‘Stop flirting out there and kick, Faltrain,’ Coach roars. Flirting? You think I can run at breakneck speed, steal a ball, shoot it to goal and flirt while my mum and dad are watching? How good do you think I am?
Flemming appears. He and Dan and I run in a tangle. Belting blind, legs blurred, twisting around each other, searching for the ball. We’re moving too fast for any sense of direction or distance. We won’t make it. There’s no way. And then Dan and Flemming tumble. I hear a crack behind me as I slide in, kicking on the whistle.
So, did I score a goal and win the game? No. Was that crack behind me the sound of Dan’s face as it hit the ground? Yes. Did Flemming trip him on purpose? Possibly. Am I standing at the scene of the crime when Martin appears? Of course I am.
Dan’s on the grass bleeding. Flemming’s yelling at the ref that it was an accident. Coach is standing between them, calling out to me to explain what happened. And Martin? He’s on the side, watching it all like it’s a last-year replay. It is a last-year replay.
‘Looks like you’re a bit busy, Faltrain,’ he says. I stare at him and wonder if I’m the one who cracked my face in the tumble and this is a hallucination. But I’m not that lucky. Okay. Now you can believe me when I say it: welcome back to the life and times of Gracie Faltrain. This day was so much better in my dreams.
3
GRACIE
‘That was really Martin, right?’ I ask Jane.
‘Yep.’
‘From the stands it looked like Flemming and I took Dan down on purpose, right?’
‘Yep.’
‘Two hundred and ten days of clean living, no fighting, almost-perfect behaviour and he comes back on the one day it looks like I broke Dan Woodbury’s nose. What are the odds of that?’
‘In your life, actually, pretty good.’
‘It was an accident,’ I tell Coach, not because I’m sure, but because I want to be. It all happened too quick to know. The truth is when Flemming and I practise, his face changes; he’s lost to everything but the goal and the win.
‘Did Mum and Dad see?’ I ask Jane. They might not believe it was an accident after last year. I lied to them as well as Martin so my word’s not exactly hard currency at home these days.
‘Lucky for you they left before the end; some problem at the nursery.’
Alyce walks over with Brett Mason. Flemming looks at their hands locked together and leaves. He’s still got it bad for Alyce but it’s too late. He dumped her last year because he didn’t want to date the school nerd. Brett Mason picked her up. Flemming doesn’t have a chance against him. The guy’s good-looking, good at sport, and he’s got an IQ the size of a World Cup soccer crowd. Flemming’s IQ is more like the soccer score. If being in a bad mood was a subject at school, though, he’d get a tertiary entrance rank to rival Alyce.
He walks past Dan’s team without a word. No, ‘Sorry’. No, ‘Are you okay?’ No nothing. The light switch in his head flicks off when he attacks the opposition. He doesn’t see their faces; he sees them as shadows in his path. Playing like that doesn’t help you win, though. Flemming ran as hard as he could at the opposition today and things turned out exactly like they did last year.
‘I want to see if Dan’s okay before we go.’
‘Good idea,’ Jane says as we walk across the field. ‘He might need a little mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.’
‘I told you. We’re plutonium.’
‘I think the word you’re looking for is platonic, Faltrain.’
Alyce pushes up her glasses. ‘Plutonium is a radioactive element capable of self-maintained explosive fission.’
‘Maybe I was wrong. The word you’re looking for might actually be plutonium.’
‘Even if I liked Dan I couldn’t go out with anyone who dated Annabelle Orion. It goes against the laws of nature.’
‘It might surprise you, Faltrain. But you don’t actually rate a mention in the laws of nature. You’re free to date whoever you want.’
Jane’s wrong. ‘There are definite rules when it comes to dating. You don’t date the ex of an enemy. Or the enemy of your ex. Or your enemy.’
‘I’m surprised anyone’s dating anyone,’ Brett says.
‘Do you remember in Year 10 Annabelle went out with Nick Johnson after I broke up with him?’
‘You mean they dated after you tried to kiss Nick and stuck your tongue in his ear by mistake and he freaked out?’
I don’t answer Jane on the grounds that I’ll incriminate myself.
Even if Dan hadn’t liked Annabelle I wouldn’t date him. Martin is my type. Dan and I are friends; nothing more. He worked all summer at the café near our nursery. Jane and I helped Mum and Dad over Christmas for some extra money and we’d go to the café for drinks most afternoons. On the way to the toilet I’d walk past the kitchen and see Dan washing dishes.
‘Are you developing some kind of bladder problem?’ Jane asked one day.
‘Coffee makes me need the bathroom,’ I said.
‘Which would make sense if you actually drank coffee.’
Jane had it all wrong. I didn’t even look at Dan as I walked by the kitchen. I stared straight past his blue-black hair and his faded jeans and cool t-shirt. In fact, I would never have talked to him if I hadn’t knocked those plates out of the waitress’s hands. ‘Don’t worry about it,’ Dan said as I helped pick up the pieces. ‘Saves me the trouble of washing them.’ It was fate. We became friends.
The next time Jane and I went into the café Dan took his break. ‘So, what’s up?’ he asked, putting a piece of cake and three forks in the middle of the table. It was weird for a bit, because of what happened last year and because he’s good friends with Annabelle and Kally. But we talked about soccer and school and lip rings and by the time we got to Who Weekly’s most gorgeous list it was fine. Better than fine. It was fun.
‘Why did I hate him again?’ I asked after he’d gone back to work.
‘He tried to kill you last year. But nothing says sorry like free cake.’
Dan did apologise, sort of. One afternoon when Jane was sick he and I talked for ages, about things like who was our favourite character on Sesame Street and what was our favourite band. Before I left he said, ‘We never expected you to fight back all season like you did. We thought it’d be over in a game.’
‘We got angry. All of us were stupid except Martin.’
‘I guess you miss him.’
‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘I do.’
He nodded and that was it. We haven’t talked about last year again. It made me think, which is something I don’t always do a lot of. I was so angry at Dan and his team that until the last game I never saw them as anything but the enemy.
He’s sitting on the bench when we walk over today. ‘Are you all right?’ I ask, looking at his blue-ringed eyes.
‘My nose isn’t broken, at least. Coach’s taking me to the hospital. He’s worried I have concussion.’
‘Good,’ I say. ‘I mean good it’s not broken, not good you’re going to the hospital.’
‘Yeah, I got that.’
Usually when Dan and I talk it’s like a great soccer match. I kick. He catches. There are no missed passes. No one standing in the midfield looking for the ball. Today it’s weird.
‘So I see Knight’s home,’ he says.
‘I don’t know for how long. I haven’t really spoken to him yet.’
‘Well, good luck when you do.’ He stands and walks slowly towards his coach’s car.
‘Brett and I have to leave as well,’ Alyce says. ‘If you need me, leave a message on my phone. We’ll be at the pictures until eight.’
‘Let’s go home the long way,’ I say to Jane. ‘I want to drag out the time before I have to do homework.’
She nods and we walk back across the field.
‘Did Dan seem strange?’ I ask.
‘The guy just hit the ground at high speed with his face. And your “sort of” boyfriend is back in town. It’d be strange if he seemed no
rmal.’
‘Dan doesn’t like me.’
‘And sugar is good for your health. Do you want Martin back?’
‘I do,’ I say, even though it’s clearer than a sunny day that it’s not on the cards. Martin’s dumped me twice. The first time I expected. He found out I’d looked for his mum and he emptied like a container of three-flavoured ice-cream at a party. There were only hints of the sweeter bits, the chocolate and strawberry, stuck to the white. He ran away to the last place he remembered good times with his family. He came back. But not to me.
Things got better for a bit after the Firsts final. We played soccer in the half-light when the shadows were taking over the field. When we walked home he’d forget, for a second, that we weren’t together. He’d hold my hand. I’d hold my breath. I kept hoping.
I know what you’re thinking. Look up ‘denial’ in the dictionary and it says Gracie Faltrain. When Martin turned up at my house after his last Year 12 exam I thought he wanted to be my boyfriend again.
I noticed his hair, messy in the back like always. I noticed his smile, which had been missing-in-action for months. What I didn’t notice was the car in the background packed up ready for a fast getaway. You’ll also find a mention of me in the dictionary if you look up ‘idiot’.
‘Me and Joe Davis are going on a road trip, Faltrain,’ he said, shuffling around. ‘I came to say goodbye.’ I couldn’t say it back. The word got stuck in my throat and it’s been there ever since. Martin sent me exactly no letters while he was away. No texts. And I’m fairly sure – because I’ve been listening for them – no messages via ESP.
Every day over summer I passed his house to get to the oval. On the way I’d think things like, if I don’t step on one crack in the footpath, he’ll be home again, sitting out the front with the soccer ball. The steps were always empty. His bike leant up against the house. Cobwebs covered the handlebars.
I’d pick up speed, then. I’d force my legs to thump hard against the concrete to outrun the memories scattered over the streets. I’d race past the milk bar where he kissed me and the corner where I waited for him before school.
Martin’s voice was the hardest thing to outrun. ‘I know I said I couldn’t understand how you leave the people you love,’ he told me. ‘But sometimes it’s the only way to keep going.’ They’re the words I’d always hear as I reached the oval. I’d leap the rusty fence and toss the ball into the air before I’d landed. I’d race towards it and play soccer till it was past dark. I worked so hard to forget what he looked like running for goal and then today, he turns up and everything floods back. The hardest part about forgetting is that you keep remembering.
He’s sitting in the kitchen with Mum when Jane and I walk inside. My heart rockets like the NASA space shuttle. I’ve missed him smiling; showing that chipped tooth from the time Flemming slammed him in the face with a ball. I’ve missed hanging out in the park till the light drops. I’ve missed him standing in the tuckshop line to pick up my lunch because I got detention. Let’s face it; I’ve missed the kissing part, when Martin slowly heated my blood to toffee.
‘It’s good to see you,’ Jane says.
‘Yeah, you too.’ He looks at me. ‘Kick in the park, Faltrain? And when I say kick I mean, kick the ball.’ He grins. ‘This ball.’
Mum doesn’t tell me that the weekends are for study. She doesn’t tell me what time to be home. She kisses me on the cheek and says, ‘Take a jacket. It’s going to rain.’
Like old times he and I are off, racing each other along the streets I’ve been running on alone since last year. Martin is back. Martin is here. With me. I want to tell him everything that’s happened since he left. I want to tell him all at once.
He’s out of practice at soccer. It’s easy to steal the ball but I don’t. I pass it and clap as he kicks into the net. I’d clap if he missed. Let’s face it; I’d clap if he scratched his nose. You might find my name next to ‘denial’ in the dictionary, but you won’t find it next to ‘dignity’.
We run around each other in the cold until it’s dark. I stop the ball with my foot and grab his hand. When I first kissed Martin it was under the stars. It’s fate that it happens this way again. I move closer.
‘Wait,’ he says. ‘I need to tell you something.’ A door slams in the background. Someone reminds someone else to put the rubbish out. A porch light goes off across the street. And Martin says, ‘I can’t hang out with you anymore, Faltrain.’
I feel stupid, standing here with my lips cut off mid-kiss. If he was planning on dumping me again, why bring me to the park where we’ve hung out almost every day since we were kids? ‘You don’t want to be my boyfriend, I get it.’
‘No, I mean, I can’t hang out with you at all anymore,’ he says, and a fog creeps in under my skin.
‘But you’re back. We don’t have to date but we can still talk.’ He’s moving slowly away from me, though. One shuffle at a time.
‘We can’t be like we used to, Faltrain.’
‘Why?’ There are some questions you have to ask before you know the answer. And once you know the answer you wish you hadn’t asked.
‘Because I don’t want to,’ he says quietly.
I feel like I do on the last night of daylight saving or the first cold day in winter. This is worse though. Summer comes back. ‘I guess that’s why you didn’t write while you were away.’ I might not be the smartest girl but you don’t have to dump me more than three times.
I leave. My legs and arms ache and I tell myself it’s because I didn’t stretch after the game. ‘Faltrain?’ he calls. ‘I wrote you postcards.’ His voice dips low. It’s a full stop at the end of a sentence. ‘I just never sent them.’
Mum was wrong. It doesn’t rain on the way home. But it should.
‘You look like crap,’ Jane says.
I hold up three fingers and she gets it. ‘He dumped you again? That guy needs a book on dating.’ Jane’s right. Being dumped is like skydiving with some weights and no parachute. Once is more than enough.
‘He says we can’t be friends anymore.’
‘That doesn’t make sense.’
‘Yeah, it does.’ If you want a person gone for good, you have to stop remembering them.
Jane picks up a photograph. It’s of me and her and Martin two years ago, before she left for England. We’d played this great game of soccer. He’d kicked one goal and I’d kicked two. We were laughing because of that and because Jane kept cutting off our heads when she held out her mobile phone to take the picture.
We were laughing for reasons we didn’t know, too, if that makes sense. We were happy because Jane’s parents hadn’t told her she was moving to England. I was happy because I had no idea that one day Martin would leave.
‘Is looking at that photo supposed to make me feel better?’
‘I was planning on hitting you with the frame and giving you amnesia.’ She holds it over my head. ‘It’ll only take a second and Martin won’t even be a memory.’
‘It’s him you need to hit. Make him lose the parts of his life when I acted like an idiot.’
‘That leaves him with one plus one and how to make toast.’
‘It’s really over,’ I say. After all these years. Martin is gone.
4
JANE
Faltrain looks the way I felt when I arrived home in Australia. I expected to walk back into class like I’d left to take a bathroom break. Turns out people change when you disappear to the toilet for two years. Turns out they switch classrooms to follow their chosen career path. Alyce is studying to be a lawyer with a side interest in physics, Faltrain is pretending to study while she lives a double life as a World Cup soccer star and I want to be a journalist with a Pulitzer Prize on my mantlepiece. We’re all in different classrooms.
I know how Faltrain feels. It’s hard when things change. It took me a while to get the hang of making new friends. I came back as the girl who left ‘like years ago’. Jessica Bandercoft walked past me at the
start of the year and whispered to Angela Comb, ‘I thought she died.’ Faltrain says it’s hard to come back from social outcast. Try coming back from the dead sometime.
The truth is I was in a social coffin way before I came home. Think sixteen-year-old girl squeezing into a Barbie tank top and pink convertible. That’s how well I fit at school in the UK. I wasn’t Gracie Faltrain’s friend, or the girl you could count on to put Annabelle Orion in her place. I arrived as someone without a history. I forgot how to be me. If you forget that, people figure it out for you and chances are you won’t like what they decide.
‘Jane Iranian acts like she’s so good because she’s from Australia,’ Veronica White said one day. The old me would have shot out a snappy comeback. But the old me was gone.
I’ve never been as lonely as I was in England. I remember we read about a guy who’d been transported to Australia and sent to a prison on Goat Island, a place in the middle of waters where sharks bred. He escaped over and over and in the end, when they couldn’t stop him, they sat him in a box that was chained to a rock in the middle of all that water. ‘At night they closed the lid,’ the teacher said. ‘They pushed food at him on long poles. The sharks circled.’
I couldn’t stop thinking about that guy. A couple of kids said the worst thing about it would have been the sharks swimming past; a couple said it would have been sleeping in that box at night. But I knew the worst thing would have been living out there alone. He had no one to count the sharks with, no one to turn to and ask, ‘Why do they call this place Goat Island? Looks nothing like a goat.’ Life’s about having someone to talk about the goats with. You can stand almost anything if you have that.
By the time Veronica White had closed the lid on my box, though, Faltrain had convinced herself that I didn’t need her. She stopped calling.
I was alone in the dark when Alexander Hood asked me out. ‘You’re funny,’ he said, and his smile shone a little light through the cracks. ‘Saturday night, at the movies near Regent Station.’ He wasn’t there but the rest of my class was. I forgot life’s golden rule: expect the unexpected or you’ll wind up on a street in England wearing a new Gap top and jeans you can’t afford wishing you were back in your box.