Fifteen Love (7 page)

‘Don't be stupid, Will! Now you're just being stupid.'

‘I'm not sure about this girl, Dave. I'm not sure if she even likes me.'

Dave shakes his head and looks at his new shoes.

‘You could ask her to the tennis, Will.'

‘The tennis? No way!'

MIA

I am in the library looking for information about beagles. I want to know when Harriet will stop being such a baby. When will she be an adult? Will she be a teenage dog first? Will Harriet get an attitude and start acting like I don't own her anymore?

Through a gap in the bookshelf I see Will Holland in the next aisle. I look away before he sees me, but then something pulls me back, and instead I take down a book to make the gap bigger.

‘What's the difference between a viola and a lawnmower?' I whisper.

Will spins around, startled, but when he sees my face in among the books he laughs. ‘One makes an awful noise?'

‘And the other is used for cutting grass.'

One by one, Will and I remove more books so we can talk face to face.

‘How's Vanessa?' he grins. ‘Is she still mad at me?'

‘She thinks you're a chess nerd with a bad haircut.'

‘Is that all?'

‘She also called you a gay nurse in a smelly tracksuit.'

‘Nurse?'

‘We saw you, yesterday, at the shopping centre. You were pushing a kid in a wheelchair.'

Will nods. ‘That's Dave.'

‘It made me think, you know. I mean, it must be good to have a job like that. Just to be doing something useful.'

‘It's not a job. Dave's my brother.'

‘Oh . . . I'm sorry.'

‘Don't feel bad about it. Dave will love it when I tell him. He's always wishing he had someone to order round; he's got friends at his school who have their own nurses. It's a status thing, like having a butler or a chauffeur.'

‘Can't he come to our school?'

‘My family thinks he needs special support.'

‘And what do you think?'

Will shrugs. 'I think we're still coming to terms with it all.'

‘So,' I say. ‘A secret for a secret. Except I don't suppose your brother is a secret. I just wanted to say thanks, for not telling anyone about my dad.'

‘Who would I tell?'

‘I'm pretty sure it's nothing, by the way. My dad wouldn't do something like that.'

Will nods diplomatically. ‘So we're officially talking again?'

‘We were never officially
not
talking.'

‘I guess we were never officially anything,' he says.

WILL

Ken is not happy. ‘Keep your head still and both feet on the ground,' he says. ‘Rotate your upper body. Throw to the peak of your reach and strike when the ball reaches the apex. Remember, a low toss gives you more time to hit the ball, not less.'

Ken isn't just my dad – he's also my coach.

He says I'm throwing the ball too high. The higher you throw the ball, he says, the faster it comes down, so the harder it is to hit. It sounds good in theory. But in practice, old habits die hard.

Ken shows me how to do it several times, using different ways of holding the ball. I copy him with every throw and we do it over and over, until the ball reaches the right height. We try it with my throwing hand to the side, cupping the ball with my fingers. We try it with my throwing hand down, holding the ball gently between my fingertips. In the end we go back to the way I've always done it – the way most people do it – with the ball balanced in my open upward palm.

Now I am throwing the ball to the right height, but I can't hit it properly. I feel cramped and off balance. I'm serving the ball short, without speed or accuracy. And Ken is not happy. He's from the old school, the McEnroe–Connors–Lendl era of the huge serve and power game. He thinks that I'm serving like a ballerina.

‘Let's try the towel trick,' he says.

Ken gets a plain-white towel and wraps it around my head, covering my face so I can't see. Dave, who's been watching on, thinks this is hysterical.

‘You look like a mummy, Will!'

Ken's theory is that throwing the ball should be automatic.

‘Watching the ball only confuses you,' he says. ‘To throw the ball to the height of the outstretched racquet, you shouldn't have to think about it.'

I am starting to think Ken has seen too many Star Wars movies:
Use the Force, Will
. . .

The towel feels heavy and lopsided on my head. I can't see a thing and the muffled hearing is upsetting my balance. After six complete misses, Dave is crying with laughter.

Ken, on the other hand, has gone into Darth Vader mode.

‘Concentrate!' he says sternly.

‘I thought the idea was
not
to concentrate.'

This time, when I throw the ball, it comes down and hits me on the head. I tear off the towel and throw it onto the ground. Dave goes into hysterics and almost falls out of his wheelchair. I've had enough.

‘I can't do it. It's a stupid idea anyway.'

‘I wanna do it!' shouts Dave. ‘Please, Dad! Let me do the towel trick!'

Ken looks at me and shakes his head.

‘Go on,' I say. ‘Give him a go.'

‘Come on, Dad! Give me a go!'

Together, we tie the towel around Dave's head. We watch as he throws up the ball, then grips the rim of a wheel to steady his chair as he brings down the racquet with his other arm. Blindfolded, he hits the ball cleanly over the net and into the middle of the service square.

‘Right on target, Dave!' I yell.

‘See!' Dave laughs. ‘You should be coaching
me
, Dad!'

MIA

Strained smiles and whispered conversations. Harriet barking endlessly because she hasn't been walked. Empty wine bottles with only one glass. Takeaway food, again.

Dad working late, again. Mum watching junk TV, again.

‘Are you okay, Mum?'

‘I'm fine, darling.'

‘You don't look fine.'

‘I'm just tired, that's all.'

I can't talk to my mum about it. I'm not sure there's anything to talk about, anyway. I'm not a hundred per cent sure she even knows what's happening.

When Dad gets home, they argue about petty things: the old-fashioned rug or the print on the wall.

‘You said you liked it,' she says.

‘I said I could live with it,' he says.

‘Isn't that the same thing?' she says.

‘No,' he says. ‘In fact, it's the opposite.'

I go to my room to practise
The Four Seasons
: ‘Winter'. It's cold and bleak –
freddo e tetro
– and my head is numb with unanswered questions: Did my parents ever love each other? Why did they get married? Is it possible to love someone, if they don't love you? Is love like the chicken or the egg? Or is it just a burnt chicken omelette?

I wish I was as deaf as Beethoven, so I didn't have to hear them fighting. I wish my bedroom was a flotation tank with sound-proofed walls. I could float in absolute darkness, hearing nothing. Seeing nothing, smelling, tasting and feeling nothing . . .

WILL

Dear Mia,

Q. What's the difference between a viola and a lawnmower?

A. A lawnmower sounds better in a string quartet.

It was good talking to you the other day in the library. That's the problem with us going to the same school – it's usually hard to talk without feeling like you're on candid camera.

Are you busy this Saturday? If not, here is a free ticket to the tennis (at the big stadium in the city, do you know it?). It's short notice and I know you don't even like tennis, but if you want to come that would be great. (Don't worry if you don't because my dad got the ticket for free.) We could have lunch there. (I'll pay!)

Let me know if you can make it.

– W.

MIA

A tennis match?

When I see Will at school the next day I thank him for the ticket and say I'll try to make it, but we both know there isn't much chance. I'm not sure if I'm ready to go out on a date with Will yet. And when I am ready, I think it should be something we both want to do. Something more romantic than watching sport. And, anyway, it
is
short notice.

I wimp out, in other words.

When I wake up on Saturday morning, Mum and Dad are at the breakfast table. Dad is reading the
Financial Review
and Mum is reading
Vogue
.

I say ‘Good morning'.

My father says something about health insurance premiums.

My mother says something about getting the chairs re-upholstered.

When I open the back door, Harriet jumps all over me. Outside it's a beautiful day, but inside the barometer reads cold and icy. I have to get out of the house.

I look at the clock and think about Will's ticket, pinned to my noticeboard. The tennis I can take or leave, but at least there will be blue skies and sunshine. And Will is a blue-sky expert.

I have a quick shower and throw on some clothes.

‘Where are you going, darling?'

‘Out.'

‘What about Harriet? Can't you take her with you?'

‘Harriet is a
dog
, Mum.'

Sweet revenge! Without looking back, I shut the front door and head off to the bus stop. As soon as I'm out of the house my mood changes completely. No wonder tennis is such a popular sport! It gets people out of the house!

My bus is late, so I miss the connection with my train and have to wait half an hour for the next one. There are clouds in the sky now and the day is not as summery as the dress I've chosen. What's worse, in my hurry to leave I've forgotten my glasses. There is no point turning back, though. What revenge would there be in that?

My train finally comes and I sit down opposite two boys who spend the whole trip trying to impress me with stories of their ex-girlfriends. (Boys just do not get it, do they?) It's not long before I am staring out the window, thinking about viola jokes and hoping Will will be pleased to see me.

In the city, trying to make up for lost time, I run for a tram and snap a heel. I twist my ankle and it hurts so much I want to cry. I wait for the next tram to the stadium, then I limp across to the St John Ambulance guys to check that I haven't broken anything. The heel is unfixable and those shoes weren't cheap. By the time they have bandaged my ankle it's after twelve and I'm sure Will thinks I'm not coming. I hobble up to the gate to present my ticket, but the lady sadly shakes her head.

‘I'm sorry, madam, but this is the centre court. Your ticket is for court number two.'

‘But I'm supposed to be meeting someone. There must be some mistake.'

‘I'm sorry, madam. All the seats are taken.'

Court number two is half-empty. I'm shown to my seat and guess what?

No Will.

Even without my glasses, I can see the game on court two is pretty ordinary. Most of the spectators are eating lunch or chatting.

I wait for half an hour, but Will never shows. The tennis match finishes and the players shake hands across the net. I am cold and hungry. My ankle is painfully swollen. Too miserable for words, I get up and catch a taxi home. I swear, tennis is
such
a stupid sport. I have no idea what people see in it.

WILL

It takes a lot of nerve to ring up a girl. You can't just sit down and dial the number. You have to be prepared – physically, mentally and emotionally. You have to be relaxed, but alert. You have to make like it's no big deal, but you can't be too offhand, either. If she wants to talk about bank profits and Third World debt, you might suddenly be in over your head. Ringing any girl is tricky enough, but ringing
the
girl is like taking a bathysphere to the bottom of the ocean.

To ring up a girl, what you need more than anything is privacy – preferably your own bedroom and preferably at the far end of the house from your family. The door to the room must be solid enough to prevent eavesdropping and/ or forced entry. Ideally, it should be lockable, but a suitable barricade like a heavy chair or desk will do. The windows should be shut and the curtains drawn. Lighting should be subtle and unobtrusive. All electrical appliances – radios, computers, alarm clocks, et cetera – should be switched off. Even the faintest noise can be a distraction.

I close my bedroom door and go into the wardrobe, just to be on the safe side. Feeling nervous and terribly underprepared, I practise pulling up the number. I clear the screen, clear my throat, take a deep breath, then dial again – this time for real.

The phone rings once, twice, three times. I am just about to hang up when Mia answers.

‘Hello?'

‘What's the difference between a viola and a lawnmower?'

‘A viola never lets you down.'

‘I can explain.'

‘Where
were
you?'

‘I was there.'

‘No you weren't.'

‘I saw you. I waved, but you didn't see me.'

‘Where
were
you?'

‘Are you okay? I saw you limping.'

‘I hurt my ankle.'

‘I'm really sorry. Is it too late? Can I come over and explain?'

‘What? Here? To my house? Now?'

I hear the sound of voices through the muffled receiver, then Mia's mother comes on the phone.

‘Mia needs to rest,' she says. ‘She's had enough disappointment for one day.'

Then she hangs up.

When I try dialling back, there's no answer.

I emerge from my bedroom cupboard a nervous wreck. I can't just wait until Monday. By Monday Mia will have told her friends and the whole school will be convinced that I'm a creep.

According to
The Encyclopedia of Tennis
, a
scrambler
is a player who manages to get the ball back somehow, though not very stylishly.