Fifteen Love

by R. M. Corbet

  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.

  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.