Free Gracie Faltrain Gets it Right (Finally) by Cath Crowley

headed for jail?
CORELLI
    I see it. At trials he played rougher than I’ve ever seen him play before. He doesn’t break any rules, exactly. But the guy definitely has an anger management problem.
SUSAN
    Gracie Faltrain doesn’t stretch the rules. She smashes them and gets away with it. Annabelle said Mrs Young smiled at her last night after the nurse gave her an ice-pack.
JANE
    It wasn’t a smile. It was that thing animals do with their teeth when they’re scared.
GRACIE
    She’s not scared of me, Jane. It was an accident.
JASON DEAN
    Whatever you say, Faltrain. Any chance my English teacher could meet with an ‘accident’ before she marks my essay?
GRACIE
    No, but there’s a chance you could. How many times do I have to say I wouldn’t hit my teacher on purpose? There are some things even I’m not dumb enough to do.
    I ignore everyone before school and knock on the staffroom door. ‘Hi. These are for you.’ I hand Mrs Young a card and a box of chocolates. She and I didn’t start off on the right note this year. And that note hasn’t exactly been getting any better. But she could have pushed for more punishment yesterday and she didn’t.
    â€˜Thank you, Gracie. I’ll see you in English. Why don’t you sit up the front? On your own so you can concentrate?’ And then it hits me harder than a ball to the face. Mrs Young isn’t pushing for official punishment because she’s banking on my guilt to neutralise me as a threat in her classroom. Permanently. You have to hand it to the woman. She’s smart. ‘No problems, Mrs Young.’
    I make sure I’m in class before the bell. I sit up the front. A deal’s a deal. I’m so close I can feel her breathing. ‘I’m glad you’re early,’ she says, like it was my idea. ‘I wanted to speak with you about your last essay. Your ideas are good. They’re full of fun and insight and you write well. Imagine what you could do if you actually read the books and listened in class.’
    I don’t answer. I’ve been caught in a trap like this before. I agreed with Mr Parks in Year 8 that I hadn’t read the book and he pulled out a record of the discussion in parent–teacher interviews.
    â€˜Have you read the play you’re writing on this morning?’
    It’s no use lying. One look at my essay and she’ll figureout my good friend, Cliff Notes , told me everything I know. ‘I read the study guide.’
    â€˜It’s not quite the same thing. Gracie, the next text is a film, so that gives you some breathing space. I can schedule extra classes to help you catch up.’
    â€˜I’ll think about it. Thanks, Mrs Young.’
    Kids come in and she goes back to her desk. She hands out the essay question and I read it slowly. Everything Jane said is mixed around in my head. ‘Comment on the role dreams play in the text.’ I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know.
    I do know what I dream about: a soccer crowd of thousands, chanting the name of my team. I dream of me, on the field, fast and focused. I’ve got my eyes on the striker and the box and the ball. When the whistle goes I sail. I’m one of the best players in the world. And every day my job is to do what I love.
    â€˜Make a start, Gracie,’ Mrs Young says gently. And because she’s looking at me kindly with bruises I gave her, I put pen to paper. It doesn’t make any sense, though. Nothing makes any sense in here. It’s slow, clock-ticking, pen-scribbling torture. I belong on the field. I belong in the game.
    At lunch I walk down to the sheds, again. Alyce has student council and Jane’s working in the library with Corelli. If I hang around where people can see me someone’s bound to make a crack about Martin. Half of the things they’re saying aren’t even close to the truth. I went to the library this morning and a