Chances for Serendipity

by Natalie Chung

  “How is your sister selfish exactly?” I asked Liz, who was presently dabbing a chip in a generous slab of gravy stuck to the side of her takeaway box.

  Liz’s nostrils flared, and she narrowed her eyes at me. “I don’t want to talk about her.”

  “But you sound like you need to vent.”

  “Oh, you have no idea.” She popped the gravy-drenched chip into her mouth and licked her lips clean.

  “Tell me then. I won’t judge.” I speared a big portion of my chips and munched on them, waiting for her to speak.

  “You’ll totally judge me,” she said in sharp dismissal.

  Not as much as you judge me, Liz. Out loud, I said, “Come on, how is she selfish? Does she constantly change the TV channel? Make fun of your mistakes? Dob on you to your parents? Steal your clothes?” That was all I could come up with when I imagined an annoying older sister. Well, Max actually did all those things, minus the clothes. An annoying older brother couldn’t be that much different than an annoying older sister, right?

  Liz scowled. “No. I know she went through a lot and it wasn’t easy. Don’t get me wrong. But Ellie’s always been a bit self-absorbed, and now it’s a lot worse. She’s acting like she’s a little spoiled princess all the time now. Whatever she wants, she gets. If she wanted to come here”—she swept her hand out—“then she’d get tickets from Mum or Dad, no questions asked. They force me to drop everything for her. But the other half of the time, they basically drop everything for her themselves anyway.” She gobbled down a mouthful of chips, leaving me to think about what she’d just divulged.

  She’d mentioned missing out on a lot of things last year. Uni graduation, participating in a prestigious art exhibition, a big trip around Europe with uni friends… Was that what she was holding against her sister? That did suck, and maybe I’d been a bit judgy about her attitude, but still—Ellie could have died. Didn’t Liz care about that enough to forgive Ellie for being a little selfish?

  “Let’s talk about you instead,” Liz said suddenly.

  “Me?” The topic I was trying to avoid? “No thanks.”

  “Yes, please,” she retorted. She got up from her lawn chair and perched on the side of mine, pushing me aside to give her enough space to sit. “This is the whole reason we’re out together.”

  “It is?” That was news to me. Weren’t we here for her? She loved tennis more than me after all. I mean, sure she’d bought a ticket for my Christmas present, but I thought that was so I had no way of getting out of going with her.

  “Yeah, Sere. You’re studying your butt off at uni as usual. And now you’re too busy to hang out with me even though it’s technically uni break.”

  “I’m not trying to avoid you, Liz. You could always come see me.”

  “I did. I came to the bakery last Saturday. Some other girl was working there. She said you were out.” Liz said this in an accusing tone, like it was my fault I happened to be gone the one time she decided to drop by without notice.

  “Oh…” I’d watched a movie with Jere that day.

  “What’s going on? Don’t you always take your mum’s Saturday shift?”

  I shrugged. “Busy now. No time. Plus she has Ming now. That’s the new girl you saw.” A semi-lie. Mum and I weren’t on good terms right now. Skipping my Saturday duties last weekend was probably the most rebellious thing I’d done since dropping Extension Two Maths in Year Twelve against Mum’s wishes.

  “But you love the bakery.”

  A clear fact I didn't need to be reminded of.

  I shrugged again. “I still help sometimes during the week.” A definite lie this time. At the rate I was going, the feeling of flour beneath my hands would be like a distant dream I’d made up. But until Mum apologised for her behaviour lately, I wasn’t doing anything in the bakery for her.

  “Attention, please. The men’s finals are about to start. Please head to the allocated gate number assigned on your tickets.”

  With that warning, we scrambled to collect our food and belongings. As we made our way to the arena, other thoughts soon overshadowed our discussion.

  Somewhere nearby, Aiden Andale was preparing for the match. I would finally see him again, and I didn’t quite know how I felt about that. Over the years, I’d gradually gotten over the fact that I’d once met a famous tennis player. But every so often, he appeared on a TV ad during the Aus Open or random articles popped up on social media, and I obviously couldn’t avoid them.

  It felt kind of weird to see him like that. Sort of like personally stalking an old friend on Facebook who I’d lost touch with—not that I’d stalked Aiden Andale recently. I still followed his tennis matches every now and then, but that was about it.

  Maybe to anyone else, it wouldn’t be weird following him on social media. But to me, it felt like that would be inviting trouble when I had a boyfriend. Not that Liz believed me. She loved nothing more than to push the idea of me liking Aiden into my head. Even after I started going out with Jere, it was like a habit that she couldn’t—or wouldn’t—break. Just like now.

  “You totally still have a crush on him,” she whispered in my ear after we took our seats in the arena.

  “D-do not!” I spluttered, shielding my mouth with my hand. Despite telling her the truth, she gave me the most incredulous look while snickering. If she saw me laugh now, or so much as crack a smile, she’d call me a liar. Luckily, our row was practically empty, besides a couple sitting on the other end of it, or else I’d probably melt in a puddle of embarrassment right about now.

  My gaze shifted to the court below, desperate to find something that could distract me. Far up high in the cheapest tickets section, courtesy of Liz, we got an unhindered view of the court from the side where no umpire’s chair blocked the way.

  “Sairrr,” Liz said, drawing out my name in a sing-song voice. She flashed me a saccharine smile that reminded me of the Cheshire cat. “Did you know Aiden is single now?” She wagged her eyebrows suggestively.

  How did she even know that? “He could be secretly not single.”

  “Nah. Guys like him flaunt it when they’re not single. Plus it’s all over social media. Tamara Patrickson is now dating some actor. She broke up with Aiden at the end of last year.”

  My throat suddenly felt dry. I cleared it, then said, “Well, it doesn’t matter. I’m not single.” And even if I was single, what kind of life would I be living, liking a celebrity who’d probably forgotten about me a long time ago? Pretty pathetic way to live. Besides, he didn’t seem like my type—overconfident, always smiling, and social. I didn’t know if that was a media-front personality, but it sort of screamed fake to me.

  “Don’t settle for Jerky,” Liz said, and just like that, all thoughts about Aiden Andale evaporated from my mind.

  Irritation surged through me. “His name is Jeremy, and I don’t care if you don’t like him. He’s my boyfriend, so the least you can do is try to be nice, like he is to you.”

  I wasn’t joking when I said Jeremy was nice. Nicer than nice. The kind of guy who would help a lost pet find its home or put a few coins in a charity donation bucket. Our names matched too. Sere and Jere. That was like fate, right?

  I could envision it now. We’d start a law firm together and have two kids—one boy and then one girl. Or was one girl, then one boy better? Well, whatever. It didn’t matter the order or gender.

  The point was that Liz was wrong about him. She thought we weren’t a good match. When I asked her why, she didn’t supply me with a more elaborate answer. I had enough of that crap coming from Mum.

  Last month, I’d invited him home and didn’t remind him to take off his shoes before coming in. His shoes tracked marks for Mum to clean up. Then he hit the nail in the coffin by declaring he was a proud vegan, refusing to eat anything Mum politely offered him.

  Mum also wasn’t so happy I’d decided to try going vegan with Jere. Yeah, maybe it wasn’t such a great idea to try it when my home smelled of non-vegan baked goods, bu
t Jere was worth it. Actually, he would probably have a heart attack if he knew I’d caved and eaten fish and chips. But that was beside the point. The point was Mum shouldn’t be so harsh with her opinions about Jere. And until she apologised, I wasn’t doing any bakery duties.

  Maybe Liz took my statement seriously, because she finally shut up after that. I turned my attention back to the court below. Cameramen were at the ready on the sidelines, training their cameras toward the crowd. No further announcements had been made yet about the players coming. What was taking so long?

  Soon enough, Liz and I needed to tuck in our legs to let multiple people through. Eventually, our row filled up completely.

  “Hey, Sere…” Liz’s serious tone caught me off guard. I faced her directly to regard her change in mood. Her lips thinned, slowly transforming into a grimace.

  “What is it?” I whispered.

  She shook her head. “Nothing. I mean, I’m sorry I upset you. I was just teasing… I’m—I’m glad that we could hang out today, you know. I wasn’t sure when we’d get a chance to again since you’re always so busy all the time now. And—”

  “Ladies and gentlemen.” We jolted in our seats, our attention usurped by the announcer’s voice blaring through the speakers. “We apologise for the delay. But it’s finally time! Please welcome your Sydney International finalists!”

  Chapter 9

  “Our first finalist is a newcomer to this tournament, ranked sixty-seventh in the world. From Italy—Vincenzo Monetti!”

  Polite clapping echoed throughout the arena. A stately tall guy walked through the courtside entrance, his face a blur from this distance. The LCD screen hanging above the court zoomed in closely to reveal a baby-faced youngster. According to articles I had read yesterday, he was eighteen years old. A few whistles came from a corner of the audience waving Italian flags with matching painted flags on their cheeks.

  “And our second finalist, and no doubt home-crowd favourite, ranked twenty-fourth in the world. I give you—from Australia—Aiden Andale!”

  Deafening cheers erupted over the arena. My gaze inevitably locked onto Aiden as he strolled out through the same entrance. Like Monetti, I couldn’t see his features from this far away. I don’t need to look closely, I told myself. I already know what he looks like. But my eyes betrayed me by slowly wandering to the LCD screen again.

  My breath caught in my throat as he sat at his designated bench and pulled out a new racket from his tennis bag. A blue headband pushed back his mussed, dark brown hair. Matching blue shorts and a white shirt completed the look. Somehow, he didn’t look too different from the first time we’d met. Seeing him was like a big blast into my past.

  The sound of a phone camera went off—Liz taking photos. She continued snapping more while they warmed up. It wasn’t until she leaned into me, and I saw my own eyes widen in surprise on her phone screen, that I realised what she wanted.

  “Selfie,” she said, swivelling around to tilt her phone up behind my shoulder.

  I twisted to face the camera, automatically posing with my signature peace sign and closed-mouth smile. A bit of the court showed from behind our close-up faces.

  “Perfect. New profile pic.” She grinned, and I couldn’t help smiling too. For as long as we’d had Facebook, Liz’s display photo had always been one of her and me.

  We settled back into our proper seating positions just as the match began. “Players, ready to start. Andale to serve.”

  I watched with intent focus as he bounced a ball. Tossing it up, he flung his racket out like a whip—just like the first time he’d demonstrated to me. The ball ripped diagonally across the court.

  I didn’t dare blink as Monetti stretched out his racket to return it. Aiden hit a forehand back—the perks of a leftie. Monetti’s feet slid to reach the ball. But Aiden had already anticipated the direction and hit a clean, one-handed backhand into the empty crosscourt.

  “15–Love,” the umpire called out.

  The crowd applauded like mad, clapping along with the thumping of drums. I joined in on the raucous applause.

  The game sped by. I couldn’t tear my eyes away. Aiden hit an ace, then got his next point off Monetti’s return that went out wide.

  The set went on with nothing major happening, both sides equally matched—until the momentum changed at 3–3. It was Aiden’s service game. His first serve hit the net, and Monetti predicted his second serve, returning it straight past him to win the point.

  Aiden’s mentality must’ve suffered a blow, because after that, he hit another fault, and his second serve wasn’t that great again either. He got caught off guard in the direction of the return and hit the ball out wide. 0–30.

  The next point was a long rally that had Liz and I clutching onto each other. Fortunately, it ended with an unforced error from Monetti netting the ball, and we heaved a sigh of relief.

  But that didn’t last. The scales tipped back in Monetti’s favour when Aiden hit a double fault under pressure, setting the game to 15–40.

  Not good.

  “Come on,” Liz whispered. Her hand latched onto my arm in a death grip.

  I would’ve told her to loosen up, but I was just as wound up on this next point. As Dad used to say during these crucial moments—it was make or break.

  My heart thudded erratically with every moment during that next point. From Aiden’s nerve-wracking first serve let, to the next serve that zoomed to the edge of the service box. Monetti’s quick reflexes caught the ball and returned it. The rally went on for a dozen more seconds, the pace finally changing when Monetti hit the ball and it barely flew over the net. A drop shot!

  Aiden raced toward it, shoes squeaking to a stop just in time to catch the ball on his racket. The ball arched back over the net.

  And then Monetti lobbed the ball up high.

  No!

  Aiden pivoted, running back. But it was too late. The ball was already too far ahead. It bounced onto the baseline before Aiden could reach it. Or did it?

  “Out!” a linesman yelled.

  Monetti raised his racket, signalling a challenge.

  Everyone clapped in time to a steady beat as the challenge flashed on the screen, an overview of the ball’s trajectory going in slow motion, zooming into a bird’s eye view close-up to show—

  IN.

  The ball had clipped the line by what looked like an ant’s width—barely a millimetre in.

  The crowd howled, and I clenched my teeth together. No way. No freaking way.

  “Crap,” Liz muttered, body sagging as she finally let go of my arm. Yeah. She was going to leave me a bruise for sure before this match was over.

  I squinted at Aiden on court. He stared at the successful challenge, shaking his head.

  “Game, Monetti,” the umpire announced. “Monetti leads, four games to three.”

  Aiden stalked to the bench, his racket posed high above his head. His arm trembled. Was he going to break his racket? No doubt his boiling emotions were bursting to explode. I mean, who wouldn’t be mad at losing their game that way? But, just as quickly, his arm dropped limply to his side. He wrapped his hand into a fist and hit his thigh. Once. Twice. Three times.

  Dropping onto his bench, he threw a towel over his head. He stayed like that for the full one minute and thirty seconds of the changeover break.

  “Time,” the umpire said.

  I sucked on my bottom lip as he chucked the towel off his head and went to his side of the court. Come on. Don’t give up. You’ll have a chance to break back.

  I inhaled deeply through my nose as Monetti threw the ball up and served—

  And Aiden delivered a flawless backhand return. The ball went back and forth, a long rally in the making. I stared, transfixed, as Aiden returned the ball relentlessly, never letting his guard down. It was like Monetti was hitting against a brick wall. Whatever frustrations Aiden had let out with his fist-smacking and towel-covering worked. He ended the twenty-five shot rally, hitting a winner at a w
icked angle, impossible to reach from Monetti’s baseline position.

  Monetti faltered on his subsequent serves, the pressure to hold his game undeniably weighing on his mind. Soon enough, the score reached 15–40. Two break points for Aiden. Two chances for him to change the tides.

  “Go, go, go,” Liz said, her hand clamping onto my arm again.

  Monetti served fast this time, aiming down the T. But Aiden was faster. Legs split wide, bouncing on the balls of his feet, he immediately twisted to hit a perfect one-handed backhand. It flew straight onto the singles sideline before Monetti could react.

  “Yes!” Liz screamed.

  The crowd went wild. Liz pulled me up with her, and we jumped up and down like hyper children, cheering and laughing.

  “Game, Andale,” the umpire said. “Four games all.”

  It was a whirlwind of a set after that. Aiden gained more confidence and momentum on his break back, and whatever slight advantage Monetti had disappeared. He crumbled on his next service game, losing it to let Aiden take the set 6–4.

  During the second set, Aiden got a head start, winning his own first service game and then breaking Monetti’s service game to lead 2–0.

  Eventually, I didn’t bother looking at the score anymore, simply mesmerised by watching the game itself. A hypnotically induced trance of following the distant yellow-green blur of the tennis ball, the loud bouncing of the ball smacking the surface of the hard court.

  “What?” Liz hissed suddenly.

  I tore my gaze away from the match.

  Liz held her phone to her ear. A voice sounded on the other end, too muffled for me to hear.

  “I’m busy right now. No. I know. Obviously... She doesn’t need—” Liz rolled her eyes, curling a strand of her hair around her finger. “Now? No. It’s always about her, don’t you see? I’m in the middle of watching a tennis match. You’re…” She paused to listen. “Ugh! Fine!” The words seethed through her teeth.