Gracie Faltrain Takes Control (12 page)

I've known Faltrain for eleven years. Once she gets up a bit of speed, she can talk about herself all year. Don't even bother butting in with your own problems. She'll run right over the top of you. And wonder what the bump was.
Jane Iranian

Jane finally calls on Sunday night. ‘Hi, Faltrain.'

‘Jane, hi.' If Mum catches me I'll get into trouble, but I have to share the game with someone. ‘Wait'll you hear what happened in soccer.'

‘Faltrain, I really need to talk to you about something.'

‘This won't take long. And I could get thrown off the phone any second, so me first.' When Jane hears this she'll want to be friends with me again.

‘I kicked the most amazing goal yesterday. I was surrounded by the opposition. Everyone thought there was no way I could make it. And then at the last minute I flipped my leg back and kicked this guy right where he lives. The whole pack of them toppled over.'

‘You sound like you enjoyed it.'

‘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.

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.