Stuff Happens, Tom

by Pat Flynn

  I’d done it.

  ‘TC’s da man!’ yelled Luke, coming over to slap me on the back. He started a trend because nearly every boy in the class back-slapped me.

  Fadi nearly sent me flying. He’s built like a bulldozer. ‘Great work, bro!’

  ‘Thanks.’ I rubbed my back. ‘I think.’

  When we walked back to the classroom, we passed 5L’s room. Zac was looking out the window. He gave me a wave.

  I smiled and waved back, while I mumbled in a low voice, ‘You’re going down, Zepharis.’

  Before I could beat a hotshot like Zac, I had to be able to take down Kristen Cameron. I was playing against her in Saturday morning Division Three Junior Fixtures. Last time I beat her 6–1, so it was a good chance for me to get a win on the board and gain some confidence.

  Late Friday afternoon, I tried imagery. After how well it worked for the bucket toss, I couldn’t wait to use it for my tennis.

  I lay down on my bed, closed my eyes and started to relax. Then I got whacked in the head with a pillow. My eyes sprung open and I spotted my attacker.

  ‘Ellie!’

  She giggled. ‘Got you a good one, didn’t I, Tom?’

  I was about to use my pillow to whack her back but her kind-of-cute, gap-toothed smile made me change my mind. Besides, she’s only six, so I’d probably make her cry. Instead, I pulled her onto my bed and tickled her.

  She laughed her head off. ‘Stop, Tom! Stop!’

  I didn’t stop because it looked like she was having the time of her life.

  I did slow down, though, saying, ‘I’ll stop if you say, “Tom Connors is a legend.”’

  ‘Tom Connors is . . .’ She paused, a cheeky glint in her eye. ‘. . . a dumb-dumb!’

  I tickled her harder, typing an imaginary book above her chest.

  Ellie could hardly breathe she was laughing so much, but she finally managed to wheeze, ‘Tom Connors is a legend.’

  I slowed down again, but didn’t stop. ‘Say it one more time!’

  ‘Tom! I’m gonna wet my pants!’

  I stopped. After all, she was on my bed.

  I rolled off and Ellie and I lay beside each other, getting our breath back.

  ‘What were you doing with your eyes closed, anyway?’ Ellie asked. ‘It’s not even night-time.’

  ‘Imagery.’

  ‘Injury? What’s that?’

  I sighed. I knew that if I didn’t explain it she’d ask twenty questions. And if I did, she’d still ask about nineteen. Little sisters can be so annoying.

  ‘Imagery is when you imagine something and it comes true. Miss Hobbie reckons it works.’

  ‘Really? Let’s imagine we can fly!’ She was excited now. ‘Tom, why don’t we climb up on the roof and try it?’

  I laughed. ‘We’d better not. It only works for some things.’

  ‘What sort of things?’

  ‘Umm . . .’ I tried to think of an example. ‘Like . . . you might imagine you’re a really good dancer and then you will be.’

  ‘But I am a really good dancer.’ She sounded hurt.

  ‘I know you are, but you might get even better.’

  Now she looked confused. ‘How can I get better? I’m already great!’

  I sighed again. I needed to find a way to keep Ellie quiet. ‘Would you like chocolate ice-cream for dessert tonight?’

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘Imagery will let you get it. But you have to do exactly what I say.’

  ‘Okay. You tell me and I’ll do it. I promise.’

  The one good thing about having a younger sister is that she believes pretty much everything I say. ‘Okay, just close your eyes and imagine Mum bringing delicious chocolate ice-cream out in a bowl –’

  ‘I like cones better.’

  ‘Fine. Mum brings out chocolate ice-cream on a big cone and you lick it. It tastes really yummy. Can you imagine that?’

  ‘I think so. Is it a waffle cone?’

  ‘Yes.’ I kept going before she could interrupt again. ‘Now, while you do imagery you’re not allowed to open your eyes or talk until I say stop or it won’t work. Okay?’

  ‘Okay.’

  We closed our eyes and lay beside each other on the bed – Ellie thinking about ice-cream and me thinking about tennis. Ellie was quiet as a mouse, but for some reason, tennis shots were a lot harder for me to picture than tossing balls into a bucket. I could see myself hitting some good forehands and backhands, but when I imagined myself serving, I kept seeing bad ball tosses and double-faults.

  It was like my mind was stuck on the same movie.

  A horror movie.

  ‘Tom. Ellie. Dinner!’

  I opened my eyes and noticed my heart beating hard against my chest. It was the same way I felt before a really important point in a tennis match, or when I was talking to Maddie Johnstone – this girl in my class I like a tiny bit.

  ‘Coming, Mum.’

  Ellie kept her eyes closed.

  She whispered, ‘Tom, say stop.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Remember?’ she said. ‘You have to say stop before I open my eyes or else the injury won’t work.’

  ‘Stop,’ I said.

  She opened her eyes. ‘That ice-cream is going to be yummy in my tummy.’

  When we got to the table, Ellie said, ‘What’s for dessert?’

  Dad answered as he buttered some bread. ‘You have to eat up your dinner first.’

  ‘I know,’ said Ellie. ‘I just want to know what it’s going to be.’

  ‘Cut up strawberries,’ said Mum.

  ‘Any ice-cream?’ asked Ellie.

  ‘No,’ said Mum. ‘I only buy that for special occasions.’

  Ellie turned to me and hissed, ‘You’re a liar, liar, pants on fire!’ Then she kicked me under the table, right in the shins.

  ‘Ouch!’

  I wanted to kick her back, but I knew if I did she’d tell Mum and Dad everything and they’d blame me. Instead, I gritted my teeth and wondered if Luke was right. Maybe Miss Hobbie was lying to us about the power of imagery, just like I’d lied to Ellie.

  The next day, I felt good in the warm-up. The sun was shining and the new balls were pinging off my polyester strings. I used the five minutes to practise my shots and – like my coach told me – check out Kristen’s game. Her forehand was strong, but her one-handed backhand was her weak spot – especially if the ball was above shoulder height. Instead of hitting the ball hard and flat, I needed to whip high-bouncing top-spin shots. Like Rafa does.

  After the warm-up, we met at the net for the toss. ‘M or W?’ I asked.

  ‘M,’ she replied.

  I spun my racquet on the ground. When it dropped, the letter on the butt of the racquet would either make a ‘W’ for Wilson or an ‘M’ for an upside-down W.

  I picked up the racquet and checked. ‘It’s M.’

  ‘I’ll receive,’ said Kristen. ‘I heard you’ve been having trouble with your serve lately.’

  My mouth fell open. It looked like I wasn’t the only person who’d been sussing out my opponent’s weaknesses.

  I’d like to tell you that I stepped up to the line and served four aces in a row like Serena Williams did at Wimbledon that time. But it would be a lie. A big lie.

  I served four double-faults.

  That had never happened to me before. Not even when I started tennis matches when I was eight years old, although it was easier then because we used giant red balls and got to serve from close to the net.

  Still, this was frustrating, embarrassing and very, very annoying. It seemed like the imagery had made my serve even worse.

  ‘That was a quick game,’ said Kristen as we swapped ends.

  This girl was getting on my nerves.

  The next game I hit some good shots, but Kristen hit even better ones. She’d really improved since I played her last. After a few back and forth deuces, she gained the advantage and hit a forehand winner to hold serve.

&n
bsp; On my next service game I didn’t double-fault four times. I double-faulted five times. It was like my serve was possessed by demons. My ball toss was crooked and my rhythm as jerky as a robot dance. When I got my serve in I won the point – trouble was I couldn’t get my serve in for two points in a row. When I finally lost the long deuce game with yet another double-fault, a wave of rage crashed inside me. I threw my racquet to the ground and yelled, ‘This must be a dream!’ Then I pinched myself hard, hoping to wake up.

  When I didn’t, I gave up. It wasn’t because I was 3–0 down, it was more the hatred I felt for my own body. Being good at tennis was part of who I was. It helped me feel good about myself. But now my stupid, uncoordinated serve had taken all that away. I was no longer a tennis player – I was a terrible tennis player.

  I slouched around the court with my head and shoulders down, smacking a few returns into the back fence. Before I knew it we were shaking hands.

  ‘You feeling all right?’ Dad asked when I walked off.

  I nodded.

  ‘In that case, that was a hopeless effort, son. Giving up like that should make you feel ashamed of yourself. You need the killer –’

  ‘I gotta go to the toilet.’ I didn’t feel like listening to Dad’s expert advice right now.

  Crashing into the change room, I looked for something to kick or break. But all I saw was someone I knew.

  ‘How’d you go?’ asked Zac.

  He was in a different team to me, but played in the same competition.

  ‘I went down,’ I mumbled.

  ‘Who to?’

  I mumbled even softer. ‘Kristen Cameron.’

  ‘You lost to Kristen Cameron!’

  He obviously doesn’t have any trouble with his hearing.

  ‘What was the score?’

  I nearly said, ‘6–4,’ but I knew he’d look it up on the website later and find out the truth. ‘6–love.’

  His jaw dropped. ‘Did you get hit by a bus on the way here?’

  ‘Something like that.’ I changed the subject. ‘How’d you go?’

  ‘Got up against Jack Jansen, 6–1.’

  ‘Well done.’ And it was. Jack Jansen’s a good player. Suddenly, I felt the need to get out of there in a hurry.

  ‘Hey, Tom,’ Zac said as I walked out the door. ‘Good luck in the doubles.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  We lost the doubles. I played shockingly, and it was pretty quiet in the car on the way home. Until Dad said, ‘Son, I think you need a break from tennis.’

  My gut felt like it had been stabbed by a knife. I loved tennis. What would I do without it? But what made it hurt so bad is that, deep down, I was scared he was right.

  Miss Hobbie was telling us a story. ‘At the shops yesterday I ran into the father of a student I taught a few years ago. His name was on the tip of my tongue, but I couldn’t remember it. Has this ever happened to you?’

  Pretty much everyone put their hand up, including me. Mum and I are usually good with names, but Dad is terrible. Sometimes he calls me and Ellie, ‘Child 1’ and ‘Child 2’.

  ‘So this is what I did,’ said Miss Hobbie. ‘I started talking to the deep part of my mind, the part that never forgets anything, and I said, “I need to remember this man’s name, so please search my memory bank and let me know when you find it. I’m going to stop thinking about it now and trust you to do this job.”’

  As usual, Josie had her hand up. ‘What happened, Miss?’

  ‘Well, the man and I spoke for a few minutes and I still couldn’t remember his name. But just as he said goodbye, a word flashed into my mind. “Bye, Charlie,” I said.’

  ‘Was that his name?’ asked Josie.

  ‘Actually, it was George.’ Miss Hobbie looked serious for a moment before her face cracked open like a safe. ‘No, it was Charlie.’

  Some girls giggled.

  Luke raised his hand. ‘No disrespect, Miss, but I’m not buying it. I think you just got lucky.’

  Miss Hobbie didn’t get mad at all. ‘I’m glad you think that way, Luke. It’s good to be a cynic.’

  I wasn’t exactly sure what a ‘cynic’ was, but it sounded like Luke.

  ‘Let me explain how it works and see if you believe it then, okay?’ Miss Hobbie nodded at Luke and he agreed with a shrug of the shoulders.

  ‘Your mind has two parts.’ Miss Hobbie held up two fingers and touched them one at a time. ‘One is like a big, powerful horse and the other is like the rider.’

  This was our second lesson on the power of the mind. After losing on the weekend my mind felt about as powerful as a blackout, but I still listened to what Miss Hobbie had to say. I like horses.

  ‘The rider is called the conscious mind. It’s in charge of thinking. You may believe it’s the boss of what you do, but if you’ve ridden a horse you’d know that it can have a strong will of its own.’

  That’s true. The first time I rode Stretch on my uncle’s farm, I pulled the left rein and Stretch went right because that’s where the hay shed was.

  ‘The horse is called the unconscious mind,’ Miss Hobbie continued. ‘It stores everything that’s ever happened to you in a super computer, and uses that information to bring up your feelings. Feelings are often more powerful than your thoughts.’

  ‘How, Miss?’ asked Josie.

  ‘Let me give you an example.’ Miss Hobbie had her hair in a ponytail today and she twirled the end of it as she spoke. ‘When I was a young girl my mum cooked a delicious batch of scones, and I ate so many that I threw up all over my new pink shoes. How do you think I feel now when I look at scones?’

  Fadi raised his hand. ‘You feel like spewing, Miss.’

  ‘Exactly. My unconscious mind remembers what happened and brings back that sick feeling whenever I see or smell scones.’ Miss Hobbie walked to her desk where she picked up a Tupperware container. Opening it, she pulled out half a scone with strawberry jam spread on it.

  An excited murmur went through the room. No one was expecting her to do that, and we certainly weren’t expecting what she did next.

  She lifted the fluffy scone to her mouth.

  The class was silent, until Fadi said, ‘Go on, Miss. You can do it.’

  ‘No, she can’t,’ said Luke. ‘She’ll spew for sure.’

  I looked at Miss Hobbie’s shoes. At least they weren’t pink.

  I didn’t think she’d do it, but then Miss Hobbie took a medium-sized bite. We waited anxiously to see what would happen. She looked fine for a few seconds, but then she clutched at her stomach and her face scrunched up in pain. It looked like those green shoes were about to turn even greener.

  She opened her mouth and . . . broke into a huge grin. ‘The amazing thing is that you can learn to retrain your unconscious mind so that you feel differently about things. That’s how I can do this.’ She took another big bite. ‘Mmm. Yummy.’

  ‘How do you do it, Miss?’ asked Josie. ‘I’d like to get over my fear of feathers.’

  ‘Buy a pet bird,’ said Luke.

  Josie poked her tongue at him.

  ‘It’s actually not that hard,’ said Miss Hobbie. ‘You just have to know a few things about your horse. One: it doesn’t like to be criticised. Two: it likes the rider sending pictures of what it wants rather than lots of instructions. And three: it only listens well when it’s relaxed.’

  Miss Hobbie looked in our direction. ‘What do you think now, Luke?’

  He shook his head. ‘Still don’t believe you, Miss. Besides, if I want to do something I just have to tell myself to do it. My mind obeys me.’

  He gave her a typical ‘Luke’ look – a cocky grin sitting lopsided on his face.

  ‘That’s good, Luke. Why don’t you come to the front of the class and give a speech about the power of your mind?’

  The grin disappeared. Luke was probably starting to think about toilets.

  ‘Come on, Luke,’ said Miss Hobbie. ‘The class is waiting.’

  ‘I would . .�
��.’ Luke held his Adam’s apple. ‘. . . but I think I’m losing my voice.’

  The class giggled.

  Even if Luke deserved it, I thought I’d better stick up for my friend. I raised my hand. ‘The unconscious part of the mind might be powerful, but positive imagery doesn’t always work. Not for me, anyway.’

  ‘It won’t make you perfect,’ Miss Hobbie said, ‘but it definitely works. To prove it I need three volunteers.’ She looked at me. ‘And, Tom, you’re one.’

  ‘Oh.’ I wish I hadn’t spoken up.

  The other two volunteers were Gregor and Maddie. We sat up the front of the room, facing the other students. I sat next to Maddie, which made it a bit hard to concentrate.

  ‘Take these,’ said Miss Hobbie, giving us each a ten centimetre piece of string with a large paperclip attached to the end. ‘Now hold the string between your thumb and forefinger and put your elbow on your thigh.’

  I did what she said. The paperclip hung down between my legs like a pendulum.

  ‘Close your eyes,’ said Miss Hobbie, ‘and picture the string and paperclip as vividly as you can. Nod when you have a good image of them.’

  I nodded. The string was bright red and the silver paperclip shiny and big. I hope I never had to write an assignment that needed a paperclip that size.

  ‘Now,’ continued Miss Hobbie, ‘keep your eyes closed and imagine the paperclip moving slowly back and forth, from right to left. Keep imagining that it swings back and forth more and more.’

  I heard a ‘Whoa!’ from Fadi, but then it was quiet. I found out later that Miss Hobbie shooshed him with a finger to her lips.

  ‘Now I want you to imagine something new,’ she said. ‘The paperclip is moving towards and away from you. It’s swinging more and more. Away and back to you.’

  She was quiet for a few seconds before she told us to imagine the paperclip swinging round in circles the same way as a clock.

  Finally, Miss Hobbie had us picture the paperclip being still. Then she told us to open our eyes. ‘Tom, do you think your paperclip actually moved?’