Gracie Faltrain Takes Control (18 page)

The world looks a whole lot different standing in someone else's soccer boots.
Gracie Faltrain

No one wants to admit that Martin still won't be here today. This is the decider. If we win this, then we're into the final.

‘Faltrain,' Coach says. ‘I know you miss Knight. I know that playing without him is hard. But I need you out there.'

I nod. ‘I'll take his spot, then. In goal.' He doesn't argue. He just shifts Maiden into the midfield.

I figure I owe it to Martin to see what his life has been like, what he's been trying to tell me all this time. If he ever comes back I want to prove to him that I'm listening.

All this time I thought Martin was a coward. But the game he's been playing is harder than I thought. I'm on the lookout for attack all through the first half. If I let my guard down for a second then they'll score. Do that too many times and the game's over. Almost all of Martin's life has been defence. Looking after his family, and me. Guarding the last memories of his mum. I wanted him to attack so badly, kick his dad to wake him up. Kick the other team in soccer.

But standing in Martin's place today, I see that attack can be ugly. Flemming smacks into players and flips them like pancakes, flat on their backs. Sure, he gets the ball and scores three goals in a row. But he used to do that all the time. He just never hurt other players to do it.

The thing is, I've watched these guys play since Year 7. I know their style. Flemming could have made at least two of those goals by cutting to the right at the centre of the field and then swinging into the gap left by one of their defenders. Sure, the degree of difficulty was high, but man, what a great goal it would have been if he'd made it.

I guess up until now, I haven't been able to work out what I think. Those guys did set the rules. But we set some before them. Like I said, human nature's like a track on loop. But someone's got to stop it.

‘Francavilla,' I say at half time, ‘you're playing like you don't want to be out there, I can tell.'

‘I don't want to be. It's no fun anymore. I used to love protecting goal, predicting the shots, making sure no one got through. It's not the same anymore. I'm thinking I might sign up for footy next year.'

‘Fair enough.' I don't even try to convince him to stay. I know exactly what he means.

We went from man to ape in one season. ‘Blows the theory of evolution right out of the water, doesn't it, Faltrain?' It feels good to have Jane's voice back in my head. It hasn't just been man to ape, either. It's been woman to ape woman. Whatever. I've been in there kicking as much as the next guy.

Sometimes you have to stand back a bit to get the full picture. And the one I'm seeing today in the second half? It's full of bad soccer players. We're nothing like we were.

Except for a guy called Jason Harroway. He's scoring goals for the opposition like he's playing for Brazil. I know him because in Year 8 he came to some of our practices. He hadn't made it onto a team at his school and his dad knew Coach. ‘Nice shot,' he'd say to me as I sank a goal. He never hassled me about being a girl. Everyone on our team liked him.

Seeing him play this afternoon makes me want to rewind, cut back to when I sank goals without sinking the other players. I want to be the best because I'm good. Not because our team's a pack of thugs.

Jason takes the ball from Corelli, and it makes him enemy number one, no matter what he's done in the past. He steals it fair and square. No rough stuff. It's a beautiful thing to see. Real soccer. His foot edges in quiet, like a thief. Once he has it he runs, moving like he's on blades, gliding to goal.

Flemming races at him with the momentum of a rock rolling down a huge hill. Harroway doesn't see him coming. ‘Jason,' I call out from goal, but it's too late. Flemming slams at him in the middle of the field. From here it looks like a block tackle, but I know better. Jason is the other team's chance at winning. So Flemming takes him out.

As they both fall down, Flemming's knee connects with Jason's nose. The ball spins out. The other team gets an indirect free kick. Harroway gets an ambulance. Flemming pretty much gets away with it.

He shouldn't have. The game keeps going and in the background, I can see the ambulance guys close the doors and drive away. And I'm not the only one who's looking. The rest of our team shuffles around, like they've been sleepwalking, and all of a sudden they've woken up somewhere strange. The thing is,
when you're heavy with night, it's hard to get back to where you should be.

After the game finishes, Coach rubs his eyes like he's tired of seeing. He doesn't even say congratulations, you won. You're into the final. ‘I'm going to the hospital,' he says more to Flemming than the rest of us. ‘I'll call you when I know something.'

‘Call him at my place,' I tell him. ‘He's coming home with me.'

‘The ref ruled it as an accident,' Flemming says as we wait in my kitchen for the news. He locks his hands together and bangs them softly on the table.

‘It wasn't, Flemming. I saw it. I saw you threatening that guy at the back of the change rooms, too.'

‘He hit Corelli. I was protecting the team, making sure no one else got their heads ripped off. The guy was an idiot.'

‘Don't give me that. You were enjoying yourself.'

‘So what if I was? We're gonna win the finals, Faltrain. And every scout in the place will be there. You and me both know the only thing we've got going for us is soccer.'

‘They won't pick us if we're playing like thugs.'

‘So make sure you don't get caught on TV kicking some guy in the balls.'

‘Listen to yourself. The whole reason you play soccer is that you love the game. And now you're saying it's all right to play dirty as long as no one sees, as long as we win?'

Flemming keeps tapping his fist on the table.

‘What if Jason's hurt, really hurt? You knew him this time, Flemming. He wasn't an idiot. He was a mate.'

‘I want to win so bad, Faltrain. I want to play for the state.
You were right about the school stuff, about me being stupid. I'm not gonna pass Year 12. I'm barely passing Year 11. I've got nothing else.'

‘You're not stupid, Flemming.'

‘I know what I am. Even my dad says I'm not going anywhere.'

If there are buttons you can push to ruin someone, there are ones you can push to fix them. They're harder to find, though. Flemming's not an idiot. He's just done some stupid things. There's a difference.

‘We'll win, Flemming. I promise. We'll thrash them on our terms. In front of everyone, we'll prove we can do it. Imagine all the talent scouts seeing that.'

As soon as I say it I feel that old excitement building up in me again. I imagine soaring along the grass, heading to Flemming, kicking to Singh, scoring goals like a champion.

‘You're dreaming, Faltrain,' he says.

‘Maybe. But they won't pick you for state playing like you are, and you know it. Any scout there today would've scratched you off the list. But the old you, the Flemming who plays soccer better than anyone I've seen, they'd take in a second.'

‘Better than anyone?'

‘Except me, of course.'

The phone rings before he can answer. Mum walks in to pick it up. Dad walks in behind her and sits with us at the table.

Flemming's whole body freezes, caught in ice. I know that feeling. He's about to find out if he's hurt someone else too bad to fix. It's a cold feeling. It's lonely.

‘Yes. Yes,' Mum says. Her face is hard to read. Dad reaches out across the table and holds my hand. ‘I'll let them know. Thanks, Coach.'

She hangs up and turns to us. ‘He's awake. A broken nose, concussion,' she lists his injuries off on her fingers, ‘and a dislocated finger. He's going to be okay, Andrew. The doctor said he's going to be fine.'

‘All right,' Flemming says, and I can hear in his voice a change of direction.

‘Harroway's a better player than he was in Year 8, Faltrain.' Flemming and I are waiting on the steps for his dad to come. ‘Did you see the way he took the ball off Corelli?'

‘Like taking candy from a baby,' I say. ‘I miss playing like that.'

Flemming stands up as his dad arrives. ‘I miss it too, Faltrain.'

‘So we're playing like we used to in the final?' I ask.

‘Just remember. You promised we'd win.'

We will. And it will be even better than last season. Because winning means a whole lot more when you know what it feels like to lose.

In my dream tonight, Martin is sleeping in the middle of the road. There are cars racing past. He's about to be hit, but I can't scream loud enough to wake him. There's something caught in my throat and I can't make a sound. All I can do is watch and hope that he wakes up in time. At the end of the dream, a car drives right over the top of him. Martin doesn't die. He disappears. That's when the thing in my throat vanishes. Every vocal chord comes alive and I'm screaming for all I'm worth. But it's too late.

Mum shakes me. ‘You're dreaming, wake up.'

I blink into the half light of my bedroom. ‘What time is it?'

‘Six o'clock. Mr Knight is on the phone.'

His voice is low, crouching with sleep. ‘I've found him, love,' he says. ‘I'm bringing him home.' He hangs up, but before he does I imagine I can hear the sound of the ocean. And it's calm.

Alyce Fuller: one. Gracie Faltrain: zero.
Alyce Fuller

The world is a good place today. I can feel spring hanging at the edges. ‘He's on his way home, Alyce,' I say at the start of sport.

‘That's fantastic news, Gracie.' And then she does something that's never been done before. Alyce Fuller plays with the laws of the universe. She raises her hand and volunteers to be captain. She smiles at the look on my face. ‘You're not the only one who gets to set the rules,' she says.

‘So how come you never did that before?'

‘Because I never wanted to be a captain. But today, I feel like it.'

Good for you, Alyce. I'm not happy because she's starting to act like everyone else. I don't care about that. I'm happy because she's smiling. I put my hand up as well.

‘Freddy Jabusi,' she calls when it's her turn. She picks every crap player in the class. Corelli's the only guy on her team who's even close to okay. She chooses her final player and smiles as he walks over. She makes him feel like the first. It's in how you choose, I guess, not in the choosing.

I have Flemming and Maiden and Singh. I have Susan and Annabelle. I call her name last, but I follow Alyce's lead. I try as hard as I can to give her a grin on the way past. My smile moves like a rusty bike. She stares at me as if I'm crazy. Being nicer to Annabelle could take a little practice.

It should be an easy game of basketball. We're clearly the better players, no offence to Alyce's team. We lose, though. Maybe it's because Flemming keeps passing her the ball. I don't bother reminding him that he's on my side.

‘Congratulations, Alyce,' I say at the end, shaking her hand.

‘And congratulations to you, Gracie.'

‘What for? We didn't win.'

‘You've been chosen for the comedy debate. You and I are speaking in it this afternoon.'

‘What?' The day gets about a hundred degrees colder.

‘Gracie Faltrain isn't scared of talking at assembly, is she? They'll love you.'

Alyce Fuller: one. Gracie Faltrain: zero.

There's something about public speaking that bothers me. I think it's the fear of wetting my pants in front of an audience of about a million people.

‘Alyce,' I whisper. ‘I have to pee again.'

Gracie, some of those kids out there can probably lip-read
, she writes on the paper in front of her. Good point. I smile as wide as I can.

Don't worry, I have a plan
, she writes.

I keep smiling. There's an auditorium full of kids waiting for me to speak. A good time to let me in on the plan would be, say, NOW, Alyce. It crosses my mind that her plan might be
to teach me a lesson. I don't need to learn any more. I've learnt enough. But I guess that I was happy for Alyce to experience this humiliation so that she could grow as a person, so in the words of Jane, ‘Suck it up, Faltrain. You deserve this.'

I look down at the topic again. ‘School teaches us nothing. The real world is where we learn the most.'

The hardest part is that this crowd expects to be entertained. It's not like other debates. There's only one rule: you have to be funny or you never live it down. That's why kids like Annabelle do it. Every-one is too scared not to laugh. She'd kill them afterwards. But Alyce and me? We really have to be funny. Either that or we're dead. I have to admit, this was not one of my better ideas.

I don't have a speech
, I write to Alyce. My letters are shaky. I'm getting hysterical now. I'm the middle speaker.

I told you before, you don't need one
, she writes back just before her name is called.

‘The first speaker for the affirmative. Alyce Fuller.'

‘Good afternoon everyone,' Alyce says. Her voice is shaky. She's tapping her left foot, like she always does when she's nervous. I concentrate on sending her every last good vibe that's in me.

‘I'm here to prove to you today that school teaches us nothing. My team and I are differing from the standard rules of the debate where I speak first, and then the next person speaks and then the third. We would stick to those rules, but we have no idea how a real debate works. Andrew Flemming was talking too loudly during that lesson for us to hear what Mrs Wilson was saying, so we actually don't know how to debate.'

Alyce clicks the computer and a huge picture of Flemming fills the screen above us. He's leaning back on his chair and
reaching out to hit Corelli. Everyone laughs. I can see Flemming cracking up in the back row. He loves being the centre of attention. Alyce laughs right along with everyone. Her hands have stopped shaking. Her foot is still.

‘To demonstrate how little we actually learn in school today, I'm going to use my second speaker. What is your name?' Alyce turns to me.

‘Huh?' I say, not catching on to my role in all of this.

Alyce shakes her head. ‘See, absolutely nothing has sunk in. Your name?'

‘Oh. Gracie Faltrain.'

‘Good.' People are laughing, but I don't care. They think it's scripted. Alyce winks at me. ‘Name the last five prime ministers of Australia.'

I play up my part. Shake my head. Look dumb. It's not all an act, I have to tell you. I have no idea who the last five prime ministers were.

‘Name the elements in the periodic table.'

‘Yeah, right. Like that's ever going to happen.' I start enjoying the laughter rushing up like a wave.

‘But if I asked you to name the country that won the World Cup in 2002. . .'

‘Brazil defeated Germany two–nil.' I spin the fact off without thinking.

Alyce nods and turns to face the audience. ‘Proof that it is not school that teaches us, but the real world.' She waits for quiet and then turns around to Fran Walker, our third speaker.

‘Name five American poets.'

Fran looks blank.

‘Four Australian ones?'

Blanker.

‘Two explorers that climbed Mount Everest? One of the first countries to give women the right to vote?'

Blankest. Fran plays her part beautifully. She is a crisp, white, clean piece of paper that has never been written on.

Annabelle is up next. And even I can see; she has nowhere to go. People are on Alyce's side. Finally, they can see how funny and smart she is.

Annabelle walks to the centre of the stage after she has been introduced. She smiles that smile that tells me she has something up her sleeve. ‘Firstly, I'd like to rebut some of the opposition's arguments.' She turns to Alyce. ‘Name four American poets.'

Oh no. Unless Alyce lies, she'll have to answer that question. She must be the only kid in our school who has answers like that swimming around in her brain. See where education gets you? It loses a person the debate. It's dangerous.

I look across to Alyce and wait for her next move. She smiles back at Annabelle and then faces the audience. ‘I'll name five. Auden, Aiken, Ashbery, Bly and Cummings. . .But let's face it. I'm the biggest nerd in the school. I want everyone out there in the audience to ask yourselves the question: would you know the answer?'

And everyone laughs. Not for Annabelle. For Alyce. I catch sight of Flemming. He's standing up and clapping. I point him out to her. ‘Are you going to give him a second chance?' I whisper.

‘I don't think so, Gracie,' she says. And as everyone's clapping, she stands up and takes a bow.

The scores are even, Alyce, I think, as a thousand people clap for her. I couldn't have asked for a clearer sign. Except I shouldn't have needed one. Martin was right. I have treated
Alyce like dirt. I wanted her to be like all the rest of the kids in the school. But then she wouldn't be as great as she is. What sort of person needs the whole school to applaud her best friend to prove that she's great? I remember last year, when no one was clapping for me, Martin and Alyce were still there, cheering me on. Because I was Gracie Faltrain. And that was enough for them.

And who's applauding for you now? I think. Alyce turns to me and Fran and waves at us to stand up, too. Fran does, but I shake my head. Some days you don't deserve applause. But Alyce grabs my arm and drags me up. ‘Smile, Gracie. We won,' she says. No Alyce. You did.