The Life and Times of Gracie Faltrain (5 page)

see
verb
: to look through the eyes;

perceive
verb
: to be aware through the
heart or the mind

Like I said, she's plain, you know? But there's definitely something about her. I see it when she's on the soccer pitch, the whole school is cheering her and she's winning the match all on her own. I'm a football player myself, but I love to watch soccer. I especially like watching
her
. She's got a
great
body. Out there she's got something, you know, something I've never seen before.

 

Can we talk about something else
please
? I'm so tired of Gracie Faltrain. I can't believe he asked her out. What about me? What about my hair and my eyes? If Nick says one more thing about her, it'll be the
last
thing he says. I mean c'mon,
I've
got boobs.

 

Who cares what she looks like? She plays soccer like a champion.

 

She plays soccer like she's out there alone. And that's no way to play.

 

Gracie's got brown hair, like me. She's about the same height too. People notice her. I think it's her voice. It's always louder than you expect and covered with laughter.

I was surprised when she said she didn't want to work with me. I don't know Gracie very well, but I remember once in Year 3 she gave me an invitation to her party. She spelt my name right. Everyone always spells it with an ‘i', even the teachers. Ever since then I thought she would be nice. I never thought she'd look at me like I was nothing.

 

I held Gracie on the day she was born and thought, she is the most amazing thing I've ever seen. She is fragile. Alive. Ours. ‘Bill,' I said, ‘we're in trouble now. This kid is going to run all over us.'

Things come easily to Gracie. Before she was born I felt her name on my lips. Grace. I knew then that she would have something special. It's in the way she smiles, the length of her lashes. Her fingers. In her run when she's playing soccer.

In school, I was always the last one picked on the netball team. It's not that I want Gracie to know what that feels like. I've always been proud of her strength. Sometimes I worry, though. She's so impatient. I see it at the nursery. She can't understand why she kills the plants. She can't see that some things need nurturing before they're strong enough to take off on their own.

Sometimes you need to wait, Gracie, and then things happen. Beautiful things. You can't see them at first, like vegetables growing under the soil. Like tiny shoots, arriving unexpectedly, green on old branches.

 

The day Gracie was born I thought, she has her mother's eyes. They were eyes of fire. I knew then that I would do anything she asked me. She's so much like Helen, even though neither of them can see it.

Helen is harsh sometimes, tells Gracie and me to get off our arses and take the rubbish out, or clean up the mess in the damn kitchen. If she finds a spider in the house, though, she won't kill it, she'll put it back in the garden. She'll order three tonnes of manure and talk about life and death while she's unloading it. Helen's soft when she's thinking about Gracie and hard when she's talking to her.

Sometimes they fight and roar at each other like rough winds along the coast. I wait until it's quiet, and then I find Gracie and I tell her the story of her beginning. I remember for her a mother with tired eyes, crying with relief because her daughter has been born, crying because she is safe.

nemesis
noun
: the retribution of fate
for wrongdoing

There are only two other times I've felt exactly right like I did at that moment with Nick. The first was when I was much younger. I used to have this dream. I was staying at a farm. There were acres of trees, tall, and far enough apart so that the sun lit up the day between them. The first thing I remember about the dream is that it was warm. The second thing is that I could fly. The wind took me up and I was swimming through air currents like waves. I'd wake and still have the feeling that it was true. The second time I feel right is when I'm on the soccer field. It's the closest thing I have to that dream.

We lose the toss today. Flemming kicks off and Martin and I run out to the side. Their defender is close but I'm fast. I get the ball. Martin shouts at me to cross. I pretend not to hear him.

He's saying what he always does when I get the ball. Kick it to him, to Flemming, to the centre and then move back to defence. I don't need to. I can make it. I run fast. My feet are
flying. I want Nick to see me score this goal. I want him to see it come off my boot and fly. I love the look on the face of the goalie. He can't believe a girl kicked it.

I don't see the defender coming up behind until it's too late. His feet are almost tangled with mine. The whole ground becomes a blur. I'm running so hard I can't breathe, pushing against time, aiming for the goal, but it's not enough. The ball is his. And then I see Martin. He runs in from the side and cuts a line between the defender and me; he gives me a second to keep moving. On the edges of my sight he slides and hits the ground. I stumble into the ball, kick it before play is stopped.

The goalie doesn't even have to move to catch it. I've practically gift-wrapped it for him.

Martin's face is white and small. His eyes are almost black against its paleness. They meet mine for a moment as he is carried past me. For the second time in my life I feel lost on the field.

The end of the match seems a very long way away.

 

Nice
one, Faltrain.

 

‘No need to thank me, Faltrain. Don't mention it. Any time.'

‘Thanks, Martin,' she says, like I've just passed her the salt. That's it? That's all I get? I twist my ankle sliding in to help
her
score the goal and all I get is, ‘Thanks, Martin'?

It's not my fault she missed the shot.

‘Just pass the ball next time, all right, Faltrain? It's not
tennis
we're playing out there.'

 

Watching her today, surrounded by kids, I know she's alone.

Gracie is stubborn. She started drinking that in from me before she was born. She takes the ball on her boot and runs all the way to the goal because she can. Gracie, I think as I watch her run faster towards winning, pass it to someone. Trust them to play on your team. Even though you're not sure they'll make the shot.

‘Pass that bloody ball,' I've tried to tell her, but she ignores me. ‘You're digging your own grave out there. Who do you think you are, Madonna?'

 

Maradona, Mum.
Mara
dona.

 

I stay on the field for longer today. I want to make sure that the team has gone home. I don't feel like talking about the game. I kept missing shots after Martin was taken off. I can't believe I played that badly. If I need proof, though, I can ask Nick or Annabelle or Mum or Coach or Martin. Actually, I can ask anyone in the school.

For once I'm glad Dad wasn't here to see me play. He always says his favourite part of the match is hearing the sound of my boot on leather, it's the sound of me winning, he says. He sits in the front row, wearing our colours on his scarf. It's unravelling at the ends but he won't buy another one. Mum knitted it for him. He clenches his fists and bends his arms like he's about to jump out of his seat. He only ever yells at my soccer matches.

I can't think about Dad today, though. Martin's face keeps popping up. The more I try to block him out, the more I see him – Martin running in from the side, Martin's face, all white and hurt. I might have made it if he hadn't run in to help. And then he wouldn't be hurt now.

I can hear voices spilling out of the boy's change room as I walk past. It takes me about a minute to work out that the guys are talking about me.

‘I reckon she should be off the team,' Andrew Flemming says.

My chest cracks open. Cold air moves inside me, grips like a fist.

‘No way,' Martin answers.

‘She's the reason you got hurt today.'

‘I only twisted my ankle. I'll be able to play next week.'

‘It could have been worse. She never passes the ball. She
leaves us out there looking like idiots.' Corelli spits onto the concrete.

‘Do you want her to pass
you
the ball, Corelli?'

‘That's not the point,' Flemming answers for him.

‘We need her.' Martin's voice is quiet. Flat.

‘No we don't.' Michael Arnolde's voice is cold and clear.

I want to go before I hear anything else but I can't move.

‘There are plenty of other guys we could get before the Championships but we need to do it now,' Flemming says.

I wait for Martin to speak. For him to say they need me again. For somebody to say something. Their boots scrape on the floor. Their answer is as loud as if they've said it.

I unlock my bike and leave.

 

I came out of the change rooms and saw her riding away. Something about the way she was pedalling told me she'd heard every word. That and the fact that she didn't have her bag. She swung around the corner and she didn't look back.

Maybe it'll do her some good. She's her own worst enemy. I watch her out there every match, running to the side after kick-off. I know she's not looking to see where anyone else is. She's searching for the ball – and when she gets it she's off.

Faltrain's good. The guys know it. The problem is she knows it too. It's like she's out there trying to prove something to the world. You don't need to, Faltrain. You've got it. No one doubts that.

I remember the look on her face at the first match she ever played with us. It was pure fear. I watched her drowning in defenders, lost between bodies. Stop fighting it Faltrain, I thought; just relax. Play like you did in practice. You'll float. She did. The wind changed direction all of a sudden and started blowing her forward towards goals.

We lost that first match and it had a lot to do with her but none of the guys really cared. She was out there playing soccer. That was all that mattered.

accident
noun
: any unfortunate event,
especially one involving injury

It's almost 7 o'clock. Nick's picking me up in five minutes and I feel like I want to vomit. I can't stop thinking about the guys on the team, the sound of Corelli's spit on the ground, their feet, shifting and scraping.

I tried to distract myself when I got home from the game and I made the fatal mistake of getting ready too early for my date. It's a fine line. Get ready too early and you leave too much time to play with your hair and that's deadly.

By 6.15 I'd fluffed it up so much I looked like I'd stuck my finger in a power point. I kept putting in more gel in the hope it would calm it down, but it kept getting stickier. By 6.30 I had hair the consistency of fairy floss. ‘Faltrain,' I could hear Jane's voice in my head, ‘just dunk the whole lot and start again.'

At 6.59 Mum isn't looking at her daughter but a life-size stick of fairy floss, dripping water all over the floor. ‘Gracie, what on earth did you do?'

‘Mum, listen carefully. This is important,' I say, wiping the gel that's dripping down my forehead with the back of my hand. I'm on the verge of hair-product-induced hysteria. ‘When Nick rings the bell, DO NOT ANSWER THE DOOR.'

‘Gracie, you can't leave him on the porch.'

‘Are you listening to me?' I say, fear driving a wedge between each word, ‘DO – NOT – ANSWER – THE – DOOR. MY – SOCIAL – LIFE – DEPENDS – ON – IT.'

And with the kind of punctuality that only ever happens when you don't want someone to arrive on time, the bell rings. Mum and I look at each other for just a second, like animals before they pounce. I know her. She won't leave him standing at the door. She swerves past me and runs down the corridor. I chase her, calling out in desperation, ‘Stop!'

We both arrive at the door at the same time. I don't think she means to open it until I'm in the bedroom. It's just one of those accidents. Mum's hand opens the door – and we seem to shout, ‘Nooo' in slow motion as the wood swings back to reveal me, standing in the doorway, hair dripping in some strange sort of pre-eighties mohawk, wearing my dressing gown and slippers. Now, it would be bad enough to see just one boy standing there. But there are two.

 

I don't know
what
is going on when she opens the door. I mean, she's standing there in her dressing gown. Her hair looks like she's been caught in a wind tunnel, you know? I tell her I'll wait in the car. I don't even want to take her anymore after what happened at the game today. The guys were really angry. She looked like an idiot. They won't want her there. I'm starting to think this is all a
big
mistake.

 

Nice slippers, Faltrain.

 

When things go this badly in the movies, usually the date goes really well, and the girl ends up with the guy, right? I mean, everyone knows that. I give you every single teen flick that's ever been made.

I can hear Jane now: ‘Life ain't a movie, and people who tell you it is are trying to sell you something.' Standing in the hallway, dripping water, mascara running down my face, I have to agree. Unless someone told me that my life was
Scream 2
. Then they'd be onto something.

Mum's hands grip my neck and drag me into the bathroom. She dunks my head into the sink and holds it under the tap. I start banging on the bench, a desperate sign that the water is too hot and running into my undies.

‘Right.' She throws my head back with a force that would make Coach proud. In ten minutes my hair is dry, brushed and plaited, my face is scrubbed and a new shirt ironed. I have to hand it to her. She's good.

‘How does she look, Martin?'

He just stands there and stares. Typical Martin. I can't stop thinking about what the guys said after the match. And that he didn't say anything.

 

I don't know what to say. I just dropped around to make sure she was all right after today and she gets all dressed up. My fingers start to tingle. I give them a bit of a shake and then leave. I mean, Faltrain's a mate.

 

No one has looked at me like Martin looked at Gracie for the longest time. Pity for him she's looking at Nick.