Read Online The Life and Times of Gracie Faltrain by Cath Crowley - Free Book Online

should just pop into the chemist’s and buy me two bandaids for support. Mum and the woman were laughing about the fact that I’d be ‘popping out all over the place soon’, when I decided to grab a few bras and try them on.
    This is when it started to get ugly. And all because of two little words: swinging doors. They should be illegal in change rooms. Mum sees them and her reflexes take over. ‘Order is very important, Mum,’ I yelled as she flung open the door. ‘ First , you ask, “How are you going in there?” Then you wait. That gives me time to say, “I’m NAKED in here.” ’
    If she doesn’t get that frontal nudity is embarrassing, then what hope have I got of convincing her that ear cleaning with a tongue is definitely a quick drop, head first, down the social ladder?
    Â 
HELEN
    Gracie, no one saw anything. I mean, what’s there to see?
    Â 
GRACIE
    You see what I’m dealing with here?

17
    desperate adjective : ready to take any
risks;
    desperado noun : Gracie Faltrain
GRACIE
    I figure the only way up that ladder again is to win them the game today. The whole school will be there. I’ll show them the old Gracie Faltrain.
    I run through the rain towards the hall, feel the water seep up through the bottom of my shoes, soaking my feet. My hands beat with nerves. I need to go to the toilet. Real bad.
    The guys are already there, waiting for the warm-ups before the game. There’s nowhere to sit so I lean against the wall, facing everybody. Martin stands next to me. He’s the only one who says hi.
    â€˜Right.’ Coach runs in. ‘Get into pairs. Give me twenty stomach crunches.’
    â€˜You go first, Faltrain,’ Martin says. ‘I’ll count.’
    I pretend I’m too puffed to talk.
    â€˜You all right?’ he asks.
    â€˜Yeah. Course I am.’ I don’t want Martin to talk about the game. I don’t want him to know I was standing outsidethe change-room door last week, that I heard his silence.
    â€˜Faltrain, do you remember that time we were playing soccer in the park and you kicked the ball into that picnic?’ he asks.
    â€˜Yeah.’
    â€˜The look on that little kid’s face when his ice-cream went flying.’ Martin laughs. ‘Poor little bugger.’
    â€˜He was pretty angry, wasn’t he?’
    For a second I forget why I’m upset. It’s hovering in the air, though. Like mist it settles over me again on the way out to the field, soaking through my clothes and onto my skin. I run past Mum, worry smudged into every corner of her face. There’s an empty seat next to her. She’s saving one for Dad. Just in case.
    I wait for the kick-off. The seconds feel like years. My legs are cold. My hands are numb. I have to play the best game of my life today. I need to prove to them that they need me at the Championships. The only person who looks hopeful is Martin. He gives me the thumbs-up and then it starts.
    I run fast. Chase the ball. Cut Flemming off to get it. He growls. Low. Mean. I don’t care. I ignore Martin’s call to pass. I’m headed for the goal. I swing back and kick but the sound is wrong. I hit it on the side and it goes straight to their defence. In less than a second it’s in their midfield. They score the first goal of the match. I look over at Flemming. My instincts tell me to run.
    I should have listened. Coach leaves me on the field for the whole first half. The harder I try, the worse it gets. Me and the ball, the wind and my feet, we’re separate. I’m moving fast but it’s not enough. Finally I get the ball. Kick it towards the goal. Miss. The voice of the crowd drips downwards. The angerof the team is everywhere. Coach takes me off in the first ten minutes of the second half. It’s sweet relief.
    I sit and watch us losing. The game is like a film where the actors’ mouths are moving out of synch with the