Gracie Faltrain Takes Control (10 page)

C squared equals A squared plus B squared.
Alyce Fuller
A has been square long enough. It's time to break some rules.
Gracie Faltrain

I guess Alyce has had a lot of practice looking for the bright side in pitch darkness. I mean, ever since I can remember no one has really liked her. She's fruit. It's sweet if you try it, but who picks an apple when there are a hundred different chocolate bars to choose from?

I walk in on her and Flemming in the classroom on Tuesday morning. It's two minutes before the bell goes. Flemming is never early for class. ‘Timing's everything, Faltrain,' he always says at soccer practice. ‘Don't shoot too early. Don't shoot too late.'

Alyce is smiling like she's found a book she really wants to read. Flemming is laughing like he does when he kicks a goal. The two of them jump as I thump my books on the table. ‘Didn't mean to interrupt.'

‘I was just helping Andrew with the body of his essay,' Alyce says. ‘It's very good.' I'm sure you think so, Alyce. I don't say that, though. She looks embarrassed enough.

‘Thanks,' Flemming mumbles, and moves his stuff to the back of the room where he always sits.

This is the big problem with Flemming and Alyce getting it together. There are patterns at school that are hard to break. Kids like Flemming sit up the back and swing on their chairs. They play footy or soccer or cricket at lunchtime. They need a map to get to the library. And one thing I can guarantee – girls like Alyce? They're not on the map.

The bell goes and the rest of the kids drift in. Annabelle and Susan sit next to Flemming. They make jokes and he laughs, leans back on his chair and becomes the guy I know on the soccer field. Alyce hunches over and becomes invisible again. He starts to stuff around and she takes out her book and neatly rules her page. I look across at it: lines and lines of sums, all with tiny ticks next to them.

‘The class hasn't even started yet, nerd,' Annabelle says, throwing a ball of paper at the back of Alyce's head.

‘Get lost,' I yell back at her.

Flemming says nothing. And it's louder than all the shouts in the room.

‘All right, everyone.' Mrs Hinter comes in. ‘Let's pick up where we left off yesterday, exercise 3c, left-hand side this time.'

‘Alyce, what's the formula for finding the hypotenuse, again?' I ask.

‘C squared equals A squared plus B squared.'

‘How come you're so good at maths?'

‘It's easy, Gracie. Just follow the formula, follow the pattern and you get the right answer.' She leans over my page. ‘There,' she points. ‘You've put this in the wrong order.'

‘Why does C squared have to equal A squared plus B squared, anyway?' I kick at the chair in front of me.

‘It just does, Gracie. That's the way things are.'

‘Maybe I'm not going to follow that rule.'

‘Then your answer will be wrong.' Mrs Hinter comes up behind me. ‘And you will fail the test.'

I look over at Flemming laughing with Annabelle. He doesn't seem half as happy as he did when he was alone with Alyce. Some rules are meant to be broken. Because if you don't, then nothing ever changes.

‘So why aren't you sitting with your girlfriend?' Annabelle asks Flemming while Alyce is up the front getting help. The thing about people like Annabelle is that not only do they have access to information, but they know how to use it.

‘Fuller's not my girlfriend. She's helping me study, that's all.'

‘So you're not asking her to the dance?'

‘Yeah, right,' he says.

At least Alyce isn't around to hear. Flemming should stand up for her, but the way things are, he'd be reversing the laws of the universe. The world would spin backwards. Alyce is worth a hundred Annabelles. But even I have to admit, if the world ever spun backwards, everyone on it would be sick.

I have to get Alyce to do something to change where she fits in. Then there won't be a problem with her and Flemming. She has to show off her talents to everyone in the school. Her talent is being smart. All she needs is more exposure, like those mice, and she'll be sunning it up with the likes of Annabelle.

‘Why don't you join in the comedy debate this year?' I ask her after class. ‘Everyone in the school will be watching.'

‘You've just answered your own question.'

‘Alyce you're funny and you're smart. You'd be great.'

‘No.'

‘Annabelle goes in it every year. It'd be the perfect chance to get her back.'

‘Gracie, I'm not interested in getting Annabelle back.'

‘Fine. Be a mouse all your life. That's why Flemming doesn't talk to you when the other kids are around. He never will unless you show him what you're really made of.'

It's harsh, I know, but sometimes you have to be cruel to be kind. Alyce looks like I've punched her in the stomach and knocked the air right out of her. She looks like how I felt on Saturday. But I'm going back in there as soon as I can and she has to as well.

‘Andrew doesn't talk to me when people are around because he sees exactly what I'm made of,' she says. ‘And he's embarrassed.'

Then prove him wrong, I think after she walks away. I write her name on the list for comedy debaters. Better yet, let me prove it for you.

‘Nice pictures, Faltrain,' Flemming says. ‘That's funny,' I tell him. ‘Come here and let me kick you in the balls. Then we'll swap some jokes.'
Gracie Faltrain

Proving yourself is part of the game. If you stop trying to do that, then it's over. I guess by that definition, Alyce's game never really started. For as long as I've known her, she has never tried to show people like Annabelle that she's worth something. And take it from me, that's a green light for Annabelle to run right over the top of Alyce.

‘Why go to practice, Gracie?' Annabelle asks me before training on Wednesday. ‘You're already so good at getting your brains knocked out.'

‘You might keep your brains here,' I point to my chest. ‘Me? I like to keep them in my head, Annabelle.'

‘I thought you might want a copy of this,' she calls before I walk off. She's waving another edition of the local paper at me. ‘For your photo album.'

I take it from her carefully, like a bomb that might go off in my face. My heart slides a bit further down my chest with every page I turn. By the time I get to the report on the Firsts game, it's lying on the ground next to my shoes.

‘Nice picture,' Annabelle says, grinding it under her foot.

Whoever took the photos has a knack for action. In the first one I'm standing with two hands clamped over my chest. In the second Truck is collecting me on his windshield. In the third I'm flying through the air and by the fourth I'm flat on my back. If you cut them out and flicked the pages really quickly, you'd have one of those comics where you can make the person move. A mini action replay. I close my eyes at the thought of all the Firsts teams flicking me backwards and forwards. Hands over my boobs. Hands off. Annabelle's laugh is the pitch of nails scraped down a blackboard.

The team's sitting on the ground, staring at their hands or their feet, when I come around the corner. Each one of us has at least two major bruises clearly visible. And if they're like me? They've got at least three in places that the rest of us will never see.

‘Right!' Coach yells, and swishes his feet across the grass. ‘Right.' For the first time since I've known him, Coach has absolutely no idea what to say. I mean, what are his choices? You're a pack of losers and there's nothing but humiliation ahead for the rest of the season? He does the same as every other teacher when they're stuck for words. He makes us answer the question.

‘Flemming, what happened out there on Saturday?'

‘We got beaten. Again.'

Understatement of the year.

‘We'd need to be on steroids to beat those teams,' Corelli says.

‘You'd be a danger to yourself on drugs,' Flemming shoots back.

‘Shut up. You weren't so smart on Saturday with your face pressed into the dirt.'

‘What?' Flemming stands up and walks over to him. ‘You want to be on steroids? Fine, go ask your mother where she gets hers from.'

They're not the only two who are angry. Any second now the whole team could erupt. It's easier to be mad with the person next to you than with yourself. We're all searching for a way to feel better about what happened on Saturday. We're all after someone to blame.

‘Sit down, you two,' Martin says, still on the ground. He raises his eyes to them, but not his voice. There's a staring match for maybe five full seconds and then they crouch back down on the grass. Martin hardly ever tells people what to do. But when he does, you listen.

‘We lost on Saturday because they needed us to. We humiliated everyone in the off-season games and they wanted us to feel it. They're playing rough.'

‘They're playing unfair.' Singh punches at the air.

‘Yeah, they are. But we're still the best team in the league. So we practise harder and we get so good they can't beat us.'

‘You really think that's going to work?' Flemming rips grass from the ground.

I can't believe in two games we've gone from being the best to being scared enough to walk away because of players like Dan Woodbury. He's nowhere near as good as me, or Martin or Flemming. He's just rougher.

‘They've got us running scared because none of them are afraid to break the rules,' I say.

‘They've got us running scared because none of them are afraid to break noses,' Francavilla says.

Coach is quiet while we talk. He knows he can't send us back into battle. It has to be our decision. ‘You all look too
tired for training tonight, anyway. Think about whether you want to stay in the competition. We'll vote on it tomorrow. There's no shame in pulling out,' he says, and then shuffles slowly back to his office.

‘I'm not pulling out.' Flemming is the first to speak. ‘There's no way I'm letting those guys take away my chance at playing for the state.'

I know why he's so angry. He's like me. Soccer is the only thing that makes him feel good when he gets an F on his work. It's the only reason he drags himself out of bed in the morning and through the day at school. What happens to him if he loses that?

‘I'm not pulling out, either. And I've got more reason than the rest of you guys to walk away. They target me because I'm a girl.'

‘If we keep going, it could be more humiliating than pulling out,' Corelli says. Francavilla and Singh nod.

‘It doesn't have to be,' Flemming answers, his eyes focused on the dirty ground.

Everyone waits for him to speak again. We all know what he means, but no one wants to be the first to suggest it.

‘All I'm saying is a person should be able to defend themself. It's our right. If we play again and don't do that, one of us is going to get hurt. Really hurt. Is that what you all want?'

When Flemming puts it like that, it's hard to say yes. I've played with these guys since Year 7. I won't stand by and watch them hospitalised.

‘We haven't done anything to deserve what they're doing to us.' Flemming's voice gets louder. ‘So it's agreed, then. On Saturday we defend ourselves.' Everyone nods except Martin. He's walking away.

‘Martin,' I call. ‘Wait up.'

He slows down. ‘Tell me you didn't agree with Flemming.'

‘You don't think we've got the right to defend ourselves?' I can tell he wants to say something, but he's holding it back. ‘What, Martin?'

‘I was just thinking about Woodbury and his team. They've never played like this before.'

‘So? They're playing like it now,' I answer.

‘Yeah. And I was just wondering what Woodbury said to his team to convince them it was okay to fight dirty. Did he tell them it was self-defence after the way we treated them in the off-season games?'

‘We didn't try to hurt them. We didn't break any rules.'

‘No. Because that would have been wrong, wouldn't it, Faltrain?' He shakes his head and walks off.

It's not that clear-cut when you're on the field, though. It's easy for Martin to say stuff like that. He's safer in goal; there's less chance of him being knocked to the ground in there. Martin didn't finish the last game with the taste of dirt in his mouth. That taste changes things. Believe me.

Fair enough, fighting's wrong. But fighting back? That's a whole different ball game.
Gracie Faltrain

Alyce gives me that half smile of hers when I sit next to her in science on Thursday.

‘I'm not putting my name down for the debate, Gracie,' she says.

‘Fair enough.' No need to put it down twice.

‘Right, class.' Mrs Turner's voice stops us talking. ‘We're moving on to a new topic today: The Beginnings of the Universe.' She starts passing out a worksheet and everyone starts talking.

‘Did Flemming tell you about the plan?' I ask.

‘He said you are going to play to protect yourselves.' Alyce straightens her glasses and neatens her skirt.

‘And you don't agree?'

‘I didn't say that.'

‘No, but you think it, I can tell. You saw the paper, Alyce. I was humiliated in that last match.'

‘And you've complained about how unfair it was ever since.'

‘So?'

‘So what makes it right now that you're doing it?'

‘It's us.'

‘Alyce and Gracie,' Mrs Turner says, ‘stop talking and start on the questions.'

Alyce looks at her sheet. ‘Read the article and explain, in your own words or through pictures, how man developed from the beginning of time.'

‘They don't want much,' I say. ‘Explain in twenty-five words or less how the world has changed in a billion years.'

‘It's not hard, Gracie,' Alyce says, drawing a star, an amoeba and an ape. ‘We haven't really changed that much at all.'