The Whole of My World Read Free Page B

football left in him. You can just tell with some players. I’m about to protest when she continues.
    â€˜Still, if he does what he did last year at South Perth, he could be a good buy,’ she says slowly. ‘Shame he’s a sandgroper.’
    â€˜No one’s perfect.’ I try on a smile. Not a big one – that would only scare Tara off. Just a twist of the lips that I can easily cover up if I need to. Although I want to be brave, I’m not a masochist.
    â€˜I have his autograph,’ Tara announces proudly.
    I finally get a proper look at her as I gawp at this stunning revelation. She has glossy brown hair, darker than mine and long. It hangs all the way down to the small of her back. It’s neatly gathered in a ponytail, except part of her fringe kicks out in the opposite direction to what it’s supposed to, as though in defiance of the rest of her haircut. Her skin is fair – sickly, even – except for the pinkest lips that look almost bruised. Her eyes are a startlingly crystal-clear blue. Individually, her features could be pretty but, somehow, in the process of constructing a face, the bits don’t quite seem to match. I remember reading in Science that the human face is not symmetrical, but Tara’s seems to be almost lopsided. ‘How’d you get that?’
    â€˜Easy, just go down to Fernlee Park and watch them train. Sometimes you even get a sausage at the barbie.’
    â€˜No way.’
    â€˜Yeah. Really.’
    â€˜And the players are just wandering around?’
    â€˜At the start they are, then they train. What did you think they’d be doing?’
    I don’t know how to answer that. It had never occurred to me before. I watch the games on TV, and we used to go to Valley Park a lot. We’d play kick-to-kick on the oval after the game when Mum and Dad weren’t in a hurry – ignoring the thousands of other kids recklessly doing the same thing all around us. But I’ve never seen a player up close. I’ve never met one of them. ‘So anyone can go?’
    â€˜Of course anyone can go. It’s just training. It’s just around the corner from here, down Fernlee Park Road.’
    I think about my accidental tram ride along Fernlee Park Road this morning care of the smug Barbie doll in St Mary’s uniform, and wonder if I passed the oval without realising. I take a deep breath. ‘Next time you go, can I come with you?’
    â€˜Maybe. I don’t go every week.’
    Sister Brigid shoots us a warning glance. ‘I hope you two aren’t talking!’ she thunders.
    We both smile weakly.
    â€˜Good,’ Sister Brigid says, turning back to the blackboard.
    We bow our heads and pretend to concentrate on our books. Time ticks over, the classroom hum grows, and soon I’m actually reading the words in front of me, the stories of the Diggers and the ANZACs, the war widows and the kids left at home. But all the while I’m praying that Tara will say something – anything – about watching the Falcons train.
    And then, after I’ve given up completely, she hisses at me. ‘Probably next Thursday,’ she whispers.
    I nod and smile, feeling something rise inside me. Something good. Something big. And I wonder if this is what it feels like to start again.

 
    Â 
    I don’t get a chance to talk to Tara about Fernlee Park again after that because we’re separated into different classes for most of the day, but I run into the sneering Barbie doll and her posse at lunchtime. There’s nowhere to go in this tiny school – an open courtyard, a small quadrangle and some tired-looking tennis courts that also serve as netball, basketball and volleyball courts are my only options – so when I see these girls I have to stand my ground.
    They don’t say anything that I can hear, although there’s plenty of whispering and nudging going on. I imagine their jokes about my