Fifteen Love

by R. M. Corbet

  ‘Whenever I see her coming – the spider, that is – I have to walk away.’

  ‘Arachnophobia,’ Ms Stanway nodded. ‘It’s quite common.’

  ‘Actually,’ I said. ‘It’s more like an obsession than a phobia. I keep expecting her – it! – to appear from out of nowhere. I don’t know what I would do if it suddenly tapped me on the shoulder and said Hi.’

  Ms Stanway’s finger started making a circular motion, as if it were trying to rub out the dimple. ‘Obsessions,’ she said, ‘are sometimes like phobias, and phobias often occur as the result of uncertainty or unfamiliarity. Often, when you have a phobia, it’s best to confront the thing you are scared of, face-to-face. If it is spiders, say, you could keep one in a jar on your desk. You should try to transform them from something terrifying into something familiar, if – as you say – it’s spiders that you’re scared of.’

  ‘Jar on the desk,’ I nodded. ‘Not a problem!’

  Ms Stanway’s fingers joined to make a white church with a pale-pink roof.

  ‘Of course, if it was something else – a girl, for instance – then the same principle would apply.’

  I wasn’t quite ready to meet Mia Foley yet, so I opted for the jar on the desk instead. I would have had trouble finding a jar that was big enough, of course, so the only other way of not being anxious was to keep Mia under observation at all times.

  That first lunchtime when I started watching her, I felt sick in the stomach. My skin prickled with sweat. If Mia looked in my direction, I had to look away. If she stood up suddenly, I felt a desperate urge to run and hide in the rubbish dumpster, to wait for the truck to come and take me away.

  Maybe that’s why they call it a crush.

  Gradually, day by day, it got better. It wasn’t long before I could eat my lunch in front of her. I could turn my back on her. I could lie down, defenceless, staring up at the sky. I could almost forget her, unless there were clouds shaped like angels.

  V for Volleyball . . . ? Vitamins . . . ? Video . . . ? Vanilla . . . ? Vegemite . . . ?

  I was making good progress, until one day I overheard some guys talking about who the top ten hottest chicks in our year were. They all agreed on Vanessa and Renata, but Mia’s name didn’t even come up! I sat and listened for ten whole minutes, until I figured they must have just forgotten about her.

  ‘What about Mia Foley?’ I said, casually. ‘She’s a bit of a babe, isn’t she?’

  ‘Four-eyes Foley!’ they all laughed. ‘She’s a rake, mate! A scrawny little chicken.’

  Maybe it isn’t a phobia or even an obsession. Maybe I just need glasses.

  MIA

  As soon as she hears the front door open, Harriet starts whining and scratching at the back door. When I let her into the house, she tears up and down the hall, slipping on the polished floorboards as she runs from room to room.

  ‘Hello, girl! Did you miss me?’

  As an answer, Harriet leaps kamikaze-style at my face, smashing into my jaw and almost knocking herself out as she tries to lick me.

  ‘Down, girl! Down!’

  Harriet was my birthday present. She’s a pure-bred beagle – white, tan and black – with big loving eyes, saggy-baggy skin, soft floppy ears and long white socks. Technically, Harriet is no longer a puppy, but sometimes I wonder if she will ever grow up. People say beagles are smart in packs, but stupid on their own. Harriet has already flunked two obedience schools. At six months old she still can’t be let off her lead. I don’t have any brothers or sisters, so for years and years I campaigned for a dog. But by the time I got Harriet, it was more like having a reckless toddler than a substitute sister.

  ‘Walk, girl?’

  I slip on Harriet’s lead and we go to the park. I tell her to stay by my side but she’s too busy sniffing at trees and fences to take any notice. At the airport they use beagles as sniffer dogs because of their excellent noses, so Harriet is in her element, searching relentlessly for doggy trails and illegal substances.

  Harriet and I sit by the lake to watch the ducks. The ducks know that Harriet is too young and silly to be any real threat. Harriet sits when I say ‘Sit!’, but only if I push her back half down. She soon forgets, and is up and tugging on her lead again, ready to go.

  If I had a boyfriend, I’m sure Harriet would be jealous. She wouldn’t let us sit alone by the lake. If we held hands, I’m sure she would leap into the water and attack the ducks, just to embarrass me. If I had a boyfriend . . . How can I contemplate having a boyfriend when I can’t even teach my own dog to ‘Stay’?

  WILL

  Imaginary Conversation # 216:

  Thanks for the flowers, Mia would say. They were so beautiful!

  And I would say, It’s hard to believe the whole point of flowers is to attract bees.

  And Mia would say, Do you think that bees know how beautiful flowers are?

  Maybe they do, I would say. After all, bees are very intelligent creatures.

  Bees are very mysterious, Mia would say. Who knows what they think?

  And I would say, Did you know that they navigate by the angle of the sun?

  Yes, Mia would say. And they communicate by dancing.

  They have their own secret language, I would say.

  Did you know, Mia would say, that all the worker bees are female?

  Very mysterious, I would say.

  MIA

  The truth is, falling in love is not high on my list of priorities right now. I have books to read and homework to do. I have Harriet to look after and orchestra practice twice a week. I don’t have the time to fall in love and I don’t have the right clothes. To have a boyfriend you need clothes for every occasion. One day you might get invited to the movies, then the next you might get asked to go ice-skating. I have nothing to wear to a cocktail party. I can’t imagine what I’d wear to go skydiving.

  Having a boyfriend means going places you’ve never been before. It means doing things you don’t want to do, like sucking toes and jumping out of aeroplanes. I swear, I’m not ready for that kind of adventurous lifestyle.

  WILL

  I have discovered V! I have seen Mia Foley walking across the schoolyard and in her hand she was carrying a violin case. V is for Violin! V is for Victory!

  Because of this, I have a whole new range of options:

  a) Walk up to Mia and say, It’s good to see you remembered your violin today. Remember me? The guy with the broken pencil?

  b) Steal Mia’s violin and deliver a ransom note: Marry me, or else the violin gets it!

  c) Plan an accidental, violin-related meeting.

  Most days, Mia Foley is like a maximum-security facility. Every recess and lunchtime she sits on the same bench, guarded by her two warders. Except on Mondays and Thursdays, when Mia goes down to the assembly hall to rehearse with the school orchestra. Only the musicians are allowed in there, but I could go along, just to make a few enquiries. I might even say I’m interested in playing the triangle. I mean, how difficult can it be to ting on a triangle when the conductor gives you the nod?

  In preparation, I go to the library and google orchestras. There’s plenty about violins and not much on triangles, so I brush up on my basic musical terminology (notes, chords, time signatures et cetera) just to be on the safe side. But musical theory isn’t really my scene. If Mia puts me on the spot, I’ll tell her I have a jazz background, and that history is full of gifted triangle players who have learned to play mainly by ear.

  MIA

  What, in the name of Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, is Will Holland doing here? Shouldn’t he be outside on the grass?

  Did something fall from the sky and hit him on the head? Surely he’s not going to audition? What instrument does he play? Does he realise how surly Ms S can be? No one has ever turned up at rehearsal in a tracksuit before. I can’t bear to watch . . .

  WILL

  Ms Stanway opens the door to the room where the orchestra is tuning up. If she hadn’t already talked to me about arachnoph
obia, I’m sure she would turn me away. Instead, she gives me a ‘knowing’ look and invites me in.

  When I tell her I want to audition, she looks sceptical.

  ‘Can you read?’ she asks.

  ‘Of course,’ I reply, showing her one of my library books.

  Ms Stanway frowns and shows me a book of sheet music: The Four Seasons by Antonio Vivaldi. ‘Can you read music?’ she asks. ‘Can you read timpani?’

  ‘Timpani? Hmm . . . I’m familiar with some of his work.’

  Ms Stanway wags a long finger at me. ‘There’s more to playing percussion than just banging a few drums,’ she says. ‘You can sit beside Allan and watch, if you like.’

  I’m in!

  Allan is way over in the corner, about as far from the violins as you can get, surrounded by all kinds of junk. There are xylophones and glockenspiels, glockenphones and xylospiels, but no triangles. Allan is a weedy guy to look at, but he can do an excellent drum roll with his big, fluffy sticks: Brrrrrdummm . . . Brrrrrrdummm . . .

  The orchestra tunes up and on the count of four they rip into ‘Autumn’. It’s all very windy and swirly as Ms Stanway bends and sways like an old elm tree, lifting up her arms and calling out in Italian: ‘Allegro! More allegro!’

  I stand to the side, trying to look like Allan’s drum roadie, when really I’m watching Mia. She’s wearing glasses that make her look unbelievably cool, and the way her fingers slide up and down the neck of the violin is deeply disturbing. Trying not to be noticed, I inch myself slowly along the wall, hoping to get a better view of her.

  In the second part of ‘Autumn’, the music slows right down and the wind instruments take over. I imagine Mia being buried under a pile of fallen leaves. I imagine getting one of those industrial-strength vacuum cleaners that gardeners use and sucking all the leaves off, until she’s just lying there on the grass. I can’t help it. It’s in the music.

  All of a sudden Mia looks up and smiles at me. It gives me such a shock, my foot kicks over a cymbal that is leaning against the wall. It falls with an almighty CRASH! and everyone looks at me. Mia laughs and Ms Stanway points to the door, with a frown that says, Take your spiders and leave!

  As I stumble out of the room, Mia smiles and sneaks me a goodbye wave.

  It makes me so happy, I turn like a conductor to take my final bow.

  MIA

  Vanessa and Renata tolerate me playing in the school orchestra. They don’t mind me talking about classical music and sometimes they even ask questions about it. But Vanessa and Renata don’t listen to classical music.

  ‘Classical music is for dead people,’ Vanessa says. ‘All those decomposing composers.’ Vanessa’s taste is music is strictly twenty-first century. She listens to Triple J and she buys top-ten singles. Punk, funk, rock, grunge, metal, hip-hop, rap, soul, pop. It doesn’t matter to Vanessa, provided it’s top ten.

  Renata is more complicated – she won’t actually say what she likes, in case Vanessa thinks it’s stupid. For example, I know Renata likes Kylie. I’m sure she has some of Kylie’s albums – and when Kylie did her concert, I’m pretty sure Renata went, although she never mentioned it.

  ‘Why is Kylie so popular, anyway?’ says Vanessa. ‘She can sing and dance, but her songs are so forgettable.’

  ‘She’s stylish, though,’ I say, seeing the disappointment in Renata’s face.

  ‘Kylie is beautiful,’ says Renata. ‘Don’t you think?’

  But Vanessa’s response is swift and severe.

  ‘No, Renata, I do not, but I’m sure she’s a very nice person.’

  If Will Holland came to watch our orchestra rehearse, he must know something about music. Ms S seemed to know who he was. Maybe he’s writing an article for the local paper? Or maybe he’s a talent scout, on the lookout for gifted musicians?

  WILL

  These are my remaining options:

  a) Start up my own orchestra and ask Mia to join (any instrument she likes).

  b) Start up a string quartet (might be easier).

  c) Employ pies in the face, buckets of water, exploding cigars or other attention-seeking devices.

  d) Get down on my knees and beg.

  e) Go and talk to her RIGHT NOW!

  MIA

  The lunch bell has gone and I am late for class. The corridor is full of kids queuing outside classrooms or hurrying to get books from their lockers. When I put on my glasses I look up and see Will Holland coming straight towards me! We are on a collision course, being pulled along in the current. Then suddenly there we are, face to face, blocking each other’s way. Will looks like he wants to say something. He opens his mouth, but no words come out.

  Will smiles like he’s just had his wisdom teeth pulled, top and bottom.

  I smile back, helplessly. Like someone pressed mute on the TV remote.

  Will and I stand there without moving, for what seems like a lifetime, an aeon, an ice age. Then I step to the right. At the exact same moment Will steps to his left, so there we are blocking each other’s way again. To correct the mistake we both step back to the centre, like in a barn dance. It feels as though we should clap hands and dosido. It’s ridiculous, but neither of us is laughing.

  ‘Stay there,’ I say. ‘Don’t move, okay?’

  I didn’t mean to sound rude. It just slipped out.

  Will stands still as a lamppost while I step past him and walk off down the hall.

  I don’t want to look back. It is already far too complicated.

  WILL

  If my life were a video, I would rewind to my meeting with Mia Foley in the corridor. I would pause it there, just to see her perfect face again in close-up, then I’d roll it in super-slow motion, taking it one frame at a time. And this time we wouldn’t be stuck for words.

  They need a line down the middle, I might say.

  With a sign saying KEEP LEFT UNLESS OVERTAKING, she’d reply.

  And double lines on the dangerous corners.

  SLIPPERY WHEN WET, she’d say.

  No . . . Pause . . . Rewind . . . Mia definitely wouldn’t say that.

  FORM ONE LANE above the doorways, she’d say.

  FORM ONE PLANET, it could say, if you add a P and a T.

  Mia would think about this and decide it was very profound.

  Kiss me, she’d say . . .

  Stop the video. Close file, delete and trash. Then wipe the hard drive, just in case.

  Who am I kidding?

  MIA

  When I get home from school I practise my viola. I start with my scales, playing them lento, slowly, then faster, marcato, before moving on to the Vivaldi. There are some days when I’d rather be blobbing out in front of the TV. But mostly, once I’m started, playing the viola helps my thoughts to unravel . . .

  My bedroom is nowhere near ready for a boyfriend. The wallpaper, for instance, has pink flowers on it. My bedspread has daisy chains! There are lace curtains and a chandelier with fake plastic candles! My bedroom looks like a doll’s house. It’s too nice for a boyfriend. In fact, the whole house is too nice. My parents are too nice. Before I even imagine having a boyfriend, I would need to paint my room a strong, serious colour, possibly indigo. I would need heavy curtains – possibly magenta – plus a matching doona and a dimmer switch. I would need a three-quarter-size bed, with a new mattress – one that’s not quite so loud and boingy. And I would definitely need a lock on the door – to keep out my nice mum and dad, and my mad, slobbering beagle.

  Today, in the library, I saw Will again. He had taken time out from watching the sky to borrow a book. Was this an improvement or a backward step, I wondered? Did it make him more mysterious or less? I guess that depends on the book. From where I was standing I couldn’t see the cover. It was a big, thick hardback and Will put it straight into his bag as if he didn’t want anyone to see. It could have been about Shakespeare or baroque musicians or Renaissance art. It definitely looked like the kind of book to make a guy more deep and interesting.

  I should
n’t have been so abrupt in the hallway yesterday, telling Will to stand still while I walked around him. Obviously, Will is the kind of boy who takes time to assemble his thoughts. Because his thoughts are so deep and meaningful, he has trouble with, Hello, how are you?

  I should have walked up to Will in the library and asked him what his book was. Will and I need to talk. What about, exactly, I don’t know. How, when and where, I’m not sure. Mainly, we need to talk so that we can stop being so ridiculous. It doesn’t look like Will is going to make the first move, so I guess it’s up to me.

  And maybe I should brush up on my Shakespeare, just to be on the safe side.

  WILL

  I am walking out the school gate when I almost collide with Mia Foley again! I’m stunned. Here we both are, with the entire school ground to move around in, and yet we keep on bashing into each other. Mia and I are like dodgem cars or billiard balls. We couldn’t avoid each other, even if we tried.

  ‘Hi!’ she says, as if our meeting in the hall never happened.

  ‘Hi,’ I say – then, hoping for something with a bit more oomph, ‘Hello!’

  ‘Hello,’ Mia replies.

  So far, so good.

  Safely through the gate, Mia and I drift along the footpath together. I’m not about to tell her my house is in the opposite direction. Instead, I stumble along, putting one foot in front of the other and trying to work out what to say next, hoping to capitalise on Hello. Then I have a brainwave! Of course! How obvious! It was right there in front of me all along. Don’t forget V!

  Casually, I point to the case she is carrying. ‘Is that your violin?’

  ‘No,’ she says. ‘It’s my machine gun.’

  ‘Silly question, I guess.’

  ‘Actually, it’s a viola.’

  ‘Ah!’ I say, hopelessly faking it.

  ‘What’s the difference between a violin and a viola?’ Mia asks.

  This seems like a very unfair question to me. After all, it’s not a TV quiz show.

  ‘Um . . . ’ ‘You can tune a violin,’ she says.

  I nod uncertainly.

  ‘It’s a joke,’ says Mia. ‘What’s the difference between a violin and a viola? A viola burns longer . . . How do you keep your violin from getting stolen? Put it in a viola case. People are always making jokes about violas.’