Gracie Faltrain Gets It Right (Finally)

  ‘Get a grip, Faltrain,’ Jane says. ‘Yoosta will think you’re a sociopath.’

  ‘It’s not broken,’ the nurse calls out.

  Dan and I break into loud, hysterical laugher. It’s a form of relief. But Jane’s right. Yoosta does think I’m a sociopath. ‘My office,’ he says. ‘Now. Ms Faltrain, I believe you can show your friend the way.’

  ‘Yes, Mr Yoosta.’ I believe I’ve been there before.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say to Dan, on the way to the office. ‘I’m sorry,’ I say as the secretary asks his name, school and home phone number.

  ‘Will you stop saying that? I’m the one who told you to kick the ball.’

  ‘I should have stayed home today. Actually, Jane should have stayed home today.’

  ‘Was it as bad at school as it was on the email?’

  ‘The tuckshop lady patted my hand.’

  ‘You’re not the only one having bad days. Kally’s still copping the loser chant as she walks down the corridor. She didn’t say much about Sunday.’

  There are a couple of reasons I can’t tell Dan the truth about trials. One, Kally was nice to me today when she didn’t have to be and two, he already thinks I’m brutal, a fact that’s hard to deny since I just slammed my English teacher in the face with a ball. ‘She did okay.’

  ‘She was trying too hard, though?’

  ‘A little.’

  ‘She’s doing that when we train together. I’ve known her since I was a kid. In the country she plays like you. When I was six or seven I remember getting goose bumps watching her.’

  Yoosta comes around the corner before I can answer. ‘Okay, repeat after me,’ Dan says. ‘It was an accident.’

  ‘It was an accident,’ I say to Yoosta when we’re sitting in his office. ‘It had nothing to do with the essay she’s giving us tomorrow.’ Dan kicks me. I get it. I should shut up now on the grounds that I’m an idiot.

  ‘I know it was an accident,’ he says. ‘But I can’t ignore that you were playing soccer near the Performing Arts Centre windows, an area you know full well should be ball free. It’s written in your school diary, which I know you use on a regular basis.’

  ‘Yes, Mr Yoosta.’

  ‘However, Mrs Young has asked me to treat this as a minor infringement of the rules. That would normally mean a detention on Wednesday, but I’m assuming you’d rather yours on Friday so it doesn’t interfere with soccer.’

  ‘Thanks, Mr Yoosta.’

  ‘Thank Mrs Young.’ He looks at Dan. ‘Young man, you’re free to come on Wednesday. I know your principal quite well. I believe he will be behind me on this.’

  ‘I’ll take my detention on Friday,’ Dan says. ‘With Gracie. If that’s okay.’

  ‘That will be fine.’

  We leave the office and walk to the front of the school. ‘So, if Annabelle and Kally are still here I’m giving them a lift home. Annie’s car is at the mechanics. You want one too?’ Dan asks.

  Today has been weird, I think, as Dan starts the car. Who could have predicted at the end of the last season that at the start of this one I’d be sitting in a car with Dan Woodbury, actually looking forward to detention with him on Friday? Who could have predicted that Jane would tell the whole school about Martin and Kally would make me feel better about it? Who could have predicted that Annabelle and me would be in the same car, unbound and ungagged, travelling together of our own free will?

  I can’t think of anything to say and the quiet’s getting to me. Jane would tell me to go for something relaxed and funny. ‘So if we all died on the way home, people would wonder why we were in the car together, wouldn’t they?’ Okay. I didn’t quite hit the relaxed and funny note. But it’s been a long day.

  Corelli and Jane are waiting for me when I step out of the car. ‘Where have you two been?’ I ask.

  ‘Trapped in a car with Britney Spears,’ Jane says.

  ‘You loved my new CD.’

  ‘Yeah, Corelli, in the same way I love having my toenails ripped out, one by one.’

  ‘You want to drive around again sometime?’

  ‘Absolutely. See you tomorrow,’ she says, and he waves goodbye.

  ‘So, Dan and I have detention on Friday night,’ I tell her after he’s gone.

  ‘You say that with a very big smile. Are you sure you’re not interested?’

  ‘I’m still recovering from a broken heart. Even if I did like him, which I don’t, can you imagine the trouble there’d be if we dated? Flemming still hates him because of what happened last year. And then there’s Annabelle.’

  ‘The course of true love never did run smooth.’

  ‘I definitely don’t love the guy, Jane.’

  ‘I’m quoting from the play we’ve been reading in class for the past term, Faltrain. A Midsummer Night’s Dream? The one you have a essay on tomorrow. Say you’ve read it.’

  ‘Okay. I’ve read it. Dan has good hair, doesn’t he?’

  ‘Something tells me this is going to be a long night of study.’

  ‘Maybe, but after that email you owe me. Just give me the good bits.’

  ‘Okay, Faltrain. You’ll relate to it. There are a lot of misfires when it comes to romance.’

  ALYCE

  Brett drives me home this afternoon and all I can think about is Andrew. Brett is the sensible choice. I know Brett is the sensible choice. He’s nice and he likes me and I can count on him taking me to the formal at the end of the year. I have my dress picked out already.

  Andrew is the wrong choice. I thought that this afternoon when I pretended to skip class with him. But watching him makes me feel like I do when I watch Colin Firth come out of the water in Pride and Prejudice.

  I think about Andrew more than I should. I think about him more than I think about Colin Firth. Sometimes I think about Andrew Flemming dressed as Colin Firth. Sometimes I think about Colin Firth playing soccer. Then I stop myself.

  ‘Are you okay?’ Brett waves his hand in front of me. ‘You’ve got a weird look on your face.’

  ‘I was thinking about Mrs Davila again.’

  ‘You’re still going to apply, right?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘What you need is a good game of footy.’

  ‘I don’t think that’s what I need.’

  ‘Trust me.’ He turns the car around and heads towards the park. I imagine that it’s Andrew and me getting out of the car, and running across the grass to play soccer.

  ‘Almost,’ Brett yells when I miss the ball. Almost is a word I’ve heard a lot lately, I think, as he kisses me, and I try to make my blood fizz.

  After dinner I pull out the book Brett gave me. Dear Diary, I start. I put it away. Some things about yourself are safer not to have in writing.

  GRACIE

  ‘Shakespeare was messed up,’ I say after Jane describes the play.

  ‘And I haven’t even told you about the fairy queen who falls in love with a guy called Bottom whose head has been turned into an ass.’

  ‘You’re kidding, an actual . . .’

  ‘An ass, Faltrain. A donkey. Let’s go over the play one more time.’

  I drift off and think about Dan. I’ve been living lost love all day. It’s not fair that teachers make me come home and write about it.

  10

  GRACIE

  Some people say things happen for a reason. But I’m betting those people have never smacked their English teacher in the face with a soccer ball. Everyone’s looking at me like my middle name is Soprano when I get off the bus this morning. I know the look because Mum gave it to me last night. Yoosta didn’t waste any time calling home. ‘I didn’t hit Mrs Young on purpose,’ I said.

  ‘I know that, Gracie. I want you to be careful, that’s all. You don’t look ahead, sometimes. That’s why unexpected things happen.’

  Who expects to see their English teacher standing in the way of their ball? I mean, come on. I’m not Athena Star-woman.

  FRANCAVILLA

  Well, that
’s one way to pass English, Faltrain.

  FLEMMING

  Call me when you get this message. I want to hear every single detail. If I thought I could get away with it I would have smacked Young in the face at the beginning of the year.

  JANE

  Am I the only one who sees that Flemming is headed for jail?

  CORELLI

  I see it. At trials he played rougher than I’ve ever seen him play before. He doesn’t break any rules, exactly. But the guy definitely has an anger management problem.

  SUSAN

  Gracie Faltrain doesn’t stretch the rules. She smashes them and gets away with it. Annabelle said Mrs Young smiled at her last night after the nurse gave her an ice-pack.

  JANE

  It wasn’t a smile. It was that thing animals do with their teeth when they’re scared.

  GRACIE

  She’s not scared of me, Jane. It was an accident.

  JASON DEAN

  Whatever you say, Faltrain. Any chance my English teacher could meet with an ‘accident’ before she marks my essay?

  GRACIE

  No, but there’s a chance you could. How many times do I have to say I wouldn’t hit my teacher on purpose? There are some things even I’m not dumb enough to do.

  I ignore everyone before school and knock on the staffroom door. ‘Hi. These are for you.’ I hand Mrs Young a card and a box of chocolates. She and I didn’t start off on the right note this year. And that note hasn’t exactly been getting any better. But she could have pushed for more punishment yesterday and she didn’t.

  ‘Thank you, Gracie. I’ll see you in English. Why don’t you sit up the front? On your own so you can concentrate?’ And then it hits me harder than a ball to the face. Mrs Young isn’t pushing for official punishment because she’s banking on my guilt to neutralise me as a threat in her classroom. Permanently. You have to hand it to the woman. She’s smart. ‘No problems, Mrs Young.’

  I make sure I’m in class before the bell. I sit up the front. A deal’s a deal. I’m so close I can feel her breathing. ‘I’m glad you’re early,’ she says, like it was my idea. ‘I wanted to speak with you about your last essay. Your ideas are good. They’re full of fun and insight and you write well. Imagine what you could do if you actually read the books and listened in class.’

  I don’t answer. I’ve been caught in a trap like this before. I agreed with Mr Parks in Year 8 that I hadn’t read the book and he pulled out a record of the discussion in parent–teacher interviews.

  ‘Have you read the play you’re writing on this morning?’

  It’s no use lying. One look at my essay and she’ll figure out my good friend, Cliff Notes, told me everything I know. ‘I read the study guide.’

  ‘It’s not quite the same thing. Gracie, the next text is a film, so that gives you some breathing space. I can schedule extra classes to help you catch up.’

  ‘I’ll think about it. Thanks, Mrs Young.’

  Kids come in and she goes back to her desk. She hands out the essay question and I read it slowly. Everything Jane said is mixed around in my head. ‘Comment on the role dreams play in the text.’ I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know.

  I do know what I dream about: a soccer crowd of thousands, chanting the name of my team. I dream of me, on the field, fast and focused. I’ve got my eyes on the striker and the box and the ball. When the whistle goes I sail. I’m one of the best players in the world. And every day my job is to do what I love.

  ‘Make a start, Gracie,’ Mrs Young says gently. And because she’s looking at me kindly with bruises I gave her, I put pen to paper. It doesn’t make any sense, though. Nothing makes any sense in here. It’s slow, clock-ticking, pen-scribbling torture. I belong on the field. I belong in the game.

  At lunch I walk down to the sheds, again. Alyce has student council and Jane’s working in the library with Corelli. If I hang around where people can see me someone’s bound to make a crack about Martin. Half of the things they’re saying aren’t even close to the truth. I went to the library this morning and a Year 7 kid leaned in and whispered, ‘Did you hear how Gracie Faltrain almost killed her English teacher because she’s dating her ex-boyfriend?’

  I leant back and whispered, ‘You know I’m Gracie Faltrain, right?’ It cheered me up to see her run. But only for a second.

  Kally’s at the sheds, again. We kick around each other for a while and then she passes to me. I head my ball up, kick hers back, and then catch mine on its way down. We volley two balls between us, catching and sending, catching and sending. For a while, nothing but the game matters.

  The bell goes and we walk towards school. ‘Don’t try so hard at the next trials,’ I say. ‘You’ll qualify, easy.’

  ‘I knew what I was doing and I couldn’t stop. The more I tried the more passes I missed.’

  ‘It makes sense, after what happened with school soccer.’

  ‘That was definitely humiliating.’

  ‘I should have done something.’ Yeah, Kally had to be good enough to cut it on her own. But why did she need to be superhuman? She was up against twenty-one players out there that day instead of eleven. When I first tried out the team weren’t exactly on my side, but they didn’t knock me down.

  ‘Forget it. You weren’t even on my team.’ She’s right. But I could have asked Coach to put me on her side. He would have done it in a second.

  ‘Did you see how everyone was checking out the competition at the state trials?’ she asks, changing the subject. ‘Char Taylor’s one of the best players but she favours her left leg.’

  ‘I know. And Esther Wish swerves to the side instead of taking the ball straight down the midfield.’

  ‘She swerved because Natalie Nguyen was on her left.’ The guys and I don’t talk about soccer like this. We don’t pick apart the game and work out how to get better. I wish we did. This is what I’ve been trying to tell Mum but she doesn’t understand. Soccer isn’t only about kicking a ball. It takes strategy as well as skill to play. Over the summer, when Martin wasn’t there, I’d run on the field alone. I’d map how I played and how I could move better.

  ‘What about me?’ I ask Kally.

  ‘You focus on your striker. You switch feet without blinking and you’re impossible to predict because you judge situations on the spot. And every girl gives you space because you’re brutal.’

  And there’s that word again. ‘Thanks. I think.’

  ‘I’m only telling you how it is. You’re forgetting to shield because you think you’re faster than them. You’re backing rough play over skill sometimes and that’s lazy. It’ll get you injured. And you are not a team player.’

  ‘The trials aren’t a team sport.’

  ‘The trials coaches won’t want wild cards. They’re assessing on attitude, remember.’

  ‘You’re right.’ I learnt that lesson in Year 10 and Year 11.

  ‘Now if I could fix my own play before Sunday, I’d be happy,’ she says.

  ‘If you want an extra person to train with . . .’ I fade off because I’m not sure if offering to practise with Kally is weird. I mean, we’ve only talked for a bit and let’s face it: I’m not one hundred per cent sure her cousin doesn’t have a bounty on my head. Kally and me hanging out would be like Jane and Annabelle becoming study partners.

  ‘Dan and I train most nights on the trials oval,’ she says. ‘We’re at Better Life Gym on Hanover Street about four-thirty on Tuesdays and Thursdays.’

  ‘Would it be strange if I came along tonight?’

  ‘Annabelle hates you. Dan likes you. I’m still on the fence. But I could do with the help.’

  ‘Losers,’ some guy says, walking past us. Kally puts out her foot; he flies over it and lands on his face. ‘You know,’ she says, ‘the guys in this place are really starting to bug me.’ She might be Annabelle’s cousin. But Kally is definitely someone I want to have on my side of the fence.

  ‘Okay, everyone run,’ Jane says. ‘You hanging ou
t with a relative of Annabelle Orion has to be one of the seven signs of the Apocalypse.’

  ‘She’s good, Jane. I mean, she really knows the game. I learnt stuff listening to her today. She’s funny, like you.’

  ‘Yeah, right. She’s me in a parallel universe where I have a rock-solid body and can run like the wind. You don’t think it’s a problem that given the chance, you’d kill her cousin? It’s sounding kind of Romeo and Juliet without the love and with soccer instead of swords.’

  ‘I don’t want Annabelle dead. I want her gagged. I have to meet Flemming before the gym. Can you tell Mum I’m at the library?’

  ‘I’ll lie this one time but I take no responsibility if she finds out and kills you.’

  Mum won’t kill me. I run way too fast to get caught.

  Flemming’s already at the oval when I get there. ‘I want to know every detail. I can’t believe I left before I saw you smack Young.’

  ‘It wasn’t funny and I don’t have time. I’m meeting Kally and Dan. You want to come?’

  ‘As if I’d train with those idiots. Just tell me what the essay topic was today.’

  ‘What does it matter? You haven’t got time to read the play.’

  ‘No, but I can read the essays on the Internet.’

  ‘Cheat?’

  ‘I copy in bits from those guides and bits that other kids have written.’

  ‘Coach’ll kick you off the team for that.’

  ‘Only if they catch me.’ He grins. ‘They haven’t yet.’

  It’s the ‘yet’ that bothers me. If Flemming’s been doing this since the start of the year he’ll be in trouble soon. He’s standing on the tracks thinking the train won’t hit him because it’s late. The train always comes, Flemming, I think. And as I write down the topic I feel the need to run so I’m not close when it hits.