Gracie Faltrain Gets it Right (Finally) (5 page)

Relax. No one actually starts any work until term three.
Except for Alyce Fuller. But she was born studying
for her Year 12 certificate.
Gracie Faltrain

Kally's problem at the tryouts was that she forgot the number one rule of high school: Know who your enemies are. I don't care whether you're twelve or in Year 12, you can't afford to forget that. Today I look out for signs that Annabelle knows Martin dumped me. Any gossip will start with her. ‘Do you think she knows?' I ask Jane.

‘I think you'd know if she knew. I'd be more worried about your teachers than Annabelle. Did you do all your holiday homework?'

‘They don't really expect us to do those assignments.'

‘I think they do, Faltrain. That's why they have those due dates on top of the assignment sheet.'

‘Yeah, but the marks don't actually count unless it's an official assessment task.'

‘If only you used your reasoning powers for good instead of evil you'd be topping the class. Did you tell Alyce what happened with Martin?'

I shake my head. ‘I want her to know but I don't want to tell the story again.'

‘I'll find her before school starts. Are you off for a kick before the bell?'

‘I've got fifteen minutes by my watch.'

‘See you in the quad at recess, then. Enjoy your last fifteen minutes of freedom.'

School might be bad. It might be a dangerous ocean. But at least when you're swimming with your friends, you're safe.

I look around for Alyce but I can't find her before the bell. I can see why Faltrain doesn't want to retell the story. She thought Martin coming back meant he wanted to go out with her again; it's like the audience clapping for an encore so they can throw tomatoes in your face. It's ugly.

But then life can be ugly. Mrs Young proves that in History this morning by setting an oral presentation on the first day back. ‘It's a major assessment. You have four weeks to prepare but you won't have much class time.'

‘Hey,' Corelli says. ‘You want to be my partner?'

‘That depends. Do you know anything about the French Revolution?'

‘I know your other choices are Susan and Jason.'

‘Hearing my two choices I feel the need to chop off my own head.'

‘That's what I thought you'd say, partner.'

Mrs Young sends us to the library for research. ‘I'll meet you in the History section,' I tell Corelli. ‘I have to email Alyce.'

I scan a message from her asking everyone in the known universe to donate coats for her winter charity collection and then I send her one in reply.
I couldn't catch you before school. Martin dumped Gracie again. That's three for three. Meet me at my locker at recess. Jane.

It takes me a minute to realise what I've done. I am a dead person. I always knew Faltrain had ‘felon' written in her stars. I figured it was Annabelle Orion she was destined to kill, though, not me.

When Corelli walks over I'm holding the computer plug in my hand after pulling it out from the wall. ‘What are you doing?' he asks.

‘I'm panicking.'

‘The new millennium thing came and went. The clocks ticked over. Nothing happened.'

‘That's funny.' I grab him by the collar. ‘This isn't the time for jokes. I hit “reply all” and sent an email to everyone in the known universe that said Martin dumped Faltrain for a third time.'

The good thing about Corelli is that he doesn't feel the need to look cool. I want someone to panic with me today. ‘Pulling the plug from the wall won't help.' He grabs it out of my hands and dives under the table. ‘Are you hiding?' I ask.

‘I'm plugging it back in.' He crawls out, and boots up the computer. ‘Log on. Maybe it didn't send.'

‘Yes, Corelli, and maybe there really is a Santa Claus.' I type in my username and password. He checks in the ‘sent' folder. ‘It's gone,' he says. ‘I have a little money saved. It's yours if you want to make a run for it.'

‘Thanks. But I'd have to be Jason Bourne to get away from Faltrain once she finds this out.' I should never have come back from England. The sequel's never as good as the first movie. And in a trilogy, someone always dies. Let's hope it's not me.

Flemming convinces me to turn my fifteen-minute kick into a double lesson of soccer. I'm no angel but even I feel edgy about skipping the first class back. I have a strict wagging policy. I only skip Food Technology with Mrs Barnett. ‘You're in Year 12 now,' she says. ‘It's not my job to chase you; it's your job to take responsibility.'

Flemming likes her philosophy. ‘I'm taking responsibility for my hunger,' he says before most of her classes. ‘I'm off to get Maccas.' He's spent more time under the golden arches this year than he's spent in her class.

‘Come on, Faltrain,' he says this morning. ‘They never teach us anything on the first day.'

‘They do in Maths.'

‘So get someone's notes. It'll be better than if you take your own.' He has a point so I follow him to the back of the school.

‘Did you do the holiday homework for English?' I ask.

‘Yep.'

‘Really?' Hearing that from Flemming is like finding your dog flicking through the newspaper. ‘What did you get for the last English assessment?'

‘Six out of ten,' he says. Hearing that is like finding your dog flicking through the newspaper and commenting on the state of the economy. ‘Did you read the book?'

‘I watched the film.'

‘Jane said the film was completely different.'

‘That explains where I lost four marks.'

‘At least we're on camp in two weeks.'

‘Yeah, but it's a study camp. That's just stupid.' Flemming stops talking then. So do I. For the rest of the double lesson we do what we do best: we play soccer. I imagine myself into a future where I don't have to pass English or Maths or Food Technology. I imagine myself into a world where the only pass that counts is the one that happens on the field. I imagine myself into a world where Martin didn't dump me.

The bell goes and Corelli comes with me to find Alyce. ‘There she is,' he says, pointing down the corridor. She looks worried. ‘You've seen the email?' I ask.

‘What email? I've been in the counsellor's office.'

I give her a quick recap and she turns even paler. ‘Oh dear. I've spent years building that list. I started in Year 7, recording every email I could find: students and teachers across the country are on it. I update it every six months.'

Saying ‘oh dear' in this situation is like saying ‘fruit' when you've severed a main artery. Alyce's list is the snowflake that slowly grew over time to become the iceberg that sank the
Titanic
. Faltrain is about to crack like the side of that ship and it's my fault. ‘Someone needs to slap me, I'm thinking thoughts that are way out of control.'

‘Faltrain'll do it,' Corelli says.

‘I never noticed before how funny you are. We'll laugh later.' If I'm still alive, that is.

We spot Faltrain in the tuckshop line. She's got Jimmy Ferocio cornered against the back wall. ‘What email?' I hear her asking.

‘It's not too late to accept that money,' Corelli says.

If I run now I'll be running forever. Annabelle's watching. Susan and Kally are here, too. I'd give anything to take that stupid email back. But I can't, so the only other option is to make this quick and clean. ‘I accidentally emailed the whole state that Martin dumped you again.' There's no point in sugar-coating it. There isn't that much sugar in the world.

Any minute now I'll wake up. Yep. Any minute now. ‘Okay, someone slap me. I'm not waking up.'

‘I'm not slapping you, Faltrain. Relax and let go of Jimmy.'

She loosens her grip and stands very still, like what I've said is a killer bee and if she doesn't move it'll pass her by. Susan leans in and says, ‘It must be awful to be dumped three times.' No such luck. That bee has smelled honey and it's hanging around until it sucks the last sweet drop.

We line up in the queue. ‘Three doughnuts,' she says when it's her turn. The tuckshop lady pats her hand. ‘I'm so sorry, dear.'

Faltrain points at me. ‘She's paying.' I nod. Quite possibly for the rest of my life.

I spend my free after recess with Corelli, researching for our presentation. ‘I'm such an idiot,' I say for the fiftieth time. ‘Did you see the look on her face?'

‘She's had worse stuff happen. That time she tucked her dress in her undies was uglier.'

‘Yeah, but I wasn't the one who tucked her dress into her undies.'

‘Because that would be weird.'

‘Stop it. This isn't funny.'

‘It's a bit funny,' he says, turning to his computer. He stops grinning.

‘What?'

‘Log into your email.'

It turns out that when everyone in the known universe receives an email about Gracie Faltrain getting dumped, every person in the known universe wants to reply. ‘Are there no teachers policing the use of technology in their
classrooms?' I ask. ‘We didn't have computers in every room when I left.'

‘It's bad, I know. We should write to the local MP.'

‘I can't believe I'm saying this, but now is not the time for snappy comebacks.'

‘Now is definitely the time for snappy comebacks. Now's the time you want to use “reply all” to send those snappy comebacks.'

‘It doesn't seem like a great idea to get into a fight over the email.'

‘Have you read some of these replies?'

I look at them. ‘Move over. We'll use your name.'

That is classic.

No, what's classic is the time you walked into the girls' toilets by mistake in Year 7 and sat in a cubicle to see how it felt to whiz like a girl.

How do you know that, Corelli?

I was in the cubicle next door, idiot.

That's messed up, man.

What's messed up is Gracie Faltrain. How many times does a guy have to dump a girl before she gets the message?

I don't know, let's ask Flemming. How many times did you have to dump Susan before she got the message?

Twice.

This is my coat collection email. Important people are reading this.

Sorry, Alyce, I'm out of control. Do you want to have dinner at my place tonight?

You're asking my girlfriend out?

Jane's using my body for emailing purposes.

You wish she'd use your body, Corelli.

Alyce, there must be some way of blocking these emails.

Dan has the hots for Gracie.

I'm sitting next to you, idiot. You don't need to email that to everyone in the world.

Mate, she's not worth it. One kiss and she wants to marry you.

As if. I'd stick my tongue in my own ear before I'd kiss you again.

Could someone actually do that? Stick their tongue in their own ear?

Okay, for the record I want it noted that that reply actually came from Corelli.

Gracie Faltrain is not dictated to by the norms of a patriarchal society. Whilst she may, one day, find a partner to enjoy an equal relationship with, until then her love of soccer completes her.

Huh?

One day you'll meet a guy you're hot for like Martin but until then you're happy to kick goals on the soccer field. By the way, Faltrain, I am so, so, sorry.

What are you sorry for, Corelli?

Next person to email about Faltrain gets a fist to the face. Anyone want to try me?

I didn't think so.

‘That was fun,' Corelli says.

‘Yeah, I have that same sort of fun getting my legs waxed.'

‘You want to drive around in my car sometime and listen to my new CD?' he asks.

‘Okay,' I tell him. Because strangely enough, I do.

Okay. So I was wrong when I said swimming with friends is safe. Swim alone. And keep your eyes open. I don't look for Alyce and Jane at lunch. It's not that I'm angry with Jane. She made a mistake. It's that I'd run the risk of seeing all the kids who went crazy with the ‘reply all' button. I go behind the sheds, to a spot where there's enough green to kick the ball but not enough space to draw a crowd.

There's only one other person here, today. Kally's got the same idea as me. I guess she needs a place to hide too. I think about leaving but I'd rather share a tiny patch of grass with Kally than a whole school with people like Susan.

She looks at me and I look at her. My legs and arms ache even more than Saturday. It's not just the email. It's the thought that's been sinking into me all day, further and further down. Martin is gone. Go on, I think, looking at her. Say whatever smart thing you have to say and get it over with.

She doesn't say anything, though. She makes room for me on the little patch of green and starts juggling the ball around. I do the same. Every now and then I see her copy one of my moves. It's the sort of thing Jane or Alyce would do, being nice for the sake of it, not because there was a reason to be. ‘It's a crazy, mixed-up world we live in,' I imagine Jane saying. Yep. And it's lucky for me this afternoon that it is.

‘No one is even thinking about coats,' I say to Jane at lunch. ‘They're thinking about what bad things they can say to Gracie next. I built that list to do good. It's like when Ernest Rutherford and his scientists split the atom only to have their discovery used later to create nuclear weapons.'