Fifteen Love

by R. M. Corbet

  ‘Thirty-four . . . thirty-five . . . thirty-six . . . ’

  ‘Come on, Will! We haven’t got all day!’

  ‘Thirty-seven . . . thirty-eight . . . ’ ‘What are you, Will? A weed?’

  ‘Thirty-nine! That’s it, Dave! I give up!’

  ‘That’s hopeless, Will! You didn’t even make forty!’

  I get a drink of water, then sit down on the grass to rest. I don’t know if it’s the endorphins or the testosterone, but after Dave beats me at chin-ups, he always wants to talk about girls.

  ‘Are you still in love with her, Will?’

  ‘Who, Dave?’

  ‘You know who, Will. That girl who doesn’t like horses.’

  ‘Her name’s Mia. I never said I was in love with her, Dave. I said I liked her.’

  ‘Isn’t she your girlfriend anymore?’

  ‘She never was, Dave.’

  ‘But you still like her, Will, even if you don’t love her?’

  ‘I dunno, Dave. There are girls you have as girlfriends and girls you have as friends, I guess.’

  ‘Will you get a new girlfriend, Will?’

  ‘I dunno, Dave.’

  ‘Do girls like boys for their muscles, Will?’

  ‘I don’t know what girls like, Dave.’

  Dave looks up at the trees. ‘What is love anyway, Will?’

  According to The Encyclopedia of Tennis, love is a zero score and a love game is a blitz.

  I sigh. ‘I don’t know, Dave.’

  MIA

  My father is working late, so Mum and I eat dinner without him – fish and chips again. Mum’s always been a pretty good cook, but lately she’s been losing interest. The carpet needs vacuuming, too. There are coffee cups in the lounge room, and the laundry basket is overflowing. Harriet has started digging up the garden.

  My father is having an affair with a woman half his age. Will Holland is signing his name all over Year 7 girls. Is it possible to still be interested in someone even when they’re not interested in you? Is it possible that I am like my mum?

  After dinner, I go to my room to practise my viola. The viola is a forgotten instrument and tonight I feel like a forgotten girl. In fifty years’ time, my bedroom will look like Miss Havisham’s. All the clocks will have stopped and everything will be covered in dust and cobwebs. I will be an old spinster with cold, flaky skin and a broken heart, sitting here playing my viola in my faded bridal gown while rats devour the wedding cake. I will play the same sad song – tranquillo e molto triste – over and over, thinking about the young man who came to my window and how I told him to go away.

  The front door opens and I hear my father’s footsteps go down the hall. I open the door just a crack and I can smell it – the unmistakable scent of perfume.

  How could my mother not notice it?

  ‘Your dinner is in the oven,’ she says.

  ‘I’ve already eaten,’ he replies.

  WILL

  ‘It’s not whether you win or lose,’ Ken says, ‘because losing is not an option.’

  And he’s right. Playing tennis is fun. It feels good when you hit the ball properly. You feel the spring in the racquet and you hear that ping as the ball connects with it. But what it’s really all about is beating the other guy and being the best. Otherwise, you might as well be hitting against a brick wall.

  I am in the cupboard. My bedroom door is locked. It’s dark and quiet and comfortable – I know I won’t be interrupted. I was going to make a phone call. I was going to call Mia up and explain about the Year 7 girls. But then I figured, what’s the point? How do I know I would actually be able to say it, when it came to the crunch?

  When I was young I read the books about Narnia – where children went into a wardrobe and found another world. But the only world I want to find is the real world – a world where I can talk to Mia without feeling like a total idiot.

  Andre Agassi was a choker, but then he got over it. Maybe someone helped him, or maybe he just got sick of losing. Andre Agassi learned how to play under pressure. He won the important games. He got good at talking to girls.

  MIA

  Renata is taking Vanessa’s side – it’s official. I don’t know what Vanessa said to her, but I swear she must have said something. I can tell by the way Renata smiles at me. It’s a Vanessa smile. At first I thought it meant I can’t talk to you or I don’t know what to say. But now I know it means I’m with Vanessa.

  Our seat has been taken over by other girls – girls without problems. Now, instead of sitting down at lunchtime, Vanessa and Renata walk around the school. If they see me, they smile, but the smiles mean Don’t talk to us, and they keep on walking. Renata turns around and gives me another smile: I’m really sad about what’s happened between you and Vanessa. And I smile sadly back at her: But what’s happened between you and me?

  When boys fight, they make threats and push each other round. They organise a time and place, then punch the living daylights out of each other. They get a few bruises and it’s over. When girls fight, it’s much more nasty. Girl fights can go on for years. They can make you feel rejected. They can make you feel like dirt.

  I hate Vanessa, but I can’t wait until Renata goes away.

  WILL

  The next tennis tournament is way out west, four hours away by car. It is a drizzly, grey Thursday afternoon and Dave wants to play I-spy.

  ‘I spy with my little eye,’ he says, ‘something beginning with R.’

  ‘Road?’

  ‘No, Will.’

  ‘Rain?’

  ‘No, Will!’

  ‘Random reaction?’

  ‘Will! Random reaction is not a very good guess.’

  ‘What is it, Dave?’

  ‘Do you give up, Will?’

  ‘I give up, Dave.’

  ‘Are you sure, Will?’

  ‘I’m sure, Dave.’

  Dave is laughing now. ‘R is for Roger.’

  ‘Roger?’

  ‘It’s me, Dave. I’m Roger Federer, remember?’

  ‘Good one, Dave!’

  ‘It’s your turn, Will.’

  ‘Hey, Dave,’ I say. ‘What’s the difference between a viola and a trampoline?’

  ‘I give up, Will.’

  ‘You take your shoes off to jump on a trampoline.’

  ‘I don’t get it, Will. What’s a viola?’

  MIA

  After school, to avoid Vanessa, I walk home the long way, through the park. There are daisies on the grass and blossoms on the trees. Compared to school, it is like another world. Without my crutches, which I abandoned to my bedroom a few days ago, I limp across the open lawn, between the tall trees with their ghostly grey papery bark peeling off into strips. Underneath they are smooth and vulnerable-looking. I have lost my two best friends. I know it’s part of life to shed your skin and let go of your troubles, but I can’t help feeling sorry for those trees.

  I am hobbling along, deep in my thoughts, when Whack! From out of nowhere, something hard and sharp has hit me in the back of the head. Overhead, I see a magpie swooping towards me. In shock and pain, I duck, and it veers away. But instead of returning to its treetop, the disgusting creature spins around and dives again! It’s evil! Why is it picking on me? Does it really think I’m a threat?

  With tears streaming down my face, I run for cover. My ankle buckles under me and I fall to the ground, sobbing.

  WILL

  The tournament is a knockout competition – six single-set rounds played over three days, and you have to keep winning to stay in it. My first game is against a complete outsider. That’s how they do the draw – the top-seeded players play off against the new ones first, to avoid an early upset.

  By Friday morning the rain has cleared. The court is damp, but fine to play on. The crowd look like friends and relatives of my opponent. It doesn’t feel much like a tournament – it feels more like a practice match. My opponent is shorter than me and slightly overweight. He is eating a packet of Cheezels when
they introduce us. I shake his powdery yellow hands and he smiles with bits of Cheezel between his teeth. Biomechanics tells me he will be slow around the court and not too confident with his overhead shots. It should be a comfortable way to start the tournament. I can ease myself in and practise my ground strokes.

  I win the toss and elect to serve. I decide to make like the favourite and open with an ace to establish dominance. But when I look at Mr Cheezels standing there on the baseline, it feels like it’s hardly worth the effort.

  ‘Go, Will!’ Dave yells from the crowd, as I throw the ball high and hit it as hard as I can.

  It’s long. ‘Fault!’ says the umpire.

  For my second serve, I try the same thing again. Not the wisest move, I know, but not unreasonable, under the circumstances. I throw the ball high and hit it hard into the net for a double-fault.

  ‘Love fifteen,’ says the umpire.

  ‘Come on,’ Ken mutters. ‘Pull your head in.’

  My next serve, I decide, will be a return to form. I will focus on my technique and do it by the book. I don’t resent Ken saying what he did. It is his job, after all. I throw the ball lower this time and hit it with less power, but it doesn’t feel right and I hit it long again. It rattles me, and my second serve is a lollipop, aimed at avoiding another double-fault. Cheezels has no trouble putting it away.

  ‘Love thirty,’ says the umpire.

  My next serve connects well. It travels fast down the centre, swinging away from Cheezels’ backhand. It is such a relief to see it go in, it catches me off guard when Cheezels returns it.

  ‘Love forty.’

  It is break point and the match has barely started. When I look at Dave, his face says it all: You’re not a choker, Will. Don’t be a choker.

  Desperately, I try to do what Ken has always told me. ‘Concentrate on technique. Don’t listen to your head.’ But just looking at the ball as I hold it in my hand, nothing seems familiar anymore. I throw the ball in the air and catch it again. Someone coughs. I serve nervously and Cheezels puts it away. The crowd cheers. Cheezels has broken my serve and won the first game.

  Ken is shaking his head. Dave can’t believe it.

  I am in trouble.

  We change ends and Cheezels serves. His serves are nothing special, but his follow-ups are good. Slowly but surely, I settle down and my confidence returns. I am playing better shots now, but the damage has already been done. Cheezels holds onto his serve and I hold mine. After playing for almost an hour, the score is five games to four, with Cheezels serving, this time for the match.

  The crowd is excited now. They can smell victory. A part of me wants to give up right then and there. Let them have their stupid tournament. Another part of me wants to win, just to spite them.

  Cheezels wins the first point from a serve that clearly is out. It looks like the umpire’s on his side. His second serve is very ordinary, so I hit the ball long and hard to his backhand. It lands in, for sure, but the ump calls it out. It’s hometown favouritism – the guy’s his second cousin.

  ‘No way!’ I shout.

  ‘Who do you think you are?’ he replies. ‘Lleyton Hewitt?’

  Cheezels serves an ace after that. A killer serve that comes from out of nowhere.

  ‘Forty love,’ smiles the umpire. ‘Set point.’

  It is set point and match point. Cheezels has three chances in a row. If I lose another shot, I’m cactus.

  I lob Cheezels’ next serve nervously into the air. The ball floats way up high and comes down right in the centre of the court – a sitter. Cheezels lets it bounce, then moves in for the kill. I can hardly bear to watch, but in his excitement he mis-hits into the net.

  ‘Forty fifteen.’

  ‘That’s it, Will!’ Dave shouts. ‘You can do it!’

  I look at my racquet and try to calm my nerves. I’ve been in this situation before, of course, but I’ve never felt so nervous. I look at the grim determination in Cheezels’ face. It’s just a stupid tennis game, I keep telling myself. It’s hardly worth getting upset about.

  Cheezels serves hard and wide, trying for an ace. He serves the same again and does a double-fault – his first for the match. He is feeling the pressure, too.

  ‘Forty thirty.’

  Cheezels has one more set point up his sleeve. I have one more point to survive. If I win this it will be deuce – forty all – and I can stage a comeback. I am fitter and more experienced than Cheezels, so I should have more in reserve. It will all be so easy, if only I can win the next point. I could go on to win the match. I could win the whole stupid tournament, if only I can survive the next point.

  I notice a girl in the crowd with a pierced bellybutton. It makes me think of Vanessa. Does Mia have a pierced bellybutton, I wonder?

  ‘Concentrate!’ I tell myself.

  Cheezels serves and I return it hard. He hits a nice backhand and I respond with a neat half-volley. Cheezels runs in to the net too soon, but he manages to jump up and get it. Now he is caught out, dead centre. All I have to do is hit the ball past him or lob it over his head. Instead, in a flash of anger, I hit it straight at him with all the power I have. I am aiming for his head – I want to hit him, even hurt him. Cheezels sees the ball coming and gets his racquet up just in time. He is protecting himself, more than playing a shot, but the ball rebounds off his racquet and somehow goes over the net. It’s a no-brainer – impossible to get – so I don’t even try.

  Cheezels goes down on his knees in victory – the biggest cliché in the book. His family runs onto the court and lifts him up – the second biggest cliché. I feel like going over and reminding them that it is just the first round of the tournament, after all.

  It’s the first round of the tournament and I am already out. When I look at how happy the crowd is, I feel like crying. Everyone loves a winner. No one loves a loser.

  ‘Useless!’ I shout in sudden anger, smashing my racquet hard against the ground.

  MIA

  It is eight o’clock and my father has just come home from work. He is late, as usual, because he was having a drink with his colleagues, he says, which of course means he’s been out with her, as usual. Have they been out for a drink or off for a quickie at the local motel? It doesn’t matter which. Mum is acting as if nothing strange has happened and I am expected to go along with it.

  After a hard day of cutting people open and stitching them back up again, a round of drinks with his colleagues and/ or a hot half-hour in the motel spa, my father is knackered. After briefly consulting his wine guide, he descends into the cellar and emerges with a bottle in his hand and a glint in his eye. He comes into the lounge room, where I am practising my viola. He slumps down in his chair, loosens his tie and uncorks the bottle. He pours himself a glass, holds it up to the light, sniffs it and takes a cautious sip.

  ‘Mmm . . . Good drop, this,’ he says.

  I continue to practise while my father sits in his chair, sipping and nodding. Pretty soon he has kicked off his shoes and is staring into his glass.

  ‘Excellent drop, this.’

  I smile at Dad and he smiles at me.

  ‘Vivaldi,’ he says. ‘Danza Pastorale?’

  ‘Allegro non molto.’

  He smiles sentimentally. ‘It’s been a few years since I played it.’

  I nod uncertainly and my dad’s smile fades.

  ‘Would you mind terribly if I put on a disc?’ he says. ‘It’s been a long day.’

  ‘Are you saying you want me to go and practise in my room?’

  ‘Would you mind, darling?’

  I pack up and leave. My father is already scanning his CD collection. As I shut my bedroom door, I hear the music start. It is fast and loud – too fast for my dad. He must have got it from her.

  I want my bedroom to be a cold dark cave. I want black walls, black curtains and black windows. I want to paint the glass to keep out the sunlight. I want headless dolls, shredded books and a pillow stuffed with magpie feathers.

 
; I set up my music stand and open my sheet music. The second movement of ‘Spring’ sounds so stupid and pointless. Ms S says the viola part is meant to sound like a dog barking – how offensive! It says pianissimo sempre but instead I play matali – attacking the strings until the bow is shredded horsehair. Outside my window, Harriet starts barking – Ms S would be impressed. As her barking gets louder, so does my playing. I am not listening to the notes anymore, or even to the rhythm. All I can hear is the sound, getting louder and wilder. It’s all about spring – paranoid magpies, protecting their nests, and bitchy Vanessa, flirting with Will. And I am a mad gypsy woman, dancing on hot coals – molto espressivo – faster and faster, wilder and wilder . . .

  Then I hear my father, knocking on my bedroom door.

  ‘Mia! Can you tone it down a bit? It sounds like a cat fight!’

  I stop playing. With tears in my eyes I stand there with my viola tucked under my chin, listening to his footsteps going back down the hall.

  Then Mum says, ‘Surely you’re not going out again!’

  I put down my viola. Suddenly I feel cold and hard as steel.

  When I open my bedroom door the house is quiet. Dad is in the bathroom and Mum is watching TV. I pick up the viola, open the front door and walk out the gate. Dad’s four-wheel drive is parked outside in the street. No one sees me as I lay the viola under the back tyre.

  As my father is leaving I stand in the doorway and wave goodbye. I hear the viola crack and splinter into firewood as he drives away. It’s an awful, tearing sound, like the end of all music, like all the viola’s future notes dying before they are born. It’s the sound of something fragile and beautiful being run over by something big and heavy. It’s the sound of my heart breaking, and Dad doesn’t even hear it. He has that same CD on – the one that she has given him. The one that is too fast and loud.

  When the car is gone I kneel down and pick up the pieces of the smashed viola. One by one, I put them in the case, even the tiniest splinter. When I go back inside the house, Mum is there on the couch with a glass of wine in her hand and the remote control on her lap. When she sees the viola case, she smiles briefly and I smile back.