Gracie Faltrain Takes Control (19 page)

Game over.
Martin Knight

Everyone files out of the hall. Usually most of the kids leave for home pretty quickly, but today after the debate there's a small crowd still hanging around near the front of the school.

‘Some of your fans, Alyce,' I tease her.

She looks at the kids. ‘Gracie,' she says softly, and that smile of hers finally takes off. ‘Look.'

The crowd clears a little, and I see Martin, laughing with Francavilla and Singh and Corelli. Flemming is hanging around, too. Martin's wearing the t-shirt I gave him for Christmas. His hands are hooked into the edges of his pockets like always. He still hasn't brushed his hair. On the outside he's exactly the same. Except now I can't go up to him. Now there's a fence between us.

‘Go on,' I say to Alyce. ‘Go and say hi.'

‘You don't want to come?'

More than I've wanted anything in my entire life. ‘I'll see you tomorrow,' I say. Every step I take hurts. Because no one follows me.

The sky is messy this afternoon, cut with colours bleeding into each other. When I was a kid I remember making paintings that looked like that. Everyone else was using a brush, but I wanted to dig my hands in and smear the colour on the page. That's how I feel inside these days, because everyone's telling me that I'm the one who stuffed up.

And I did. I lied. I tried to change Alyce. I fought on that field like Flemming, and I saw how ugly that was. And there was a part of me that liked it. Loved it.

There's a part of me that's glad Martin and his dad are talking, whatever the cost. But I know that you can't take people's lives and make them how you want them to be, because if you do that, then it's not their life anymore. And what's the point of living if someone else is calling all the plays? But it's hard to sit on the bench and see that the people you love are hurting. Especially when you think you could fix things, push a few people aside so they can look at the view.

Alyce and Martin kept piling on those layers to block out the sun because it hurt them, I guess. And they kept telling me that it did, but I kept pushing them out there even though they were burning. Mum said that night we watched the mice on the Discovery Channel that she couldn't bear to see them experimented on.

‘It's for the good of science,' I said.

‘A lot of things get done for the greater good, Gracie. It doesn't make them right.'

I don't hear Martin this afternoon until he's close behind me. ‘I always know where to find you, Faltrain.' He lies down next to me, one elbow bent beneath him so he can look out at the field.

‘So I heard you guys are through to the final.'

‘It's on Saturday. Are you playing?'

‘I don't know, Faltrain. I haven't decided.'

I wait for a bit, but he doesn't say anything else. ‘You're still mad at me, aren't you?'

‘Yeah. But not as mad as when I left.' His eyes catch cars on the street and watch them till they disappear.

‘Your dad said you went to the beach.' Every word I say is a footstep in the dark.

Martin's voice stays steady, though. ‘It was an accident, sort of. I got to the station and saw Dromana on the destination board and bought a ticket. I guess Dad told you we had our last holiday there.'

‘He said your mum seemed happy.'

‘She did. We spent most days crouched over the rock pools. “It's a whole other world in there, Marty”, I remember her saying. “Full of things that are too tiny to see.”

‘She loved me and Karen,' he says, biting down on the words in case they escape. ‘Some things you have to feel, I reckon, and I felt it on that holiday. She spent every second she had with us. Reading us stories, walking along the beach, talking. One night she fell asleep on the bed with me, still holding my hand. I remember waking up, and seeing her there. I'd forgotten most of that, until I went back. I guess that holiday was her way of saying goodbye.'

‘Did you talk to your dad about it?'

Martin nods. ‘He and Karen found me lying on the beach. I haven't seen them smile like that since before Mum left. After Karen went to bed, Dad sat up with me in the hotel. He told me stuff that hurt him to say. “She was happy, on that holiday, Marty”, he told me. “But I knew it was the last time we'd have her like that.” ' Martin fights off tears as he talks.

‘“I knew her inside out”, Dad said. “And the saddest thing is she couldn't have won. She'd have died if she'd stayed. And leaving would have killed her. Wherever she is, Marty, she's broken. I can't bear to think of her like that.” He cried, Faltrain. Do you know what it's like to see your old man look like a kid?'

‘Martin . . .'

‘Don't tell me you're sorry. I don't want to hear that again.' He pulls his knees up to his chin, and keeps chasing those cars with his eyes. If he could, he'd be in one of them. Not here.

‘I noticed you way before you noticed me,' he says after a while. ‘I was following you around the whole time you were chasing that idiot Nick Johnson. I loved watching you play soccer. I loved watching you.'

‘We're playing that way again, Martin, like we did at the start. Flemming and me and the rest of the team, we decided you were right. I shouldn't have done what I did; I shouldn't have found your mum when it was none of my business.'

‘I know you didn't make all of this mess, Faltrain.' His hands are trying to catch that wide ball again. They look like he's trying to build something out of the air, a reason for the way I acted. ‘But you lied to me. All year. I told you stuff I never told anyone else. I trusted you. Why was it so important to you that I find her?'

‘I thought you'd stopped caring about soccer. I thought you'd given up.'

‘And that wasn't good enough for you, Faltrain, was it? You couldn't have a boyfriend in goal. What if I said you were right? I have given up on soccer. What if after I read that note from Mum all the stuff she used to tell me about life just seemed like lies, and I couldn't play anymore, because it hurt too much imagining her at the games? Am I good enough for you now?'

‘Yes, Martin.'

‘But that's the crap thing. It's too late now. I know I said I couldn't understand how you leave the people you love. But sometimes you have to. Sometimes it's the only way to keep going.'

I know now what Martin's mum meant when she said people are all desperate for something. They're desperate to win, so mad for it they'd drag people back, just so it looks like they're going forwards. But not everyone can win.

The light fades. Neither of us moves. When one of your best friends is leaving, it's worth stretching it out as long as you can.

In the movies there's always that bit where the person gets dumped and you see how bad they feel. In books too. They describe how their heart aches. How they feel like they never want to get out of bed again. How the sun doesn't shine anymore.

Well, anyone who's ever been dumped can tell you that those descriptions are a whole lot of crap. They don't come anywhere close to telling it how it really is. One minute you're on the soccer field, flying for goal. And then the next minute the ground is empty. It's dark. And you've got no one to kick to but yourself.

‘How was practice tonight, baby?' Dad asks when I get home.

‘I wasn't at practice. I was with Martin.'

‘So, did you find out the end of his story now that he's back?'

‘Yeah, I know how it ends. He dumps me.'

‘That's not the real ending, though, is it, Gracie?'

‘No. He gets closer to his dad, and works out stuff about his mum.'

‘So the ending is happy for Martin.'

‘But it's not happy for me.'

‘You're not the hero of his story, Gracie. It doesn't have to be happy for you.'

Dad looks out the window of my room. ‘Your mother planted this part of the garden especially for you. She wanted it to grow in crowded tangles all around the window. “I want her to have a life full of everything, Bill”, she said.'

‘Did she want it full of sad stuff, too?'

‘A little sad stuff is okay. As long as it doesn't choke everything else. You'll get over Martin, even though it doesn't feel like it.'

‘What if I don't want to get over him? What if I want him back?'

‘Do you think you deserve him?'

Good shot, Dad. You've been taking lessons from Mum. ‘No,' I say.

‘Then maybe you have a chance. Baby, I know better than anyone, you can always turn the ship around. Look at me. Slowly change direction, Gracie. Maybe one day Martin will trust you again.'

Dad's right. If I want Martin back, it's going to take time. Lots of it.

‘Look,' Dad says, pointing through a gap to the middle of the garden. ‘I think the magnolia's about to come out.'

‘Dinner's been on the table for ten minutes, you two,' Mum yells from the kitchen. ‘Now move it and set the table.'

You're absolutely right, Dad. I'd say that for you, the magnolia is well on the way.

And for me? Maybe I have to wait a while longer. I pruned a little late this year. The great thing about spring is it loops
like everything else. Martin will still be around next season, and the one after. I've got all that time to prove to him that I've changed.

But that doesn't mean I'm not going to start straightaway.

It's not over till it's over.
Gracie Faltrain

‘So we're all still sure this is the way we want to play it?' Flemming asks before the final.

‘I'm sure,' I say, and everyone else nods. There's no other way we can go out there and win.

‘It means we have to be better than ever before. It's Woodbury we're up against. He still wants us dead.' Flemming looks at us all to make sure we're hearing him properly. ‘The scouts are out there. The match is being televised. It could be humiliating.'

‘It's been a humiliating season,' Singh says. ‘It's time to turn it around.'

‘Then I guess I'll see you all in hospital after the game,' Flemming says. He turns to Coach, who's smiling next to him. ‘So tell us again how you think we should play it?'

The stands are full. Alyce and Mum and Dad are right in the front. ‘I've got 000 plugged into my phone,' Mum said earlier.

‘Thanks,' I told her. ‘That makes me feel a whole lot better.'

There's still no sign of Martin.

‘Did you call him, Flemming?'

‘For the fiftieth time, Faltrain. I called. He said he'd make it.'

I guess it doesn't matter. I'd do this even if he wasn't here to watch.

‘Stop staring, Corelli. I told you before: they're not real.'

‘I'm not staring at them. I've just never seen you nervous before.'

I'm gutsy. I'm not an idiot. Woodbury and his thugs are warming up on the field and they look ready. Our team looks ready to run more than anything else. But sooner or later you have to change the play. If you don't, everyone keeps saying the same lines over and over again.

‘You sure about this?' Flemming asks. ‘You stand to lose more body parts than any of us. You're smaller and you're a target.'

‘I'm sure.' A woman with a camera takes a picture of us from the side of the field. Her camera whirrs and clicks. What's worse than total humiliation? Total humiliation on the front page of the paper. Total humiliation on TV.

‘Ready to die, Faltrain?' Woodbury asks me on his way past.

‘Look, I know you're angry about the off-season games. I get that. But what about calling it even, today?'

‘Get lost,' he says, and I can't blame him. I had to try, though. It always works in the movies.

‘You need to be ready for a fight. A fair fight,' Coach said in his pep talk. ‘Create space the way we used to. Listen to each other the way you used to. Play like you're playing for the state. And there's a chance you just might.'

Fat chance of that, Coach, I think as the whistle blows. Let the games begin.

Flemming kicks off. We all run. I get to the ball first. I don't have time to take it, though. ‘Faltrain, to your left,' Singh yells. Woodbury slams me in the shoulder and keeps running. The ball is glued to his foot until he scores. I'm still on the ground when he drives it home.

I'm aching already, but I drag myself up. Maiden mouths ‘Sorry' at me from the goal. ‘Don't worry,' I yell. It's not his fault. We knew this was going to be tough.

We start again. I'm a kid in the ocean, waves thumping over me, salt pumping into my mouth. I can't keep my face above water. I can taste blood from my fall.

I only get the ball once in the first half. I'm moving fast, but I'm surrounded. Someone shoves me in the back and I go down. I don't see who does it, but as I'm lying there a foot sinks into my stomach. I curl up on the ground as the whistle goes.

‘What the hell are you playing at out there?' Martin yells in the break when I limp to the edge of the field.

‘You've been watching?' I ask.

‘Yeah, I've been watching. You're lucky to be alive.'

‘We're playing like you told us, Martin.'

‘You idiot, Faltrain.'

‘What?' I'm nursing a hernia here for you, Knight. ‘Don't call me an idiot.'

Martin's voice is like a magnet, drawing the rest of the team in. ‘I didn't tell you to lie down out there and let them run right over the top of you. They're ahead by three goals. I said don't fight dirty. I didn't say don't fight.'

‘What are you saying we should do?' Flemming asks. He's ready to follow again. And Martin is all geared up to lead. I love it. I feel like yelling across to that photographer, ‘Make sure you get a picture of this.'

Martin keeps talking as he pulls on his soccer top. ‘Faltrain, you want to sit this one out?'

‘No way.'

‘Good. We need you in there. Wrecker, you swap with me for a while. You look like you could do with a rest. Now everyone, listen in. You have to play like we used to. We knew exactly what everyone else on the team was thinking last year. I could predict, down to the last second, when Faltrain was about to run for goal. She'd flick her leg back to give herself a bit of momentum and go. Corelli, how do you know when Singh is about to kick the ball to you?'

‘He runs at me and says, “Corelli”.'

‘Don't be smart. What else?'

‘He looks like he's about to fart.'

‘I'm concentrating,' Singh whines.

‘Yeah. And it looks like you're about to fart.'

‘We need to go back to how we used to be, moving like parts of the same car. Forget that they're willing to take you out. Start playing how we did in the Championships and they won't have time to knock us down. They won't have time for anything at all.'

‘I've got your back, Faltrain,' Martin says while we're waiting for the ref to start us.

‘Same goes for me,' I answer. ‘I thought you'd given up on soccer.'

‘I've changed my mind. For today.'

It's a small sign, but I'll take it.

Their midfielder takes the ball after kick-off, but Flemming slides across and steals it. And then he sends it to me. I move fast, confident. Woodbury runs at me again. He thinks he knows me. He thinks I'll send the ball to the right. I flick it to the inside
of my left foot, instead. At the last minute I move it to the outside. By the time Woodbury realises I'm passing the other way, it's too late. Martin has it. And he's heading towards goal.

He gets there and he's surrounded. But we all know what to do. Coach taught us years ago. We fan out and the opposition follows. Martin kicks to me. I kick back to him. He's facing the wrong way, but I know what he'll do. I know him. He flicks his leg up and sends the ball flying over his head. It's a beautiful thing to see. It lands right in the corner of the goal. Their keeper lands on the ground. And the score is one to three.

Wherever Corelli's mum is in the crowd, she's doing the Mexican Wave. I'd put money on it. She's not dancing alone. Coach is at the side waving his arms around like he's at a disco. But the night is still young.

‘Don't relax yet, Faltrain,' Martin warns.

But I do. And that's the great thing. I haven't felt this good in months. I'm the old me. I'm the girl who can score goals better than anyone on the field. And I'm going to enjoy every last second of this game.

The kick-off is theirs, but I know exactly where I have to be. Because I know Flemming. I've played beside him for years.

He takes possession and kicks. The ball moves and I arrive a second before their midfielder. He's good. I'm better. I run with the ball, blocking him the whole way, my arm held out for balance. I'm sailing through sky. Nothing can stop me.

‘Over here,' Martin calls, and I kick to him, high over the top of the defender's head. Martin passes to King, who is already in position. He traps it with his chest, flicks it to his knee and then kicks it into goal.

Two: three.

There are ten minutes to go. We can't win, but we can tie.
Sometimes a tie is the best you can hope for. Sometimes it's all you deserve.

Woodbury is too quick when play starts again. He's as desperate as we are. And he has every right to be. Like Alyce said, sometimes there's not a bad guy. Sometimes there's just another side. He's flying down the field, so fast that no one can catch him. He's in the middle of one of those golden moments, you know, the sort you only have once in your life. If he kicks this we can't even tie. There's no way.

Martin runs after him. He pushes harder than he ever has before. Even I can't keep up with him. He overtakes Woodbury by a neck near the opposition's goal and takes the ball. He changes direction quickly, light, like a bird spinning in the air. His whole body seems as though it's made of water, it moves so easily. He starts to run but there's a crowd of opposition players in front of him, ready to steal the ball, ready to fire it in for the final goal of the match. I go in behind the pack. ‘Trust me, Martin,' I whisper.

Martin kicks hard and sends it into them. To anyone else it looks like he's throwing the game. But I'm the shadow near all those players and he knows it. He trusts me. I'm smaller than them. I'm faster. I'm better. I slide in and scoop out the ball. I flick it to the side where Corelli is waiting. Flemming is in position. He catches it when Corelli boots towards him. There are only three minutes on the clock.

Flemming storms up the field, feet sheeting like rain. He dodges anyone in his path. He doesn't hit back at the defender at his side. He doesn't need to. He's a second ahead of him. And he trusts that it's enough. The crowd is roaring at Flemming as he barrels along. He's faster than I've ever seen him before.

I run too. We all do. Not because we think he'll need the help, but because it's amazing and we want to be there when he kicks that goal.

He moves into the square and we spread out around him, protection in case he needs us. No one moves to interfere. He might not make the shot, but he's earned the right to decide the play.

One minute to go and a defender blocks him. It would be so easy for Flemming to take him down. He doesn't, though. ‘Faltrain,' he yells, and I take the pass. He sprints out to the side, an impossible angle, but I know he can make it. In that last minute I kick it back to him. He takes the ball and sends it flying to the side of the goal. The keeper dives to his left and almost catches it. It's a beautiful play on his part, too. We score on the whistle. It's a tie. But ask any of us on the field today, on either side, and they'll all tell you that we won.

‘Did you see that goal, Martin,' I'm yelling as the crowd goes wild.

‘I did, Faltrain. And it was fantastic.' Our whole team is piling onto each other like the old days, screaming and yelling. Coach piles on too.

I can't help it, the sun hits Martin's face and he looks so happy that I kiss him. He picks up the soccer ball and starts running. ‘Come on.' He turns to me and races across the field. He kicks the ball and I chase him. I run even though I know that today, I have no chance of catching him.

‘Look, Faltrain,' Martin says after we've dropped onto the ground. I follow his eyes. There's someone talking to Flemming, handing him a card.

‘He made it,' I say. And just as I do, that guy starts walking towards Martin and me.

The old Gracie Faltrain? Maybe she would have run off to meet him.

But I'm not leaving Martin today, not for all the scouts in the world.