Fifteen Love (8 page)

I have to visit her. I've got no choice.

It's after nine by the time I get to Mia's house – not the ideal time to visit. It doesn't look like the kind of house where people drop in uninvited, especially not nervous guys who have been told to stay away. There is a light on at the back of the house, but not the kind of light that makes you feel welcome. It's the kind of light you leave on when you want to look out for burglars.

But I have no choice. I have to clear things up.

I walk up to the front door. The doorbell light glows orange; my finger hovers above it. I start rehearsing my apology:
Mrs Foley, I'm sorry to disturb you. I know it's late . . .
From inside the house I hear footsteps coming down the hall. And I haven't even rung the doorbell yet! In shock, I turn and run out the gate. I'm halfway down the street before I stop and look back. I need a better plan. I need to avoid Mia's mother at all costs.

I consider leaving a note in the letterbox, but I don't have a pen or paper on me. I consider ringing the fire brigade and reporting that a neighbour's house is burning, but having the whole street come out to watch is no guarantee that Mia and I will get to talk. I have no other options. It is time to do the scariest and most clichéd of all the Hollywood love scenes: I will have to serenade Mia outside her bedroom window.

I climb the gate and sneak down the side of the house. When a dog suddenly starts barking, I freeze with dread. Mia never mentioned having a lovable pit-bull, or a rottweiler that secretly dismembers visiting tradesmen and buries their bones in the garden. Barking madly, the dog comes bounding towards me out of the darkness. There is nowhere to hide so I jump into the garden, trampling a bed of daffodils. As I try to run, the dog leaps up at me, barking loudly enough to wake the whole street. I fall to my knees, but instead of ripping my throat out the dog paws and licks me. It's not a rottweiler, it's a beagle! I wrestle it to the ground, then smack its bottom hard so that it yelps and runs away.

There are two windows on this side of the house, but only one with a light on. Through a crack in the curtain I can see Mia sitting on her bed, dressing her swollen ankle. Her ankle isn't the only part of Mia that needs dressing. She is only wearing knickers and a T-shirt. Her ankle looks pretty bad, but the rest of her looks pretty good. I am mesmerised. I can't look away. It's like I've been granted the first of three wishes and if I wait, Mia will soon move on to wish number two. Then I realise what I'm doing. I came to serenade Mia, but I've ended up as a peeping Tom outside her window!

But how do I serenade her? I don't even know where to begin.

Using a loose definition – i.e. to
serenade
means to
get her
attention
– I start tapping on the window as lightly as I can. I try tapping more like a friend than an axe-wielding maniac, but all tapping on windows sounds pretty much the same, in the middle of the night. And when Mia hears it, she dives off the bed and switches off the light.

‘Who's that?' she whispers.

‘It's me, Will! Open the window.'

‘What are you doing here?'

‘I had to see you, to explain about today. How's your ankle?'

‘
Go away!
'

Suddenly, there is a knock on her bedroom door.

‘Are you all right, darling? Did you want something?' says her mum.

Mia jumps into bed as the door opens.

‘I . . . just called out goodnight, that's all.'

‘Goodnight, dear.'

‘Goodnight, Mum.'

When Mrs Foley is gone, Mia opens the window. She is wearing her dressing-gown now. Her face is so close, I could reach out and touch it.

‘I won't stay long, I promise.'

‘I don't care what excuse you've got. I don't want to hear it. This is not a love scene, okay? This is not
Romeo and
Juliet
and you are
not
Leonardo DiCaprio. I don't even
like
Leonardo DiCaprio! I'm sure you're sorry. I'm sure you've got a good excuse. But that doesn't mean I want to elope with you, okay?'

‘I'm sorry about today. I was there. In fact, I waved at you. If you'd worn your glasses you would have seen me.'

‘I don't need my glasses to see someone sitting next to me,' Mia hissed.

‘I was there on the court, right in front of you.'

‘What? Were you chasing tennis balls?'

‘Kind of . . . I was . . . '

‘Look, I've had a miserable day. I don't know why you invited me to the tennis –I hate tennis! I don't know why I bothered . . . All I want to do now is forget it. So could you
please
leave me alone!'

Before I get another chance to speak, Mia closes her window and draws her curtains. The last thing I hear from inside is the sound of her falling onto her bed.

A double-fault: two wrongs don't make a right.

Three

MIA

On Monday morning we have assembly outside in the courtyard. All the students are lined up – Year 7s at the front and Year 12s at the back. That is, everyone except me. Because of my swollen ankle, I'm allowed to sit with my foot up, watching from the side. Being on crutches is a real cow, but it does have some advantages.

We sing the national anthem, happily filling in all the blanks:
‘Australians all drink orange juice, for we are young and
free.'
There are the usual news items from the usual teachers; then something unusual happens. The principal steps up to make an important announcement.

‘I would like to congratulate one of our students on a marvellous achievement. On the weekend he played at the State Tennis Centre and won the Under 16 Schoolboy Championship. Congratulations, Will Holland!'

Everyone claps as Will makes his way to the front. Kids are patting him on the back. Teachers are shaking his hand. With a crutch under one arm, I ease myself up for a better view. As Will shakes the principal's hand, I reach for my second crutch, lose my balance and fall to the ground. I lie there in a heap, helpless and invisible, as the principal presents Will with his trophy.

‘On behalf of the school,' she says, ‘I'd like to say,
Well
done
,
Will
, and best of luck for the future!'

When I look up at the sky, I expect it to rain down tennis balls.

WILL

The sports teacher wants to know all the details, the teacher on yard duty asks how to improve her backhand, the basketballers want me to make up a team and the arm-wrestlers invite me to stand at the head of the queue. Even Yorick gives me an approving nod.

Thank you for calling Superstars Incorporated. Please hold
the line while we transfer you to another universe . . .

When the Year 7 girls come and ask for my autograph, I'm sure they must be joking. One of them gives me a felt-tipped pen but no paper to write on. Instead, she holds out her arm, so I sign it
Will Holl—
, doing it fast and messy like a celebrity. The next girl turns up the hem of her dress, and a third rolls down her sock.

‘It tickles!' she laughs, as I initial her ankle:
W.H.

The last Year 7 girl wants me to sign her knickers, but I refuse.

‘It would look pretty sus,' I say. ‘You bending over while I write my name on your bum.'

‘I could take them off,' she suggests.

Before I have time to object, she takes off her pants and holds them out.

According to
The Encyclopedia of Tennis
, a
sitter
is an easy opportunity – a softly hit ball, close to the net and well within reach.

‘Sorry,' I say. ‘I don't do underpants.'

MIA

‘Ohmigod!' screams Vanessa.

‘Ohmigod!' squeals Renata.

‘I don't believe it,' gasps Vanessa. ‘He's got groupies!'

‘He's signing their clothes!' Renata screeches.

‘He's signing their bodies!' Vanessa shrieks.

‘They love it!' giggles Renata.

‘
He
loves it!' sniggers Vanessa.

‘It's tragic,' I say.

‘Pathetic,' says Renata.

‘Boys are like that,' says Vanessa. ‘They love being chased by younger girls.'

‘My father's like that,' I suddenly blurt out. ‘He's got a girlfriend half his age!'

‘Your father?' says Renata.

‘Since when?' says Vanessa.

‘It's truly disgusting,' I say. ‘He thinks it's a secret. He thinks Mum doesn't know.'

‘Oh, Mia!' says Renata. ‘You poor thing!'

‘My dad's the same,' says Vanessa. ‘He goes to those men's clubs in the city, where the girls dance on the tables.'

‘Have you seen those girls?' says Renata. ‘Have you seen the G-strings they wear!'

‘Imagine the bikini wax!' says Vanessa.

‘Some of them wax
all over
,' says Renata.

‘I
know
!' says Vanessa.

One moment I'm sharing my deepest, darkest secret with my two best friends. The next moment it feels as if I'm in a hair salon, discussing body wax and gossiping about tabletop dancers.

WILL

When I tell Dave about the Year 7 girls, he gets
that look
on his face.

‘What about me, Will? I'm in Year 7! Did you tell them about me?'

‘I said you were already taken, Dave. Engaged to Maria Sharapova.'

Dave laughs loudly. ‘You did not, Will!'

‘But Maria wants to break it off. She's heard about you and Venus Williams.'

Dave shakes his head. ‘You
did not
say that, Will!'

‘Venus
and
Serena!'

‘Tell the truth, Will!'

‘
And
Rafael Nadal. It was mixed doubles, I told them.'

‘Stop it, Will! Not with Raffa, okay?'

‘Why not, Dave? He's a good-looking guy?'

‘Will! Raffa's a man! And I'm not
like that
, okay?'

‘Sorry, Dave. I was just stirring.'

‘Then say it.
Dave Holland is not gay.
Go on. Say it, Will.'

‘Dave Holland is not gay.'

‘
And neither is Rafael Nadal.
'

‘And neither is Rafael Nadal.'

I like stirring Dave. That's what big brothers do. It's part of our job description. But I also did it to stop the conversation from taking a predictable nosedive. When Dave starts talking about sex, it's hard to stop him.

‘
Dave Holland likes girls.
Go on. Say it, Will.'

‘Dave Holland likes girls.'

‘
Dave Holland likes kissing and hugging girls.
'

‘Dave Holland likes kissing and hugging girls.'

‘Dave Holland likes grabbing—'

‘I think we might stop you right there, Dave.'

MIA

Vanessa's latest boy-craze is the St David's boys. Most days, after school, we hang around with the St D's boys up at the shops. They don't have girls at their school, so they buy us milkshakes and chips and let Vanessa bot their smokes.

The St D's boys are okay. They're pretty harmless. They throw their schoolbags onto the road in front of oncoming cars. They jump off walls and risk their lives, just to get our attention. As far as I can see, the most interesting thing about them is that they're from another school. I swear Vanessa only raves about them to make the boys at our school jealous.

We're outside the milk bar watching the St D's boys perform on their skateboards when I see Will and Yorick coming. They are walking along the footpath, deep in conversation, when one of the St D's boys falls off his board and goes tumbling into them. Yorick drops his schoolbag and chess pieces go everywhere. The guy gets up and brushes himself down without an apology – but then Will grabs his board.

‘Better help him pick them up, don't you think?' says Will.

The guy looks at the spilt chessmen, then over at his mates.

‘You knocked into me,' says Yorick, getting down on his knees. ‘You should help me pick them up!'

The guy looks at Yorick and laughs. Instantly, two of his mates ride over and start circling them. Will and Yorick are surrounded, but instead of looking scared, Will is completely cool. He's either being very stupid or very brave.

I am dreading what will happen next, when Vanessa calls out to them.

‘Hey, guys! Don't you know who this is? It's Will Holland, the famous tennis star!'

Will looks surprised. The skater boys keep circling. Finally Vanessa has a chance to get even with Will for whatever made her so angry the other day, but instead she says, ‘For your information, Will is a legend at our school. If you want him to sign that board, you should give him a pen. Otherwise, just be good boys and do what he says.'

With the chessmen safely back in their box, Yorick is satisfied and Will gives back the skateboard. The other boys make a gap for the two of them to come over to us.

‘Are they always that obedient?' Will asks.

Vanessa smiles. ‘They've been well trained.'

‘Cyborgs!' Yorick laughs. ‘Replicants!'

Vanessa's smile is hard to pick. It's not her typical boy-smile by any means – not from her super-vixen repertoire, at least. Vanessa's smile is simple and matter-of-fact. It's sweet, like the girl next door. Vanessa is flirting with Will, by not flirting!

Will looks at me, meaningfully. ‘If you make a mess, you should clean it up.'

I look away. With Vanessa and Renata there, I don't know what to say.

‘Poor Mia.' Vanessa shakes her head. ‘She looks like Long John Silver with those crutches. She should walk around with a parrot on her shoulder.
Arh! Shiver me
timbers!
'

Vanessa does the pirate voice and Will plays the parrot.

‘
Polly want a cracker?
'