by R. M. Corbet
I don’t know whether to feel stupid or relieved. ‘How come?’
‘Violas are weird,’ says Mia. ‘They’re either too small to get a good sound out of, or too big to fit under your chin. Really, they should be played on your knee – viola da gamba style. Also, music for the viola is written in the alto clef, which most conductors can’t read and most composers can’t be bothered writing for. Violins rule. Violas don’t get many solos, even though Beethoven and Mozart both played the viola . . . Sorry, I’m talking too much.’
‘Can I have a look at it?’
Mia looks at me suspiciously. ‘If you like.’
We stop walking. Mia opens the case and takes out the viola. It’s a beautiful instrument, with its solid curves and tiger-striped wood grain.
‘It’s a really old one,’ she says. ‘My dad used to play it when he was at school. It was made in Italy. It needs a bit of work, but it’s probably worth a fortune.’
Mia takes out the bow, tightens it and brushes on some resin. She picks up the viola and tucks it under her chin, plucking the strings and adjusting the pegs, then bowing the strings in pairs to check the tuning. She plays a simple melody and the instrument comes alive with beautiful sound. The tone is like a violin’s, only darker and richer, like chocolate. It gives me goosebumps. When she finishes playing, I am speechless. I don’t know whether to applaud or not.
MIA
I finish playing and Will just stands there, looking uncertain. I pack away the viola, then to cover up my embarrassment, I change the subject.
‘Anyway,’ I ask, ‘what’s that book you got out of the library yesterday?’
Will looks worried. ‘It’s just a book.’
‘It’s not Shakespeare, is it?’
‘Who? William Shakespeare?’
‘No, Freddie – his brother.’
‘It’s not the complete works of Freddie Shakespeare, no.’ ‘Aren’t you going to tell me?’
‘Do I have to?’
‘I showed you my viola.’
‘But what if you think it’s stupid?’
‘I probably haven’t even read it.’
‘You definitely haven’t read it.’
‘It’s not the Bible, is it?’
‘No, and it’s not the Koran, either.’
‘Then just tell me!’
Will Holland – literary enigma and mystical sky-gazer – fishes around in his bag and reluctantly brings out his big book. At last, the moment of truth . . .
The Encyclopedia of Tennis, it says on the cover.
I take the book and open it. Inside, there’s a photo of a woman called Doris and a whole lot of dates and statistics.
‘It’s . . . not what I expected.’
Trying hard not to look disappointed, I close the book and hand it back to Will.
‘It’s for my brother,’ he says. ‘No, really. It is.’
Will puts the book away and we walk on in silence. How could I have been so stupid? Will Holland is not a journalist or a talent scout. The reason why Will wears a tracksuit is that he plays tennis. The reason why he lies out on the grass at lunchtimes is that he’s so exhausted from playing tennis. The reason he doesn’t say much is that he’d rather be playing tennis! I feel stupid for having talked so much about things that Will must think are so boring. Stupid, that I showed him my viola and made him listen to me play it! No wonder he didn’t say anything. I swear, he must think I am such an idiot!
When we get to my street, I say goodbye.
‘That’s my house over there,’ I point. ‘Behind the big brick wall.’
WILL
Thank you for calling Men Who Can’t Speak. We have placed you in a very long queue. Do you really have anything to say to us? Shouldn’t you just hang up right now?
As I look to where Mia is pointing, a man steps into the street and opens a car door.
‘It’s my dad!’ she says. ‘Quick! I don’t want him to see us.’
Mia and I retreat into a driveway. As the car goes past I see a middle-aged man and a younger woman with blonde hair and red lipstick. The man smiles at the girl and she smiles back at him. She flicks back her hair, then they’re gone.
When I look back at Mia, her face has gone pale.
‘Is that your sister?’
‘I don’t have a sister,’ she says.
MIA
Instead of letting Harriet in, I go to my bedroom and close the door. I take out my viola and start practising, but it’s hard to concentrate. The notes seem to be moving around on the page and my fingers won’t go where I want them to. No matter what I do, my viola still sounds out of tune. The open strings sound fine in pairs, but the top A string is out with the bottom C.
If only my bedroom was more adult-looking. It’s impossible to think like an adult in a room that keeps on insisting you’re ten years old. What I need is a new set of posters. Scenes from a rainforest, maybe, to help clear my head and calm my thoughts. Harriet is scratching the back door down. There is no need to panic, Harriet! Do not jump to conclusions! There is a simple explanation for everything.
And by far the simplest explanation is that my father is having an affair with a woman half his age!
My mum and dad aren’t exactly the most romantic couple in the world, but then they have been married for sixteen-odd years. Dad often works late and takes patients after hours. The girl in his car was a nurse. Dad works in a hospital. He borrowed a nurse and then came home to pick up his stethoscope. There’s always a simple explanation.
Then why was she wearing red lipstick?
I close my viola book to practise my scales, while Harriet continues to whine and bark: do re mi . . . do re mi . . .
The simpler the melody, the more it sounds out of tune.
WILL
The next day, after school, Mia is waiting at the gate for me.
‘We need to talk,’ she says, urgently. ‘It’s about what happened yesterday.’
‘If you want to borrow The Encyclopedia of Tennis, you’ll have to wait.’
Mia frowns. ‘What you saw – my father and that girl – it’s not what you think.’
‘You mean, she’s not his girlfriend?’
‘Don’t even say that word! I want you to promise not to tell anyone.’
‘But I thought you said . . . ’
‘I’m sure there’s a simple explanation for it. Meanwhile, you have to promise not to tell another living soul.’
‘I promise.’
‘Especially not my friends, okay?’
‘I promise not to tell a single soul, especially not your friends.’
‘But how do I know I can trust you?’
‘You could hypnotise me. Truth serum. Mind-control drugs. If nothing else works you could pay me.’
But Mia isn’t laughing.
‘Please!’ she says. ‘Just forget it ever happened.’
Two
MIA
‘I’m fat!’ says Renata.
‘No you’re not!’ say Vanessa and I.
‘Yes I am. I’m a big fat pig!’
‘Renata! You’re gorgeous!’
The school dance is only two days away so the three of us are desperately shopping. We are in T***** for the 20% Off Footwear and Clothing Sale. The reason I can’t say the name of the store is because Vanessa says it’s humiliating. Normally, Vanessa wouldn’t be caught dead in T*****, but because of the 20% Off Sale, she’s decided to compromise.
‘The labels will come off easily enough,’ she says. ‘But no one must ever find out!’
We are in the changing rooms and Vanessa is lying on the floor, squirming around like a squashed lizard, trying desperately to pull on a pair of stretch-denim jeans. Renata and I are supposed to be trying on bras, but we’ve been distracted by the size of our bums in the full-length mirror.
‘Cellulite at fifteen. How humiliating!’
‘Renata!’
‘Oh well, time to start saving for liposuction.’
Buying a bra
is one of those things you can’t afford to stuff up, even at twenty per cent off. Bras are more than just underwear.
The bra you choose determines the shape of your boobs. And according to Vanessa, the shape of your boobs determines everything else. A bra has to feel right, look right and send off the right signals.
‘You want to generate interest,’ Vanessa says, ‘without getting slobbered over.’
Renata and I wear regular bras, but Vanessa has a bra for every occasion. She has black lacy ones, plunging ones, see-through, boob tubes, strapless, you name it. (She has silky ones for special occasions, and she desperately wants one of those pump-up wonder bras, for extra cleavage.) Vanessa can get away with stuff like that. She’s got a great body and she knows it. She has that model’s way of walking, where she holds her head up and pulls back her arms until her shoulderblades are almost touching. Vanessa wants to be a supermodel and she’s the kind of girl who could pull it off. She’s confident. Sexy. She knows how to smile. She’s up-front and totally uncompromising.
With most of the button-fly done up, Vanessa drags herself into a standing position and starts checking herself out from every conceivable angle, doing every conceivable thing with her bum. After a long discussion, she decides to ‘maybe not buy them’, if she can ever get them off again.
Between the two of them, I swear, Vanessa and Renata have tried every diet on the planet: the low-carb diet, the low-fat diet, the low-joule diet, the liver-cleansing diet, the snack diet, the no-snack diet, the all-greens diet, the all-yellows diet. Vanessa went vegetarian for a month. She even tried going macrobiotic for an hour, but all that chewing made her jaws cramp. These days Vanessa prefers what she calls the ‘supermodel’s diet’: she eats what she likes, then she goes to the toilet and sticks her fingers down her throat.
‘It feels really good,’ she says. ‘Like cheating and getting away with it.’
If you ask me, it’s disgusting. In fact, the best advice I ever heard for losing weight is: eat less. There are fewer calories in a single scoop of extra-creamy ice-cream than a bucket of low-fat goo.
Vanessa is on the floor again now, keeping her bum in the air while Renata and I take hold of one leg each, trying to get the jeans off. We’re rolling around laughing when suddenly a giant shadow looms in the doorway. It’s the dragon lady – the change-room attendant – and she is not smiling.
‘Can I help you girls?’ she asks, frowning severely.
‘They’re stealing my pants!’ shrieks Vanessa.
WILL
There’s only one place to get your hair cut and that’s Mondo for Men. Two guys work there, Matteo and Ricki. Matteo is an artist – he does exactly what you say. Ricki is a madman – a danger to society.
Most guys won’t admit it, but getting a haircut can be a bit tense. You have to trust the guy to do what you say, so you have to be certain to say what you want. It has to sound casual and unimportant, but clear and unambiguous: Just a trim, thanks. I practise it going to sleep, then in the shower, over breakfast and, finally, on the bus. Just a trim, thanks . . . Just a trim, thanks . . . It’s best to be prepared.
I enter Mondo for Men and proceed to the plush leather couch with the men’s magazines on the tinted glass coffee table. I wait my turn, watching Matteo and Ricki, trying to predict who I’ll get. Ricki is faster than Matteo. Matteo is a perfectionist, whereas Ricki is more like a shearer, racing against the clock. He’ll take the guy before me, meaning I will get Matt. Not a problem. Just a trim, thanks.
I open a magazine and start flipping through the pages. There’s a helpful article about how to deal with stress. You have to block out what’s going on around you, it says. You have to learn to focus on the task at hand . . .
‘Next?’
With my head in the magazine, I hear the voice of doom above me. Ricki has already finished, and I’m next in line. I could let someone go ahead of me and say I’m waiting for Matt. I could get up and run from the room. But Ricki has already dusted the seat and is motioning for me to sit down.
‘How you doin’, all right?’
‘Just a trim, thanks.’
Nervously, I climb into the chair. Ricki clips a smock around my neck and tries to choke me with paper towels. He is too busy talking to Matteo to notice how uncomfortable I am: ‘She was comin’ on strong, but she was keepin’ her distance. She was hot, but she was cool, know what I’m sayin’?’
I sit watching helplessly as Ricki goes to work. He starts with his scissors and a fine-toothed comb that he digs into my scalp. The scissors snip around my head at lightning speed. I’m sure he’ll nip off a piece of my ear, but I’m more worried about my hair.
To calm my nerves, I start whispering, ‘Just a trim, thanks . . . Just a trim, thanks.’
Good news. Ricki has put away the scissors and picked up the electric shears. My hair looks okay. Shorter than I wanted, but okay. Good enough. Ricki trims the hairs on the back of my neck. He’s finishing up. I’m almost in the clear. He neatens the sides, but then, before I know it, he’s shaving up and around my ears! I feel the buzz of the shears against my skull. Ricki is giving me a mohawk!
. . . Just a trim, thanks . . . Just a trim, thanks . . .
In desperation, I try tilting my head away, but Ricki simply pushes it back up again.
‘What do you think?’ he asks when he’s done.
I nod, and in the mirror the guy with the brain-surgery haircut nods grimly back at me.
MIA
‘I hate my hair!’
‘Mia! You don’t mean that.’
‘Yes I do. It’s driving me crazy. I feel like getting it all cut off.’
Vanessa looks horrified. ‘Don’t even joke about it. You have gorgeous hair!’
Renata agrees. ‘I wish I had your hair, Mia.’
‘It’s all dry and frizzy. This morning when I woke up, there were at least five strands on my pillow! I swear, I’m going bald!’
‘Mushrooms,’ says Vanessa. ‘You have to eat more mushrooms.’
‘I don’t like mushrooms. Do you know where those things are grown?’
‘How about wheatgerm and honey, as a conditioner?’
‘Sure. So I wake up screaming in the night, being attacked by a swarm of ants.’
‘Eggs.’
‘Too stinky.’
‘Tofu.’
‘Tofu?’
‘Yeah. I’m not sure what you’re meant to do with it, though.’
I am kneeling beside the ironing board while Renata combs my hair into place. Vanessa licks her index finger and it sizzles as she touches the hot iron.
‘Ready?’ she says.
‘Do I really need this?’
‘Mia! Ironing your hair is like ironing your clothes. No one likes wrinkles.’
Vanessa presses the iron down on my hair and a shot of hot steam scorches my scalp. I scream out in pain and Renata shrieks in sympathy. When I look up at Vanessa, she’s smiling her most sheepish smile.
‘Woops,’ she says, switching the iron from steam back to wool.
WILL
When my little brother Dave sees my haircut, he laughs himself stupid.
‘What happened, Will? Did you have a fight with a lawnmower?’
‘Good one, Dave.’
‘And the lawnmower won, Will!’
‘Looks like it, Dave.’
‘The lawnmower won, Will! The lawnmower won!’
Dave doesn’t mean any harm by it. It’s just his crazy sense of humour. Four years ago, when he was nine years old, Dave dived into a swimming pool and hit his head on the bottom. He’s a paraplegic now, so he’s stuck in a wheelchair for the rest of his life. It’s good that he still has a sense of humour. Laughing is probably what keeps him sane.
A lot of people who meet Dave think there must be something wrong with him – more than just his legs, I mean. There were doctors who said the damage to his spine had affected him mentally and others who said his brain was still okay. The way Dave thinks and acts is
pretty different from other kids his age. But there’s nothing wrong with him. Since his accident, a part of Dave has stayed the same. He’s thirteen now, but it’s like a part of him is still nine years old. When some people meet Dave they feel really sorry for him, which is pretty stupid. The truth is, he’s happier than most people I know.
Dave is reading The Encyclopedia of Tennis from cover to cover. I don’t know how much of it he actually reads, but he certainly enjoys talking about it.
‘Will! Will! I’m up to Bjorn Borg! I read Boris Becker and now I’m up to Bjorn Borg! It’s got all about him! He was the best, Will! He was heaps better than you!’
‘No way, Dave! I could beat Bjorn Borg blindfolded. I could beat him in straight sets: 6-0, 6-0, 6-0.’
‘You COULD NOT, Will! You’re a liar, Will! Bjorn Borg was the best!’
Like me, Dave played a lot of tennis as a younger kid. I improved only after lots of hard slog and work on my technique. Dave was the opposite. He was a natural. He made it look easy. He was the kind of kid who would either serve a double-fault or ace you. He had all the talent but none of the discipline. Stirring me about tennis is Dave’s substitute for what could have been. Dave might have been a champion, if he’d only had half a chance. After the accident, my dad, Ken, said I would have to train twice as hard. I was playing for both of us now, he said.
Dave’s accident hit our family pretty hard. It turned Ken into a personal trainer and fitness fanatic. Lyn – my mum – became Dave’s full-time carer. She helps Dave with his homework. She helps him in and out of the shower. (Not the toilet, though. Dave is very definite about that.) She gets him dressed in the mornings, then drives him to school in her specially designed car. Lyn is a voluntary worker at Dave’s school. She’s on the committee and in charge of the fundraising. She’s done lots of workshops and read lots of books about caring for the disabled. She’s had handrails and ramps installed through our house. She’s mapped out each hour of Dave’s week. It’s her way of coping, I guess.
We never talk about the accident. It’s not that we’re afraid of talking about it. It’s more that we want to go forwards instead of backwards, if that makes sense. Dave’s accident is there for all of us, all the time. It’s part of our family and it’s shaped us into who we are. It made us different from other families. Closer, in some ways, and more determined. It’s something a normal family wouldn’t understand.