Gracie Faltrain Takes Control (11 page)

There are only two types of players on that field. Us and them.
Andrew Flemming

‘I did a bit of research,' Francavilla says on Saturday morning. ‘Their best player is a guy called David Trentham. Ham for short. A mate of mine from their school says he was bragging about taking Faltrain out in the first minute.'

‘Yeah, well, he's lucky I'm not playing today.'

‘He'll go for the rest of us when he sees she's injured,' Flemming says. ‘So we do like we said, and eliminate the threat. Agreed?' Everyone nods, except Martin.

The plan is to take out Ham, the strongest member of the opposition, in the first five minutes of the game. ‘After that,' Flemming says before Coach arrives, ‘we won't have to do anything else. They'll know we mean business.'

‘And if things don't go like you've planned?' Martin asks.

‘They will,' Flemming answers.

‘What makes you think they won't?' I ask Martin before the match starts.

‘Unless they're dead, Faltrain, most people try to get up again.'

The whistle goes and I take my seat on the bench. Corelli's next to Ham. Francavilla is on the left of the field. Singh is standing on the right. King and Wrecker are near the ref, ready to create a diversion if we need it.

Once the ball is in play, Flemming sets up the hit. He kicks to Corelli, Corelli misses, nothing suspicious there, and as soon as Ham has possession Francavilla and Singh run in from opposite sides of the field and body slam him. He hits the ground quick and hard.

‘Well, will you look over there,' I say as the ref gives them a free kick. ‘It's a Ham sandwich.'

‘A walking sandwich,' the guy behind me says.

Like the lead in a horror movie Ham clicks his neck back into place and goes straight up to Francavilla. He doesn't even bother to lower his voice. ‘You're dead,' he says.

Don't look now, everyone, but things aren't going exactly as we planned. Martin's thinking the same thing. Worry is splashed across his face like paint. I have a feeling things are about to get messy out there.

Play starts again and the opposition runs close to us, testing us. It's like they're at a market, shopping for fruit. Everyone's looking for the softest, sweetest piece to pick. Ten minutes before half time, Ham finds his.

Corelli takes possession to the left of our goal. In a second he's surrounded by a scrabbling pack of players, seagulls screaming for the ball like it's a chip on the beach. Francavilla runs towards the crowd and dives in. He swims around for a bit, elbowing his way to Corelli. Someone kicks the ball out and the whole pack scatters. Except for Declan. And I use his first name out of respect for the almost dead. He sinks like a lilo after the holidays.

Something changes after he's carried off. I can feel it. There's a smell of metal in the air, a smell of blood. And everyone on our team starts circling, trying to find it. They're hungry. And they're sick of being fed on.

Flemming slides across to the ball and shoulders one of their strikers to the ground. The ref 's not looking so he claims it as his own and starts running. Francavilla coasts along beside him, his arms half out, clearing the way.

‘What the hell are they doing out there, Faltrain?' Coach asks, shaking his head as Singh sinks his foot into some guy's knee.

‘Just a rough game, I guess.' Singh doesn't care who he hurts, I think, and excitement grabs at my throat.

‘Looks like we might win,' I say.

Coach grunts. ‘Depends on how you define the word.'

There's twenty times the fun out there, today. There's twenty times the blood. We thrash them. Five goals to one. That's what I call winning. And I've never wanted to be out there more.

Coach is quiet after the game. ‘I'll talk to you all in two weeks, after the term holidays,' he tells us. And then he packs up his things and leaves.

‘A few more games like that and we'll be on our way to the finals,' Flemming says after he's gone.

‘You're not talking about self defence now, though, are you?' Martin asks. He's staring everyone in the eyes, willing us to look back. Even I can't do that. The only way I can survive on that field is if the team plays like they did today.

‘We were still defending ourselves. We were just getting in there first,' Flemming says, the only one of us looking straight back at him.

‘You cheated. Is that how you want to play?' The two of them remind me of dogs, baring their teeth for a fight.

‘I want to win,' Flemming says. ‘Don't you?'

‘Not like that.'

‘You're not out there, though, are you? You're in goal.'

‘Shut up, Flemming, Martin's as much in the team as the rest of us,' I say, and Maiden nods from the side.

‘Fine. I reckon we should vote, then.'

‘Okay,' Martin says. ‘Who thinks we should sink to the other teams' level?' Slowly, everyone raises their hand except for him. I raise mine too.

‘Right then,' he says, looking at me. ‘At least I understand how the game works now. I reckon it's time for a new captain. I don't want to be in charge of a team like this.'

Flemming nods. ‘Are you still playing?'

No one talks. No one moves.

‘I won't play dirty, but I'm still in.'

‘You can't sit back and let us do all the work. . .' Flemming starts, but Martin turns on him. His face bunches into a snarl.

‘Don't tell me how to play,' he says, walking off.

‘No one says a word to Coach,' Flemming says, taking the lead now. ‘What he doesn't know can't hurt him.'

I watch them all walk back to the change rooms under a dirty sky. It's raining as I leave. The only sound is my feet on the grass, muddy and wet by the time I arrive at the edge of the field.

Part of the reason I love Martin is that he wouldn't play like Woodbury, no matter how hard the game. But if we don't, then the bad guys win. They punch your boobs and knock you out because you're not brave enough to stop them.

I know I won't sleep tonight unless I talk to Martin first. I need to explain to him why I voted the way I did. That if we don't fight to win, if we accept things the way they are, then it's like we're saying that losing is good enough.

Mr Knight isn't on the porch. The curtains are edged with light, so I know they're home. I knock and wait for Martin to open the door.

‘Can I come in?'

He looks over his shoulder. ‘It's not a great time. Wait here for a second while I get my coat. I'll walk you home.'

I can hear the clatter of plates from the kitchen. I edge my way down the hall. Mr Knight's clearing the table. He's wearing a suit and tie instead of a tracksuit. He looks at me with red and tired eyes. ‘Hello, Gracie. Stay for dessert?'

I'm nodding as Martin walks back in, zipping up his coat.

‘Where's Karen?' I ask as we eat.

‘She's at a friend's house tonight,' Mr Knight answers. There's quiet for a bit after this, just the clicking of spoons against bowls.

‘I look pretty snazzy today, don't you think, Gracie?' Mr Knight's smile is like Martin's. His eyes are deeper, though, sad and sinking like a tired swimmer. This year Martin's eyes have started tipping in like that.

‘You do look pretty snazzy. What's the occasion?'

‘I went for a job interview.'

‘Did you get it?'

‘I think maybe I did.'

‘What's the job?'

‘It's at the local shopping centre. I'll be the new cleaner.'

Martin looks at me, fierce, guarding something he thinks I'll steal. ‘That's great, Mr Knight,' I say. ‘So I guess this is a celebration.'

 

‘Why did you look at me like that?' I ask on the way home.

‘Like what?'

‘You know. When your dad told me about his job, you thought I'd say something to make him feel bad.'

‘It passed through your eyes, Faltrain. You felt sorry for him. You feel sorry for my whole family.'

‘I don't.' But I'm lying. My body feels heavier when I walk into that house.

‘He's happier than I've ever seen him – or at least he's pretending to be; that's what matters.'

‘And what about you? How long can you keep pretending for?'

Martin's a shadow in the dark street. I can barely see where his voice is coming from. ‘I asked him last year to take some notice of me, and he is.'

‘Is that enough?' I ask.

‘Most of the time.' Martin struggles to get the words out, like they're all crowded in his throat, pushing against each other. ‘I think there are some parts of me that'll never be happy, because of stuff that happened with Mum, but I can't change that, so it's better for all of us to not think about it.'

‘You mean it's better for your dad?'

‘I mean it's better for all of us. What did you come over for, anyway?' he asks as we reach my door.

‘I wanted to explain why I voted against you.'

‘Faltrain, I wish you hadn't, but I'd have bet a million dollars today that you'd vote the way you did.'

‘And you don't care?'

He shrugs. ‘You play how you live. I can't change that.'

‘We'll lose if we don't do what Flemming says.'

‘My mum always said, “There are a million ways to lose, Marty. And half of them make you feel like you're winning.”' I can't wait till I find Mrs Knight. Then I can ask her what the hell that means.

Stop panting, Corelli. They're not real.
Gracie Faltrain

When we get back from holidays, we have two practices every night: one with Coach and one in the park around the corner from school.

‘Okay, so everyone's clear on how we're playing tomorrow,' Flemming says on Friday afternoon before our next match. ‘We can't afford to lose players, so if you hit them, do it when no one's looking. Elbows out and when you run, run hard. Remember, protect Faltrain. Keep her clear to kick goals.'

‘Don't worry about me.'

‘Faltrain, you're half their size,' Flemming says.

‘Perfect. I'm exactly at ball height.'

The whole team crosses their legs. Corelli moves his hands over his front. I'm making everyone pay tomorrow. Watch out. Here comes goal-kicking, head-kicking, ball-kicking Gracie Faltrain.

‘I have two words for you,' Mum says when I get home from practice.

‘You can tell me to pull out as much as you like; I'm playing tomorrow.'

‘“Pull out” aren't my two words. Mine are: “boob protectors”.'

‘What?'

‘Well, that's not their official name,' she says, and holds up the mother of all padded bras.

‘I can't wear that, Mum. I can't walk onto the ground looking like Pamela Anderson.'

‘I don't care how you walk on, but I want you walking off like Pamela, not Patrick Anderson.'

‘Who's he?'

‘Whoever he is, Gracie, he is flat-chested.'

‘Hand that thing over.'

It takes a while for Mum to strap me in. I check myself out in the mirror. ‘I don't look half bad.'

‘I have more protection.' She pulls out guards I never knew existed.

‘Ear guards?'

‘I've heard of players having their ears ripped off.'

‘Mum, I'll be fine.'

‘You're all I've got, Gracie Faltrain.' She tries to pull me close but the protectors stop her halfway. ‘So be careful out there.'

‘Don't worry about me. Worry about the others. By the way, did Jane call?'

‘No. Why don't you ring her? The longer you put off calling after a fight, the harder it is.'

‘I know. I'll ring her after the match tomorrow.'

Part of me is putting it off because I'm hoping that she'll call me. I want things to be the way they were. It feels like this
is the final test for us. I don't tell Mum, but I tested Jane after her cousin, Josie, left, too. I was just a little bit quieter than usual at school.

‘Faltrain, you're not still angry about Josie? You're my best friend, you idiot.' It felt so good to hear her say it. Like drinking warm soup when you've got a cold.

If Jane doesn't ring to wish me luck, then I guess I'll have proof. She really is forgetting me.

I look up into the stands just before the whistle goes and see Mum and Dad and Alyce waving.

‘You don't have to go out there again, baby,' Dad said on the way. ‘You've got nothing to prove.'

‘I'm playing.'

‘Then wear the protection I bought for you,' Mum said. ‘And never be ashamed to run.'

I've left most of the guards on the side of the field. If I wore them all I'd look like the Michelin Man. I have got the boob protectors on, though. I'm feeling kind of womanly out here today.

Alyce gives me the thumbs-up. It's good to have her here, even though I know she doesn't agree with me. I block out the thought that Jane hasn't even sent me a text. There's no time to get soppy. It's kill or be killed. And I am too young to die.

‘Make me proud,' Coach says before we run on. ‘Play hard. Play fair.' What's fair, though? Is it fair to kick the guy who kicked you a second before? Coach isn't on the field. He's not the one walking into a war. The opposition is looking at us like we're Christmas presents. Unless we fight they'll rip us open.

‘Stay moving, stay conscious,' Flemming said to me at practice. The plan is for me to work with Maiden. He clears anything that gets in my way. I kick the ball clear into goal.

The two of us power down the field after kick-off. Maiden sees the ball and slams the guy who's kicking it. He sends it my way and I run, as fast as I can. I dodge around players and feast on their looks of surprise. I make it to the goal with only one player at my back. I hear the sound of Corelli tripping over him. He's the perfect accident. I have all the space I need to kick and score.

Soccer's so much easier when you don't have to rely on skill. Maiden, Francavilla, Singh and Flemming are my personal bulldozers, clearing the field of bodies so nothing stands in my way. The only problem is, I guess, bulldozers break down. They run out of petrol. They get held up in traffic. They crash. And then you're left trying to make your own way. On foot.

Things are fine until the last ten minutes of the second half. The score is three all. The next goal is the decider. Everyone's focused on Singh, who's about to throw the ball into play. It's only luck that makes me look across at Flemming. The striker standing next to him flips his arm up and smacks him right in the face.

I can't believe it. ‘Did you see that?' I'm yelling as I run over. Flemming's holding his eye. The ref raises his hands as if to say, I didn't see anything. A slow grin spreads across the striker's face as Flemming sits on the bench. Don't smile too soon. You won't win if I have anything to do with it. You won't even tie.

Singh throws the ball. I take it. I look around for Maiden but he's surrounded by three of their players. Francavilla is shadowed by another. I'm on my own. There's a galloping
storm of feet behind me as I run, thundering, desperate to catch up. There's a voice in the back of my head, and it's saying something like, ‘If they catch you, you're dead.' It's not a very helpful voice. Gracie Faltrain, go, go, go. I'm going so fast all the breath in me is spent before I'm near the goal. I've got nothing left to pay for the shot.

The opposition crowds me. We're all tangled together, everyone knotted around the ball. I can't kick. There's not enough room. Any minute the whistle will sound. I'm so close, all I need is a tiny gap and we can win.

I flick my leg back as hard as I can and slam the player behind me right between the legs. He topples and pulls three of his mates with him. That's all the space I need. I smack the ball and watch it bounce at the back of the net. Oh yeah. Hear me roar.

They're all shouting at the ref, but he holds his hands up again. ‘I couldn't see a thing,' he says. I get the feeling he's seen too much, today, and it's easier to block it out. But that's working in my favour this time, so who cares?

Our whole team is exploding with excitement. Except for Martin. ‘Congratulations,' he says to me. ‘Great goal.'

I don't have time to talk about it with him. ‘Get your things and get in the car, Gracie Faltrain,' Mum says. ‘You've got some explaining to do.'

‘I have never been so ashamed in my life,' she shouts on the way home. Dad doesn't say much, but he nods along every now and then.

‘I kicked the winning goal.'

‘You kicked that boy in the balls, Gracie Faltrain. I saw it. Everyone did.'

‘The ref didn't.'

‘You think that's what matters?' She pulls the car into the driveway. ‘Go to your room and stay there.' She sits staring straight ahead, waiting for me to move.

‘We did what it took to win, Mum. Would you be happier if you were sitting in the hospital with me like before?'

‘Get inside,' she says through gritted teeth. ‘Before
I
put you in hospital.'

I don't care. I'd rather feel a little bit bad about myself and a lot good about winning than the other way around. They started it. They can't complain if we finish it off.

Mum barely talks to me all weekend. I'm grounded. No calls. No visitors. No nothing.

‘Here,' she says, and throws the sports section of the local paper at me on Sunday. ‘This is for you.' She walks into the garden and slams the back door.

‘Girl Drives Ball Home', the headline reads.

That's kind of funny. And not a bad picture, if I do say so myself.