by R. M. Corbet
It’s easy to smile when you don’t feel a thing.
Four
WILL
‘It’s not the end of the world, Will.’
‘No, Dave. It’s not the end of the world.’
‘You know where you lost it, Will? Your lousy drop-shots. They need more top-spin, to make the ball drop. Drop-shot, get it?’
‘Thanks for the advice, Dave.’
‘Don’t worry, Will. It’s not the end of the world.’
‘You’re right, Dave. It’s not the end of the world.’
‘Why’d you break your racquet, Will? Wasn’t it a very good one?’
‘It wasn’t the racquet, Dave. It was me.’
‘Were you angry, Will? You looked angry.’
‘I should have won, Dave.’
‘But you’re not angry with me, are you, Will?’
‘Of course not, Dave.’
‘Because it’s not the end of the world, is it, Will?’
‘No, Dave. It’s not the end of the world.’
‘Can I have your racquet, Will?’
‘Why do you want my racquet, Dave?’
‘Because it’s broken, Will. You don’t need it anymore.’
The drive home from the tournament is the longest four hours of my life. Dave won’t shut up and Ken barely says a word – it is impossible to guess what he is thinking.
I spy with my little eye something beginning with L.
Loser, Ken. Your son is a big-time loser.
MIA
The smashed viola is in its case under my bed, segreto – hidden under blankets. Even so, I sleep badly, waking every hour just to remember that it’s still there. I dream about my father finding it. He undoes the latch and lifts the top but instead of viola pieces the case is full of dead flowers. I wake in fright to find the gypsy woman sitting on the end of my bed.
Darlink! she says. It was just a bad dream.
What can I do? I whimper. How can I stop him from finding out?
The gypsy woman takes out a pack of cards and begins to shuffle them.
You could lock it up in chains and bury it in the backyard, she says. You could run away from home and come back when you’re rich and famous.
How could I get rich and famous?
The gypsy woman begins to lay out the cards on my bed.
Drugs? Prostitution? she says. Become an actress?
I could say it was stolen. Is it insured? Should I ask my dad?
But the gypsy woman seems more interested in her cards.
Are you going to read my future? I say.
The gypsy woman picks up a card and turns it over – the ace of hearts.
No, darlink, she says. I’m playing solitaire.
Next morning, at breakfast, I smile at my father and he smiles back. The toast pops up and Mum brings it over. She asks Dad if he wants another cup of tea. He says ‘Thank you’. It’s all very normal, just like a happy family should be. It’s all wrong.
‘How’s the Vivaldi going?’ he asks, and I choke on my mouthful of cornflakes.
‘Pretty good.’
‘I’m looking forward to the concert,’ he says.
I try to smile as the terror returns. I’m smiling so hard my cheeks feel like they’re going to crack. What if he asks to see the viola? What if he wants to play it?
I stand up and make a lame excuse.
‘I’m taking Harriet for a walk.’
Instead of being even slightly suspicious, my father turns the page of his newspaper. I don’t need a padlock and chain to stop him finding my smashed viola. I could leave it on the table right in front of him and he’d never even think of looking.
WILL
‘Seventeen . . . eighteen . . . nineteen . . . ’
According to The Encyclopedia of Tennis, probably the most dramatic and widely seen rally of all time was the nineteen-stroke set-point duel played by Agassi and Sampras in the 1995 US Open final, which Sampras ended with a killer backhand to take the opening set.
‘. . . thirty-six . . . thirty-seven . . . ’ According to the Encylopedia, there have been other, much longer rallies in the history of the game, including one which went for twenty-nine minutes and notched up 643 strokes! I wonder how long the game took? Who knows? Maybe they’re still playing.
‘. . . forty-nine . . . fifty!’
Dave claps and cheers as I drop to the ground, nursing my poor hands. Instead of his usual air of superiority, today he has genuine respect in his voice.
‘Geez, Will! That’s your best ever by far!’
My palms are hot and red with puffy white lumps of skin already starting to appear. When I show them to Dave, he looks worried.
‘Does it hurt, Will? It looks sore.’
‘It stings a bit, Dave.’
‘You’ll get blisters, Will. You won’t be able to play tennis.’ ‘Then maybe I should do more, Dave?’
Dave smiles uncertainly. ‘Is that why you did it, Will? So you don’t have to play tennis? Is that why you broke your racquet? What will Dad say, Will?’
‘I don’t care what Ken says.’
‘Are you giving up, Will? Have you finished being a champion?’
‘I don’t know, Dave.’
‘Does that mean we won’t be rich, Will? Does it mean we won’t live in the Caribbean? Does it mean we won’t have a swimming pool?’
‘I don’t know, Dave.’
‘Dad is going to kill you, Will.’
‘It’s my life, Dave.’
‘He’s going to kill you, Will!’
‘It’s your turn, Dave.’
As Dave begins his chin-up marathon, I see a girl in the distance, chasing her dog. She is too far away to recognise, but the dog looks familiar. I can’t take my eyes off them. Despite how the girl is limping – her biomechanics are very familiar.
‘Keep going, Dave,’ I say. ‘I’ll be back in a minute.’
MIA
‘I’m in trouble, Harriet. I don’t know what to do. I’ll have to leave home and become a wandering gypsy woman. You can come with me. We can busk in the city. You can do dog tricks, jump through hoops and stand on your hind legs. We could open the viola case and people would give us money. Harriet the Wonder Dog, we’ll call you. I’ll make you a little red cape.’
But Harriet the Wonder Dog isn’t interested in fame and glory. All she cares about is sniffing for doggy smells. I tell her to sit and she sits with her tail wagging. As soon as I pat her she’s up again, wrapping her lead round my legs as she runs around in circles sniffing the grass.
A gypsy with a smashed viola and a performing dog who can’t sit still? It might be hard to make a living.
All through my childhood I wanted a dog, so why did my parents wait so long? If Harriet were older and wiser she would understand what was happening in my life. She would know how to sit, beg, lie down, roll over. I could let her off the leash and she wouldn’t get run over. What was it with my parents? Didn’t they trust me to look after a dog? Or was it the idea of fleas in the carpet and dog poo on the lawn that put them off?
My parents are so boring and predictable. The way they speak is so polite and cheerful. The way they smile is so reassuring. It’s mad to think that everyone should always be smiling. If you’re always expected to feel happy, what hope have you got of finding out how you really feel? Feeling angry or sad or nervous or scared is just a part of life. You have to feel the bad things to know that you’re alive. You have to feel bad sometimes to know when you’re feeling good. People who always smile are scared of admitting how they really feel. They think feelings are like puppy dogs – if you don’t keep them on a leash, they might run away and never come back.
‘Sit, girl!’
Harriet sits and scratches her ear with her back leg as I unhook the chain from her collar. She tilts her head and looks at the leash in my hand.
‘Stay, girl!’
I take a few steps away from her, crouch down and call her.
‘Here, girl!’
WILL
Mia’s dog runs ahead of her, weaving and dodging as if it’s part of some game. I try to cut it off but it swerves at the last moment and I almost collide with Mia. Puffing and taking deep breaths, we watch the little beagle tear across the grass to where Dave is hanging from the chin-up bar. Taken by surprise as the dog leaps up and paws him, Dave loses his grip and falls to the ground. Mia puts her hand to her mouth, but I can’t help laughing. The dog has Dave pinned to the ground and is licking his face and hair.
And Dave loves it.
‘Harriet!’ Mia cries. She runs over and pulls Harriet off as I help my brother back into his wheelchair. Normally, Dave would be embarrassed about meeting a pretty girl for the first time. But because of Harriet, his excitement has overcome any shyness. He calls the dog to him and lifts her up into his wheelchair. Harriet sits there, uncomfortable and uncertain, as Dave scratches her back and pulls on her ears. When I introduce Mia, he looks her up and down.
‘Will told me all about you,’ he says.
Mia laughs. ‘What did he say?’
‘He said you were his friend, not his girlfriend.’
‘I see,’ says Mia. ‘How many chin-ups can you do?’
‘A hundred and eight!’ says Dave proudly. ‘How many can you do?’
‘Maybe one, if I’m lucky.’
Dave laughs, then frowns suddenly.
‘Will did fifty!’ he says. ‘That’s because he doesn’t want to play tennis.’
With Harriet held captive on his lap, Dave gives Mia a blow-by-blow account of the tennis match, complete with coaching tips, fitness advice and brotherly sympathy. There is nothing I can do or say. The more I try to interrupt them, the more determined they are to talk about me. I can see that Mia likes Dave and Dave likes Mia. It isn’t long before he starts babbling.
‘Will got me a book called The Encyclopedia of Tennis. I’m up to page 460. You can borrow it when I’m finished. It’s got everything in it. It’s got the fifty greatest players of all time and the scores of all the big games. I play tennis, too. What about you? Do you play tennis?’
‘Mia plays in the orchestra, Dave. She plays the viola.’
Dave nods knowingly. ‘Will knows lots of jokes about violas. Tell her, Will. Tell her the one about the smashed-up viola.’
When I look at Mia, she has tears in her eyes.
Dave looks up at the trees, embarrassed.
‘No more viola jokes,’ I say.
Harriet walks in front of us, her lead back on, towing Dave like his chair is a Roman chariot while Mia and I follow behind. In this strange procession we walk around the park together without talking. It’s not that uncomfortable silence that comes from not knowing what to say. It’s a silence that comes from not wanting to be nosy. I want to ask Mia about her father, but I get the feeling she’s not ready to tell me yet.
‘How’s the orchestra?’ I ask finally.
Mia smiles grimly. ‘What do you throw a drowning violist?’ she says. ‘Her viola.’
MIA
At the lockers, Vanessa smiles at me and I smile back. Her smile says, My life is perfect.
And my smile says, Well, my life is perfect, too.
Her smile says, My life is MORE perfect than your life.
And my smile says, If your life is so perfect, then why do you need to smile like that?
Her smile says, Actually, I’m smiling out of pity because you are so pathetic.
And my smile says, I’m not scared of you, Vanessa. There is nothing you can say to upset me.
‘Did you know?’ says Vanessa. ‘Renata’s gone to Europe.’
My face drops and my brave smile slips sadly away.
To avoid another smile-off with Vanessa, I sneak into the orchestra room and sit there in the half-darkness, surrounded by empty chairs and music stands. My eyes closed, I sit perfectly still with my hands in my lap, while my head spins with unhappy questions. How could Renata have left without saying goodbye? What did Vanessa tell her about me? And why did Renata believe it? Who else might Vanessa talk to and what might she say? That my bedroom looks like a doll’s house? That my dad’s an adulterous cradle-snatcher?
What might she say to Will? And would he believe her?
As the minutes tick away, the questions fade and my head slowly stops spinning. I don’t care what Vanessa told Renata or what she says to Will. I don’t care what Will thinks. I don’t care how many young women my father sees. I don’t care how many Year 7 girls Will signs his name on. I don’t care what Vanessa’s smiles mean.
When I look around at the empty chairs I imagine an invisible orchestra, playing with the perfect rhythm of silence. The rhythm fills the empty room. It rings in my ears. Imagine a world without silence. Without silence there could never be music.
Suddenly, the door to the orchestra room opens. The lights go on and in walks Ms Stanway.
‘Mia!’ She looks surprised.
I stand up, embarrassed. ‘Sorry. I was just—’ ‘How are you finding the Vivaldi?’ asks Ms S.
‘My viola—’ I don’t know what to say.
Like a metronome, Ms Stanway wags a pale finger at me. ‘You left it at home?’
I burst into tears and her face softens.
‘Don’t worry. I’m sure we can borrow one.’
‘It was my father’s!’ I sob. ‘My dad is going to kill me!’
WILL
There is no announcement at school assembly. Announcements are for winners. Losers get ignored. When I walk down the corridor, no one pats me on the back. The teachers are all too busy. The Year 7 girls look away, embarrassed.
It’s not whether you win or lose . . . because losing is not an option.
Yorick has been reading about the space–time continuum. ‘Time travel will never be possible,’ he says. ‘No one from the future has ever come back to visit us.’
‘Who would ever want to?’ I say.
Winners get trophies and their names in the Hall of Fame. They get free tennis racquets, guest spots on talkback radio and their photos on packets of breakfast cereal. Losers get forgotten. They turn into ghosts and spend the rest of eternity arguing about whether the ball was in or out.
Thank you for calling Losers Anonymous. Please leave your name and number, your personal hopes and dreams, and we won’t remember to ring you back . . .
At lunchtime I see Bryce, the arm-wrestling champion, preparing to defend his title against the challenger at the head of the queue. It’s a stupid game, but somehow, as a spectator sport, it’s got me in. Because you have to keep one arm behind your back and both feet on the ground, because there is no shouldering or punching allowed, it becomes a game of strategies and lightning reflexes. To win, you have to predict your opponent’s moves and use them against him, the way Yorick does on the chessboard.
I watch the next challenger put up a brave fight, until eventually Bryce has him on his knees. Bryce looks pretty ordinary, though. Apart from having strong arms and a height advantage, there is nothing very impressive about him. His movements are slow and obvious. He is top-heavy – all his strength comes from shoulder height. According to the laws of biomechanics, he would easily lose his balance if he ever got caught off guard.
I could beat him.
According to The Encyclopedia of Tennis, a wild card is an under-ranked star who decides to enter the tournament at the last minute.
‘Holland!’ Bryce calls as I take up my place in the queue. ‘Finally come to get your arse kicked?’
‘Actually, I was planning on kicking your arse.’
Bryce laughs. ‘You’re going to need more than a strong serving arm, mate.’
Bryce orders the other guys in the queue to make way for me, which they do without complaining. Everyone is interested, suddenly, as if it’s a title fight.
I step up to face Bryce.
He is taller than me, but I have a longer reach.
‘You know the rules?’ he says.
‘I think so.’
‘First to move his feet or first to give up. You ready?’
I look around at the guys who are watching. I can tell from their faces that they are waiting to see me lose. Further away, leaning against the fence, I see Vanessa is watching, too. Suddenly, it feels like the whole school is watching.
I know Bryce will try to strike first, and I am ready for him. As his arm comes shooting towards me, I grab hold of his wrist and pull it, leaning sideways to upset his balance. As Bryce falls, he grabs my arm and twists it hard. I feel a sharp, stabbing pain in my elbow, but I know I’m the winner.
The fight was over in a flash. Will Holland – the new school champion!
The other guys nod their heads in approval and Bryce vows to get me next time for sure. The next guy in the queue looks like a pushover, but my elbow hurts, so I forfeit the fight and he gets the title.
Vanessa signals to me and I wander over, rubbing my sore arm.
‘Impressive!’ she says, though I can’t tell if she means it or not.
When she sees I’m in pain, Vanessa smiles sympathetically and reaches out to touch the sore spot. ‘Poor baby,’ she says.
I’m still wary, but I like the feel of her soft, cool fingers on my skin.
‘My personal trainer?’ I say.
‘At your service,’ she says.
According to The Encyclopedia of Tennis, service is the act of putting the ball in play, and any motion – underhand or other – is permitted.
MIA
There they are – Vanessa and Will – together in broad daylight. She is touching his arm, and he is letting her! Will and Vanessa, being intimate and physical for all the world to see. She is massaging his arm and he is letting her! She is using both hands and he is loving it! Will sits down and Vanessa kneels behind him. She leans against him, rubbing his shoulders. He rolls his head around like he is in heaven. For a moment it looks like they are actually going to start doing it right here, in front of the whole school!
It’s a truly sickening sight.
I’m in shock. I know people do do it. I have seen movies with people doing it. I have read books. Some days, it seems like everyone is doing it. It’s everywhere, but invisible. I don’t know what boys imagine when they imagine doing it, but when I imagine doing it, I imagine almost everything but the actual it. I can get a clear picture of what happens before and after, but when it comes to during, I tend to leave out the gory details.