Authors: Poppy Inkwell
“Who?
James
?” Emma repeated, this time her attention caught like a fly snagged in honey.
“Yep,” Katriona said confidently.
“Oh no,” Emma said, rejecting the idea instantly. Hadn't they just had A Moment, with her holding his arm and him talking about a Special Girl?
“Maybe ⦔ Ling Ling considered the idea.
“Definitely,” Katriona said. “Otherwise,” she asked, running a hand up and down the length of her body, “why would he be running away from all of
this
?”
The shrill call of the referee's whistle snatched their attention from answering as the players resumed their game.
“Go Gibbons!” Emma called out, clapping. Katriona and Ling Ling attempted star jumps and landed on their knees. There was a sympathetic “
Ow
!” from the crowd.
As the team applied Coach Kusmuk's strategy, the game began to look like a strange fusion of soccer, gymnastics and obstacle course training. Preyasi stole possession from one of the Bruisers with an inside-cut and passed it swiftly to her twin, Prita, who was waiting for the ball. Prita dodged the Bruisers' offensive â two beefy girls who came charging â with some adroit footwork that looked like the tiptoe-through-tyres-exercise. At the last minute she passed the ball back to Preyasi, who drove it halfway down the field. Alana picked up the ball mid-flight with a cartwheel that ended in a scissor kick aimed at Maddie, who headed for goal. It bounced off the post with a
dong!
There was a groan of disappointment from Gibbons' supporters. Within moments of the goal kick, the Gibbons had repossession of the ball and passed it backwards, forwards, and sideways â always keeping the ball away from the Bruisers with their adept manoeuvrings. There was no doubt that the obstacle training had improved the Gibbons' fitness and stamina. In this second half the bigger girls were being run ragged.
When the Gibbons' second goal attempt missed, the BlueJay Bruisers' coach exploded. “Don't you dare stop,” he screamed at the top of his voice, “You don't stop until one of you has a heart attack!” His team limped back into position. The BlueJay goalie, having stopped the ball with her stomach, looked like she wanted to throw up. One of them coughed up a tooth. Another looked like she'd twisted an ankle. “Strap it. Cut it off. I don't care,” the BlueJay coach yelled, “just don't come off that field without a win.”
Coach Kusmuk had only one command: “You know what you have to do. Go do it.”
Kusmuk's strategy was simple: keep possession of the ball and make the other team do all the running. Their opponents found that whenever they tackled, the ball mysteriously disappeared elsewhere. Running in circles was getting the Bruisers nowhere. “Where are you going?” their coach kept yelling. “Don't go all National Geographic on me!” Out of sheer frustration, one of their strikers charged, even
after
Maddie no longer had the ball. After a body-slam, she drove a vicious kick into Maddie's shin that left her lying on the field, curled up in a tight ball of pain.
“Foul!”
“Yellow card!”
“Red card!”
“Free kick!” spectators cried.
Maddie's family and the Gibson Gibbons ran over to Maddie, but were helpless. There was nothing for it but to take her off the field. It was unlikely she would return. Coach Kusmuk turned to Sofia and looked her up and down â from her purple-dyed hair, tied back with her lucky shorts, to the shamrock-patterned knee-highs she sported. “I guess you're in.” The look she gave was not encouraging.
The clock ticked. The score remained nil-all. Battle-Axe was beside himself with alarm as he hopped up and down on the sidelines.
“What's with the leprechaun?” a voice said beside Emma.
“Oliver!” she cried. “You made it!” She held out her hand for a handshake while he bent to kiss her cheek. Then she went to kiss his cheek as he held out his hand for a handshake. They settled for an awkward wave at each other. “I think Alana's just about to do something.”
“You're just in time. Alana's taking a free kick. Hi, I'm James,” James said, interrupting and extending a hand (was he standing straighter?) towards the much taller Oliver.
“Good to meet you, James,” Oliver said in turn (was his voice suddenly deeper?) “I'm Dr Gray, but please call me Oliver.”
The two men gripped hands in a handshake that was too firm and lasted too long. In cavemen's times they would have reached for clubs.
The referee called Alana to take the free kick. Alana took a deep breath to calm down. Five girls stood between her and the goal. Five girls stood between her team and a shot at winning.
“Lana! Lana! Lana!” the supporters chanted. “Piranha!” a quieter voice could be heard.
Three minutes. Too low, and the Bruisers would be able to block it. Two minutes. Too high, and it would miss the goal altogether. Sixty seconds. Too soft, and the goalie would be able to stop it in its tracks. Forty. A sudden hush fell on the crowd as the realisation dawned: a Soccer Academy team had
never
been defeated. Twenty.
Was this about to change?
Ten, nine, eight, seven, six.
Alana looked over at Maddie who smiled back through clenched teeth. Someone had found a bag of ice for her leg but she was still in a lot of pain. The sight of her friend's bravery filled Alana with a sudden volcanic fury. “This one's for you, Maddie,” she breathed as her foot connected with the ball. The goalkeeper stretched her body and leapt high into the air to her right, every muscle taut and straining. The ball flew â it was like trying to catch a shooting star â and skimmed over the goalkeeper's gloves into the net! Goal! There was a long, shocked silence. As if remembering himself, the referee sounded the whistle, ending the game.
Alana was immediately surrounded by team mates and supporters, who lifted her on their shoulders and yelled and screamed wildly. She cast around for her mum, who was grinning broadly, and then for James, who was trying not to cry. Maddie was pumping her fist into the air as Troy and Cassy did a victory lap around her.
Emma turned to Oliver in excitement and stopped. Oliver had his shirt off. Again. This time he was showing Katriona and Ling Ling his âdancing pecs'. The two cheerleaders had started a new chant. “Give me a âP'!” “âP'!” they screamed. Finally, the Gibbons' victory penetrated the trio's cocoon.
Oliver looked up. “We won?”
“Yes,” Alana said, unimpressed by his display. “
We
did.”
“Well, let's go to Calorie King, to celebrate!” Oliver suggested.
“Nitro-ices, my treat!” James said at the same time.
“How about a
Hi-5
concert?”
“I-Max theatre, anyone?” They said simultaneously, again.
The two men exchanged a look of frustration. Oliver bowed, as if to say, “after you,” to which James responded with a, “no, no, no, after you” bow of his own.
“Well, who wants to drive in a classic 780 Coupe Volvo with full leather interior and off-road suspension?” Oliver said confidently. “And if you say please, I'll keep my shirt off,” he added in a loud whisper to Katriona and Ling Ling, who giggled.
James just smiled and shrugged. How can I compete with that? his twisted grin seemed to say.
Alana and her friends exchanged a look. A boxy Volvo, dancing pecs, Golden Oldies music (probably), a diet fast-food chain and then a kiddies' concert,
OR
a Mini Cooper, a guy who keeps his shirt on,
Dead Dogs Rotting
blaring on the speakers, ice-cream made with liquid nitrogen, and larger-than-life heroes in 3D â¦
It was no contest.
Katriona and Ling Ling linked arms with Oliver and followed him, stumbling, across the field. Both of them had abandoned sunglasses for sleeping masks â determined to give the skin around their eyes maximum protection from the sun.
Oliver stopped and turned. “Coming, Emma?” he asked.
Emma looked at James, whose expression was unreadable. She turned to Oliver. “Yes.”
I suppose,
she added to herself.
Alana tried hard to ignore the prickle of warning that always preceded a premonition that something was Terribly Wrong. For a âteen expert', Dr Oliver Gray was drastically out of touch with what her and her friends were into. He didn't ride the Harley that he was supposed to own. And after the heart-to-heart Emma had shared with Alana and her friends the other night, it was clear he knew more about tooth decay than any normal person
should
. But the Bruisers' coach came marching over before she could connect the dots.
“Not bad, girlies, not bad. But keep in mind that the Bruisers are the Blue-Jays'
B
-Team. You may have defeated
them,
but the Blue-Jay Barbarians are on a whole other level.” He looked them up and down, and, satisfied with what he saw, laughed. “See you next year then, eh? And please, give my heartfelt congratulations to McNeeson, won't you?” he added insincerely, handing over some official paperwork. “Pass that on to the Gibbons' coach, there's a good lad,” he said to a shocked Kusmuk.
The team tried very hard not to meet Coach Kusmuk's furious expression when the tiny man left. They almost succeeded in melting away into the crowd too, but the coach was not letting them off so easily.
“I hope you enjoyed today's warm-up, everyone. Tomorrow's obstacle training will teach you to push through the pain barrier,” she promised. “You'll need the extra help if you're to compete against the Barbarians.”
The team groaned. They didn't really want that kind of help. Hearts sank and muscles ached at the thought.
“Tomorrow?” Khalilah whimpered. “Kill me
now.
”
The inner suburbs of Sydney used to have a large number of working warehouses, but with the shift of something called Global Economics, many were converted into high-priced residences, shop-houses, and in the case of Gibson High, schools. In one such abandoned warehouse, with the roof half-gone and the brick-work still in piles of rubble, Emma's latest project with the Second-Chancers was thriving. Literally.
The idea came to her as she was pottering in the garden. Impressed, as always, by nature's ability to thrive and grow in the face of adversity â neglect, over-watering, misread instructions for fertiliser â Emma daydreamed about Dr Gray's latest advice from his book:
“To nurture something successfully is to know a huge sense of achievement
.
”
She watched the spray of the hose arc its way over the leaves, darkening the soil beneath. Once she'd thought of it, the idea seemed to grow with as much speed and enthusiasm as the noxious weeds she cultivated. Nurturing a plant was something Emma was confident the Second-Chancers could do. After all, if she could do it, anyone could. So she negotiated the temporary use of a warehouse and surrounding grounds. Visions of towering sunflowers, sun-kissed organic tomatoes, and leafy jungle palms crowded an already over-productive imagination. Within weeks, the reality was even more breath-taking than Emma had hoped.
Tall plants reached for the ceiling with impossibly healthy leaves, green and luscious. The air in the renovated greenhouse reminded Emma of thick treacle, sweet and heavy. The scent of fertile soil was intoxicating. It was the smell, Emma told the group of nervous teenagers, of Success.
At this announcement, Enzo let out a sigh of relief.
“You see. I told you she be cool,” a cocky Tr
ầ
n told him.
“Cool?” Emma cried. “I'm more than cool. I'm so proud of you guys. It's amazing.” She made a sweeping gesture with her arm at all the plants. “Look at what you've achieved!”
“We were worried you might not, you know, approve of them,” Boris whispered. “You know ⦠coz it's weed.”
Emma threw her hands up in the air and laughed. “Oh, I think you'll be surprised to know I've got an even BIGGER stack of weeds in my own garden,” she said.
Enzo beamed and dug at the ground with hands as big as shovels. He unearthed a plant and placed it with infinite care into a pot. He handed it to Emma shyly. Emma felt a lump in her throat. She was bursting with pride and happiness.
Outside the warehouse grounds, ex-traffic officer, PC Henley, crouched behind a shed.
This is what I'm talking about,
he said to himself.
THIS is living.
Henley's heart pounded in his ears and he felt breathless. He took out his inhaler and administered two swift puffs. He spoke rapidly into a walkie-talkie.
The walkie-talkie in his hand crackled and popped, thick with interference. “Krrssh ⦠-orry ⦠could you ⦠-peat that, over?”
“I said we are good to go. Operation Stink-Bomb is good to go and we are going in. Hold your positions.”
“Sorry, Sarge, but I think my battery's dead,” a voice said next to him, making Officer Henley jump and squeal.
“I told you to hold your positions,” he hissed. “Oh, never mind. Stay here while we move in. Stealth and silence from here on, everyone,” Henley ordered his crew. He put on a helmet of marigolds and ferns and crept forward after a series of complicated hand signals. With a sigh, the rest of the police officers donned a floral disguise and followed. Four flower-pots glided in.
“Right, everyone! Hands up! This is the Police,” Officer Henley yelled, brandishing a gun, the barrel of which was somehow sprouting a daisy.
It is said that the mind sees what it wants to see and the ears hear what they want to hear. Caught as she was in the heat of the moment, and with a love for all of humanity threatening to split open her heart, Emma didn't see a Law Enforcement Officer but a Flower Power Soul-Mate. “Make love, not war!” she cried, as she clutched her new pot plant in one arm and hugged Officer Henley with the other.
“
You?!
” Officer Henley squealed in recognition before making the arrest with hands that trembled. He jumped back a safe distance just in case.