The Life and Times of Gracie Faltrain (4 page)

Orion
noun
: the most important
constellation of stars to recognise, the
Hunter;

Annabelle Orion
noun
: the huntress

The first person to talk to me at school about Jane is Annabelle Orion. If we're getting technical, she doesn't actually say anything. She just looks at me. She's given me this exact look once before. I wanted to punch her then
too
. Right in the face.

We were in kindergarten. I was pushing Annabelle, very gently, on the swing. Somehow, she tilted forward and fell on her face into the tanbark. She had little bits of bark stuck to her cheeks and she was crying, loud. Real loud. I only wanted to cover her mouth to dull the sound. I put my fingers to her lips to shoosh her and then the teacher came around the corner. Annabelle shouted, ‘Gracie did it. She pushed me.' And there I was, standing next to the evidence. Framed.

There were no witnesses and the teacher took Annabelle's word over mine. After all, I was the one with my hand over the screaming victim's mouth. Mum wiped streaks of anger
from my face that afternoon. She didn't ask me if I did it. She didn't have to.

Annabelle kept crying that day until the teacher went back inside. And then she smiled. A wide smile of triumph.

 

Why don't I like Gracie Faltrain? She pushed me over once in kindergarten, and then she
lied
about it. She hasn't changed at all. I looked at her in the toilets today and she said she was going to punch me. In the
face
. I bet she didn't tell you
that
, did she?

 

Everyone else whispers today in English when Mrs Wilson says we can work in pairs. I rearrange my books on the table. It doesn't matter that there's someone sitting in the chair next to me. Without Jane, it's empty. I've emailed her every day since she left; I keep my phone with me so I can text her but it's not the same.

Alyce Fuller asks me to be her partner. Her question is shaped like a hesitant hand held out for shaking. I look at her face and slightly hunched shoulders. I see Annabelle in the back corner, taking it all in. I think about replacing Jane with
Alyce
. ‘I'm working with someone else,' I say. She blushes from her neck to her hairline, a fire spreading in a dry field.

Alyce is nice. It isn't that. Without Jane, though, I'm on the market. If I start to hang out with the wrong people then that's who I'll be stuck with for the rest of my time here at school. That's almost three whole years of hanging out with Alyce. I'm not ready to be auctioned off to the first bidder, especially when that bidder hangs out with the school librarian.

By the time I've said no to Alyce, though, everyone is already paired off. I have to work on my own. So does she. Her eyes are red and she keeps biting her lip. What sort of a person cries because she has to work alone?

 

‘Can I go to the toilet, Mrs Wilson?' I ask and look down at my jumper.

‘Can't you hold on for five minutes? The bell is about to go.'

‘I don't think I can, Mrs Wilson.' I know what she's thinking: should I send someone with her? Is she all right? I know this is why she takes her time. Her hands snake across her desk, searching for the hall pass.

Let me go, let me go, I think, before I cry and everyone sees me.

‘What's the date today?' she asks, filling out each line carefully.

Hurry, or everyone will see my face shaking, my lips like rubber. Hurry. Everyone will think that they know why. That's what I'll hate the most. They'll talk about me when I leave and Mrs Wilson will say, ‘Shoosh, get back to work,' worried that I'll hear. She'll pull Gracie aside and talk to her and then I'll have to stand there while she's made to say sorry.

I cry in the toilets, looking at the one line of graffiti that can't be scrubbed away. Someone has made it permanent, scratched it deep into the wood above the toilet roll:
This place is crap
.

It wasn't just what Gracie said that upset me. It was that I stood there while she said it.

 

When the day starts as badly as mine did, you have to give yourself a little reward. At recess I head straight to the tuckshop. I've got a craving for a jam doughnut with pink icing. Nothing, not even a queue a mile long, is going to distract me from my goal. Not even Annabelle Orion, lining up behind me, will keep me from my doughnut.

‘Hi, Gracie, how's life without Jane?'

‘Fine, Annabelle.' I keep my response short. It's better not to engage with the enemy.

‘I think you and Alyce will make great study partners.'

I'm quiet. Ignore the enemy and they'll go away. Keep your mind focused on the doughnut.

‘It's good you've got
a
friend. She'll be handy to have around at exam time.'

And this is where I make my first mistake: ‘We are not good friends, Annabelle. I do not want to be friends with her.'

And mistake number two: ‘She is
boring
.'

And mistake number three: ‘I would not be friends with her if she was the
last
person alive in the school.'

I've engaged with the enemy and she has me right where she wants me. I'm back in kindergarten taking the wrap for the swing incident all over again. I know from the smile on Annabelle's face, without even looking, that Alyce is standing behind us in the queue.

I stand in the line and face the front. I know I should say something to Alyce. But what's the right thing to say when you've just told someone they're the most boring person in the school? How about
sorry
, Faltrain? I can hear Jane's suggestion now. That's no good; maybe it's better if I don't say
anything
? I'm still in the middle of my conversation with myself; I'm
even nodding and moving my hands around a little, when Nick comes up behind me.

‘
Gracie
, hi.'

There they are again, those flicks, that smile.

‘Come and sit with us on the oval?' he asks.

I forget all about Alyce, her confidence sliced into like a knife through flesh. She's in the background bleeding and I don't even bother to give her first aid.

‘Okay.' I throw my answer at Annabelle. Her face is covered in jealousy, layered like foundation that's one shade too dark for her skin.

Shove that up your jumper, Annabelle Orion. Life's a cake and I just got a huge piece of it.

 

They're right. This place
is
crap.

problem
noun
: a difficult question,
situation, person;

problematic
adjective
: Gracie Faltrain

The problem with Gracie Faltrain is that she needs to make an
effort
with her looks. I mean, on the soccer field she sort of glides. I noticed
that
the first time I saw her play. She looks a bit ordinary when I talk to her at school, though, you know? None of the guys in our year have gone out with her. Word is, she doesn't even like guys. I bet I can change that, though. If I wanted to, that is.

 

What's the problem with Gracie Faltrain? That's easy – she thinks she's so good. She's so loud. She thinks just because she can play soccer Nick will be interested in her. I've liked Nick since he arrived. I don't see why Gracie Faltrain should get him just because she wants to. Why shouldn't
I
get something that
I
want?

 

I don't know what the problem with Gracie Faltrain is, Mrs Wilson. She just doesn't want to work with me.

 

The problem with Faltrain is that she plays for herself. She kicks for goal from the side when she
should
cross to the centre and let someone else score once in a while. She doesn't listen when I tell her to pass. ‘What's your problem, Martin?' she asks. ‘I made the shot.' Yeah, Faltrain, but you practically knocked out one of
our
players to do it.
That's
my problem.

 

And mine.

 

That's
everyone's
problem.

 

The problem with you, Gracie Faltrain, is that you kill all the plants, even the weeds. You think I don't notice that you only water half the plants every night. It's easier to do it myself after you've gone home. If you don't listen to me carefully we'll be out of business.

 

The problem with Gracie is that she loves too fiercely. She sees the world in black and white, when it's grey and blurred at the edges. ‘People do things we don't like, honey,' I say, but she doesn't understand. If life isn't exactly as she wants it to be then she shuts it off.

That's like throwing away a breeze, warm and sweetened with jasmine, just because there's a storm forecast for the end of the day. Just think of what you're missing out on by staying inside. I'm worried she'll throw away all her good memories when she realises that I've let her down. The last thing in the world I want to do is hurt her, but I'm going to; I know I am.

 

The problem with Mum is that she worries too much. We could do the work in half the time at the nursery if she'd listen to my plan to speed everything up. If we just watered half of the plants every night then we wouldn't have to be there for so long. I figure what she doesn't know won't hurt her. She'll have some time to herself. I can have a kick before dinner. Now missing soccer,
that's
a problem.

team spirit
noun
: the camaraderie
and loyalty that members of a team
display towards each other

For the first time in years, I've got myself a team of good players. Great players. It didn't happen overnight. It took effort. Blood. Sweat. Tears. That's what I tell them before every match. Their sweat – and the opposition's blood and tears.

I tell them there's only one way to win at those Championships: ‘Great playing isn't enough, you've got to play like you're closer than family. You've got to know each other. Before that ball has even
touched
a boot you need to sense the direction it will take. How? Know the kid who kicked it, know his instincts like your own.' Now
that's
what soccer's all about.

What makes a team the best? They can play with their eyes shut and still win the match.

Have I got a team like that? Not even close.

Why am I taking them to the Championships? Because they had it once. They can get it again.

 

What's soccer all about? It's about knowing your place. Defenders block. Midfielders pass and defend. Strikers score. No surprises. No mistakes. No one playing for himself. And that means
no
kicks from the side, Faltrain, when you're too far out and you can cross to someone closer. The forwards are our best chance of clocking up those goals.
I'm
our best chance of scoring those goals.

 

Second best chance.

 

Soccer's won by more than just kicking goals, you know.

 

Lucky for you, eh, Corelli?

 

The game's won when I get on that field.

 

The game's won when I say it's won. NOW GET BACK OUT THERE AND GIVE ME TWENTY PUSH-UPS OR WE'RE ALL SLEEPING ON THAT FIELD TONIGHT.

 

Some people say it's all about kicking goals, but they're wrong. You can't win on all attack or all defence. I still remember what Mum said to me after one of my first matches: ‘Marty, watch any of the great teams, and you'll see, they're arms and legs on the same body. They share a heart. If you've got separate hearts, Marty, you may as well give up before the match even starts.'

hubris
noun
: arrogant pride inviting
punishment

All Dad's talk about fate is well and good, but sometimes life's like soccer. You've got to take the ball. No one's going to give it to you. Some people make good defence. I like to attack. Shoot for goal. That's why I'm on Nick's train today.

Sure it means extra time on public transport. Sure it means Mum will explode because I'll be too late to close up at the nursery. But how often do you know exactly where your destiny will be down to the last minute?

Mine's travelling inside the 4.05 train bound for Eltham. It's a chance too good to miss. Unfortunately, my destiny's stuck in a carriage with thirty screaming girls all swinging school bags into my stomach. You can't have everything, though.

I get on at the station after Nick. It's one thing to follow someone. It's a completely different thing for them to catch you doing it. I fight my way through two carriages before I see his hair. At last. It's time for kick-off.

Nick is about five metres away from me. That's a long way in peak-hour traffic. Imagine it. Bags carpet the aisle. Bodies squash in against each other. At least fifty people obstructing the ball. I'm finding out more than I want to about the man next to me. He's not wearing deodorant and I'm forced to hold my breath beyond all levels of human endurance.

I'm at about the two-minute mark when I decide my destiny needs a little help. I elbow my way through thirty bodies hanging on to rails like plane passengers about to crash into the Atlantic. That's not the hard bit, though. About halfway down the aisle, I hook my feet into the handles of a bag and fly into the back of an old woman. That's not the hard bit either. I have to use the face of the man sitting down near her to stop my fall. That's easy too. The hard part? Making it all look casual. And this is very important, because it was at about the two-and-a-half-minute mark that Nick spotted me.

‘Nick? Hi.'
Hello
destiny, I think as I peel my hand from the face of the man who has broken my fall.

‘Gracie, hi. What are you doing here?'

I take a little time to think about tactics. There's just no good way to say, ‘I'm following you in the hope you'll ask me out because in Year 8 I saw you reading a soccer magazine.'

‘I'm staying at my aunt's place tonight.' Lying is much better.

‘Are you playing soccer this week?' he asks.

‘Uh-huh.'

‘I'm going to see a film after the match with some of the guys. You should come.'

At last, I'm lining up the shot.

‘My brother said he'd take me in. We
could
pick you up on the way, about seven?'

I swing back and kick. ‘Okay,' I say. ‘That sounds great.' It's a perfect shot. The crowd goes wild. It's a goal.

The thing I like about Nick is that he notices me. He watches all the games. He waits to talk to me after every one. Last week I walked off the field and he was leaning against the fence next to the change rooms. My heart made a quick trip down to my boots.

‘Hi, Nick.'

‘Hey, Gracie, you played a good match today.'

His words grabbed hold of my throat; they made it hard to talk, hard to breathe. I could see him looking at my hair, brown and pulled back in a ponytail, at my shorts and boots. At my eyes. Some people say I'm plain looking but standing there in front of Nick that day, I felt like I was exactly right.

Just like now.

 

I'm
so
sick of Gracie Faltrain hogging the limelight.

 

I'm
so sick of Gracie Faltrain hogging the ball.

 

He asked me, Jane.

I can hardly wait to tell someone. I press send and wait for her to reply.

 

And you didn't even have to hit him in the balls.