The Life and Times of Gracie Faltrain Read Free Page A

chips. ‘The year is long.’
    I don’t know about the year, but every moment of that night seemed to move by in slow motion. Every second that Nick spoke to Annabelle and Susan and not me was torture.
    â€˜What’s up with you, Faltrain?’ Martin came up behind me, talking through a mouthful of food.
    â€˜Mind your own business,’ I said, and got a whack on the back of my head as he walked off. Martin can be really annoying. He’s in Year 11, only a year ahead of me, but he thinks he’s so much older. He’s my captain too, so that means he can tell me what to do on the soccer field and that bugs me more than anything. He treats me like a kid sister and I’ve told him before, I do not need an older brother.
    That night, though, I barely heard him. I kept looking at Nick, willing him to talk to me. I spent a lot of time looking at the back of his head.

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    storm noun : a disturbance of the
atmosphere by very strong winds
GRACIE
    I’d use my third wish to get Dad home. It feels like he’s been away forever. I tried to remember what he looked like the other day and for a second I couldn’t imagine his face.
    He’s a travelling book salesman, so he’s away a lot. When I was little he took me to the library every Saturday. He showed me books of places we’d never been. I loved the atlases. I remember watching him stretch up to reach the one I was desperate to look at; there was a little bit of his tummy showing between his old t-shirt and his jeans. We sat on the floor together and traced the roads and rivers with our fingers.
    He always tried to be there on Saturdays. I’d come home during the week, though, and hope that I’d find him. I’d walk in the front door and look for his keys in the jar next to the phone. It was a game. If the keys weren’t there I’d think, well, maybe he’s got them in his pocket. He could still be home, right? I’d walk through the kitchen and look for his bag or his tie. I searched every room before I was convinced that therewas no chance he was home. Sometimes I didn’t look in Mum and Dad’s bedroom. I’d leave the door closed and just pretend he was on the other side. The house was too cold without him. Even in summer.
    Last year, if he missed a game, he’d be home by Saturday afternoon. When Mum and I walked in after soccer he’d be waiting in the backyard, ready for a kick. ‘Hurry up, Gracie,’ he’d yell, his old runners sticking out from under his trousers. ‘Show me how you kicked the winning goal.’
    I’d take the ball and slam it between the two white lines he’d drawn for me on the fence. He’d cheer. And Mum would shout, ‘Move it, you two, tea was ready an hour ago,’ but she’d be laughing. I remember we’d come in from the back yard, our faces so cold they almost cracked from the heat of the kitchen. We talked all through dinner. Laughed because the next day was Sunday. I loved going to sleep on those nights. When I woke up he was there.
    But that hasn’t happened for a long time.
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MARTIN
    Faltrain looked like it was Christmas today when I told her about the Championships. She was running around and laughing; how could I tell her what the guys have been saying? No one except me wants her on the team anymore. And I don’t think I’m enough.
    Faltrain used to be great when she first started – fast and strong in the midfield. She pushed the ball forward to the strikers. Now she’s too focused on scoring. Sometimes she leaves us wide open in our defence. I don’t blame her – she was made to kick goals. ‘Kick them, Faltrain,’ I want to say. ‘Just don’t make them the only reason you play. And stop pissing Flemming off. The guy has it in for you.’
    I can see why everyone’s annoyed, but sometimes I think they’re mad because she’s better than them. And because