'm tired. We win, but only by one and more from luck than anything. ‘Stay back, Faltrain,' Coach says. ‘I want to talk.'

*

‘You're not focused.'

‘I'm practising when I can, Coach. I have to study, too.'

‘You're not studying. You're wagging classes with Flemming and stuffing around in the ones you do go to.' My stomach drops. I don't confirm what he's said but he's got my number and we know it. ‘Top athletes see what they want and move steadily towards it. There's nothing steady about you this year.'

‘You don't think I'll make the state team?'

‘The way you're playing now, you'll make the first few cuts. Maybe you'll even get through to the end. But to go further, you need more than talent. It's ten per cent skill, ninety per cent determination. If you follow Flemming, if you stuff around in school, that lack of discipline gets into your game and leaks onto the field. Get your head on straight and start thinking for yourself.'

He stands up. ‘I found this.' He passes me a photocopy of a news article. ‘She plays with the men's Olympic team. First woman allowed on. I read it and thought of you.'

‘I want this,' I say, half to myself.

‘Then don't throw it away. Forget what happened last year. Forget Knight. And if you have to, forget Flemming. Look forwards.'

Flemming sends me a text on the way home:
Meet me this afternoon for a kick?
I can't forget him. He wouldn't cut me loose if the situation were reversed. I can loosen the knot a little, though.
Can't
, I text back.
See you Monday
.

It's not like I haven't heard what Coach said to me before, but somehow, it's louder when it comes from him. I switch off my mobile. I go home. And I study.

*

Mum walks in every couple of hours, not to check on me, but to put a cup of Milo on the desk with a biscuit. And to kiss the top of my head.

I'm at the state trials early this morning. I've already warmed up by the time Kally and Dan arrive. She and I swap thoughts on the other players while we wait for the coaches to start drills. It's easier to see how to win when there's someone to throw ideas around with. We go through the girls and rate their chances. We rate our own. ‘If I play like last week I'm out,' she says.

‘It won't happen.' I pull out the cutting Coach gave me yesterday. I showed it to Jane last night and she was excited, but she didn't really get it, not like Kally does. There's soccer under her skin, like there is under mine.

‘I'd love to be her,' she says.

‘We'll be us and be her. That's better.' I fold the paper and put it back in my bag.

‘So, goodbye,' Dan calls as we walk off. ‘I'll be back to pick you up later.'

‘Good luck,' Kally says, and her voice leaves me wondering
again if they're together. Coach is right, though: now is the time to focus. If I want this then every part of me has to be on the field today.

I play the best I can. Kally plays bad. She's over-thinking. Out here, it's not your brain and body that need to connect. It's your brain and instinct. Kally's still playing like those sharks in the documentary, thrashing around without fins.

I don't know about fins, but wings grow back. I had to grow a second set of mine in Year 10. Martin helped. Kally needs some confidence, that's all. Lucky she's on my team. I'm free to give it to her.

It's a risk. Passing to a player who keeps missing makes my judgment look bad. After this Sunday the coaches will start making lists. I don't want to be on the wrong one.

But I don't want Kally to be on it, either. I look at the clock. The score's tied and there are only eleven minutes to the whistle. If I kick to Kally and she misses, there won't be time to patch the damage.

At the ten-minute mark Char Taylor scores a goal for the opposition. That puts them one ahead. Even for me, scoring two goals in nine minutes would be hard. Flemming would tell me to look after myself. They're his rules. Sometimes, though, the rules don't steer a person in the right direction. Today, I trust my instinct.

I take the ball and swing to Kally's right. I signal that I'm passing and give her time before I kick. Once she gets possession there's a clear path to goal. At eight minutes to go she loses it to Char.

Now the team's looking at Kally and me in the same way. I don't like it and I don't want to end the second trial that
way. I see how to save the game. I see the gap in their defence. I can make the shot but there's no time for hesitation. I take the ball and flick it to my left. I see the path. And I move away from it.

Towards Kally. Towards, I have to say, a possible letter cutting me from the state squad. ‘We need two goals in six minutes. There's a space in their defence. I'm right behind you,' I say, and slam it at her. Please grow some fins, please. Even little ones.

Kally hovers for one painful second. I know what's going through her head because it would be going through mine: I can do this, so why am I stuffing around? I see the moment where the old her moves back in. She glides down the midfield, past the striker and through to the goal. She's not good. She's amazing. She doesn't do it twice. She does it three times before the whistle. ‘Oh yeah,' she says. ‘I am back in the game.' She smiles at me as the girls slap her hand. ‘Thank you,' she mouths. And I give her the thumbs up.

Everyone's excited after seeing her kick those goals. She showed us what's ahead if we work hard for it. I'm betting that every girl here spends a little time imagining what it would be like to make shots like those in the final minutes. I know I do. I dream about scoring like that in the state finals or the World Cup or the Olympics.

‘The team's going out for food,' Kally says, pulling out her mobile. ‘You coming?'

I swing my bag on my shoulder. ‘I have to study. You played a great game.' I walk away with this feeling like the world's opening its door a little so I can squeeze through to the things I want.

Dan drives me home. I give him a description of how Kally shot the goals in the final five minutes. ‘It was amazing.'

‘That was me she was dialling as you walked away. She told me what you did.'

I'm speechless. I've never been in the absolute right before. I saved the day and I didn't brag about it and I'm going home to do work.

‘You put it on the line for her out there,' he says. ‘That earns you an afternoon of free Maths help.' Who would have guessed last year that the thought of Maths with Dan Woodbury would make my whole body tingle?

‘How did your trials go?'

‘Okay. It's rough out there.' Dan doesn't have to tell me what it's like for him. It's not that girls want to win any less but boys go out fiercer. They slam harder.

‘I'm guessing they didn't hug and go for cake afterwards,' I say.

‘No, they went out. Tough guys still like cake. No hugging, though. On the subject of tough guys, Flemming's headed for trouble.'

‘He's playing dirty again?'

‘Dangerous play but nothing against the rules.'

‘That's his style. That's why he's good.'

‘This is different. The field's electric when he's on it. Even if he doesn't hurt anyone they won't pick a guy they can't predict.' Dan pulls into my driveway. ‘You should talk to him. You're the only person he probably won't hit.'

It's the ‘probably' part I'm worried about. Dan's right. Flemming sparks up the whole field he's so angry. I saw it last season. Coach can see it, that's why he warned me
yesterday. But Flemming lost Martin as a mate and Alyce as a girlfriend and he still plays the same way he always did. If losing those things didn't change him, then talking to me won't help.

Corelli, Jane and Alyce are working at the kitchen table when we walk in. Dan and I sit next to them and we study, too. Mum and Dad come home from the nursery and bring lunch. We take a thirty-minute break and then we keep working. It's nearly dinner time when Kally arrives.

‘Hey,' she says, and then blurts out a stream of words.

‘Slow down. For a second I thought you said you'd made a bet with the boys' team that we'd shave our heads if we lost the state trials practice match.' I laugh. No one laughs with me. ‘Tell me you didn't do that.'

‘It happened quick, you know? I had all that adrenalin pumping through my veins and we were having cake so the sugar was rushing around with the adrenalin. Anyway, some guy who's listening to our conversation starts laughing. He says we're kidding ourselves if we think we'll beat the boys' team. I say, “Oh yeah?” And it keeps going on like that till Truck comes in. He says, “Why don't we settle this with a bet?” We set our terms: if the girls lose we shave our heads and if the boys lose they shave their legs.'

‘Shaving women's heads as punishment is so fifteenth century,' Jane says. ‘No one's doing it anymore.'

I try to stay calm while she cracks jokes. But I don't feel calm. I might do some dumb things, but even I'm not dumb enough to make that bet. ‘Get Truck's phone number from Dan and call it off.'

‘I can't. You didn't hear those guys laughing at us.'

‘They'll be laughing harder when we have to
shave our heads
.' I yell the last three words at her. I throw calm out the window. ‘You make this into a bet and it'll be on out there. I've played against Truck and let me tell you, you're not a rabbit. You have boobs. He will hit them.'

‘What have rabbits got to do with anything?' Kally asks.

I keep going. I'm on a roll fuelled by fear. ‘I've seen their legs. Francavilla is all hair. I think he's technically classified as a Wookie. There's no way he'll risk waxing them.'

‘How are your legs, Corelli?' Jane asks.

‘I'm Italian. I fear the wax.'

‘It'll be embarrassing to call it off now, sure,' I say. ‘But if we lose, we'll have to play at the state finals with no hair. They'll be calling us . . . help me out here, Jane.'

‘The Sinéad O'Connors, The Natalie Portmans,' she says.

‘The Bowling Balls,' Alyce says.

‘The Lawns,' Corelli says.

‘The Buddhist Monks,' Dan says.

I look at Kally. ‘You get the picture.'

‘You're assuming we'll lose. I went down in the school tryouts because you didn't have my back. That won't happen this time. The girls want you to train them. You're our secret weapon.'

‘You didn't tell those guys I was the secret weapon, did you?'

‘Why shouldn't I?'

‘Well, for one, it blows the whole secret bit out of the water,' Jane says.

‘Okay. I made a stupid bet. But tell me you would have acted differently if you'd been there and those guys were laughing at you.'

I'd like to think I'm not that dumb, but the truth is, I'm not sure. The only thing on my mind last year was proving I was every bit as good as them. In the end, though, what they thought didn't count. It was what Martin thought that mattered.

‘We need you, Gracie,' Kally says.

It's confusing. I mean, on the one hand, I want Dan to think I'm the sort of girl who backs people up. I am the sort of girl who backs her friends up and I like Kally. On the other hand, I've only known her a little while and I was planning on cascading curls for the formal this year.

I look at Mum and Dad. They've been sitting quietly through all of this. Usually I can at least count on Mum to jump in and stop me doing something stupid. ‘This is your decision, Gracie,' she says. Great. Now she gives me the freedom to be myself.

I look at Kally, who looks desperately back at me. ‘I'm allowed out Friday nights, yeah?' I ask Mum. She nods. ‘And if I promise to work all afternoon Sunday, could I have two hours off at five?' She nods again. ‘Tell the girls to be at the trials oval Friday after school and Sunday at five. Tell them I hope they have great-shaped heads.'

‘I have to do this,' I say to Mum and Dad and Jane while we help Corelli cook pizza.

‘You don't have to do anything,' Jane says.

‘But I know how she feels. I've stood in her shoes.'

‘Sometimes that's a good thing, Faltrain. And sometimes you need to get your own shoes because other people's shoes smell – right, Mr and Mrs Faltrain?'

Mum looks at Dad and then puts down the knife. ‘We've been fighting all year and I'm tired, Gracie. The past two days you've taken a little control and I'm hoping it keeps going. It's up to you whether it does, though.'

‘It's your Year 12, baby,' Dad says. ‘You steer the ship.'

‘It is a stupid bet.' Mum holds up a peeled potato. ‘But you're nearly eighteen. It's your hair.'

‘I'll help,' Dan says.

‘Count me in too,' Corelli adds. ‘Those guys have been calling me a girl for years. I'm the perfect double agent. Just so everyone's clear, though, if we lose, I'm running. No one's coming near me with hot wax.'

‘At least there'll be a bright side if I get cut from the state trials. I'll lose my place but I'll keep my hair,' I say, as Kally walks into the kitchen.

‘Ah, actually, one of Truck's terms was that even if you didn't play in the practice match he got to shave your head.' So it's true what they say. Year 12 really is the most stressful year of a teenager's life.