About The Harper Effect
Ditched by her coach. Not speaking to her sister. In love with the wrong boy.
Harper Hunter doesn’t know how it came to this.
Her tennis dreams are collapsing: her coach says she doesn’t have what it takes to make it in the world of professional tennis.
Her new doubles partner is moody, mysterious and angry at the world. What is he hiding?
She is in love with Jacob, but he is her sister’s boyfriend. Or, he was. Harper could never betray Aria with Jacob . . . could she?
As Harper’s heart and dreams pull her in different directions, she has to figure out exactly what she wants. And just how hard she’s willing to fight to get it.
Contents
Cover
About The Harper Effect
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
About Taryn Bashford
Copyright Page
For my brother, Warwick, who continues to hurl fireballs.
The dining room is where the ghosts and monsters play. That’s what Jacob said when I was five and he was six, necks curling around the half-open door, our eyes blurting fright. On a dare, we’d tiptoe into the room, dash around the table then jump through the French windows into the garden, screaming with delighted terror. Nearly twelve years later, it’s still my least favourite room in the house. Maybe that’s because it’s where the recent pep talks have taken place and the grandfather clock seems to count down the seconds to the end of life as I know it.
So when Dad and Coach Kominsky invite me to join them at the dining table, the cream-cushioned chairs imprinted with the bums of Jacob’s make-believe ghosts, I wrap my arms around my chest and respond with a brisk, ‘I’ll stay standing, thanks.’
‘There’s not an easy way to say this, Harper,’ says ‘Killer’ Kominsky in his clipped Czech accent. He smooths a hand over his perfectly round shaved head, no freckle or bump daring to blemish it. ‘So I just speak the words. It is time for me to move on. I do not believe you are good enough to make it to the top.’
The ground falls upwards. My chest squeezes.
So this is why we flew home between tournaments.
I contemplate leaping out the window, but after all the sacrifices I’ve made – summers at the beach, friendships that held me together, lost moments with my family – tennis is who I am. I have to change Kominsky’s mind.
I grip a high-backed chair, add some flint to my gaze. ‘How can you say that?’ My voice wobbles. ‘Maybe some kids turn pro and hit top 10 in one season, but I’m only sixteen –’
‘Sixteen and a half, Harper,’ replies Kominsky, tapping his fingertips together. I glance at the Sydney Morning Herald sports section laid flat in front of him. He’s trained me to become a world-class tennis player for five years, but I’ve never featured on that page. Perhaps he’s right and I’m not good enough.
‘Dad?’ I say.
My father startles, flicks his fringe out of his eyes and squints at me as if he’s staring into the sun. His smile looks worn out. He glances toward Kominsky instead. Kominsky has been the sun these past few years, our lives revolving around his every word and action, so that’s no good either. Dad gazes out the windows into the afternoon sky, his eyes glassy behind frameless specs.
I unravel the pair of loose plaits I put my hair into this morning – Hiawatha hair, as Mum calls it. My hands tremble.
Kominsky stands and rolls up his newspaper, ready to walk away from me forever.
There’s a whooshing feeling, a this-is-it, life-changing-moment feeling, and I seem to hover near the ceiling with Jacob’s pretend ghosts. The movie of my life so far flashes before my eyes; how, even as a three-year-old, I’d trail a too-big racquet around the backyard tennis court and try to copy Dad and his buddies as they played. All of them had, in their youth, hoped to be where I am now. To me they had seemed like gods throwing fireballs at each other. I longed to have their power, their grace and speed. They were magical. They were heroes.
And for a while my talent was a little magical. For a while, touring the junior circuit, I believed I’d be someone’s hero, too. But turning professional nine months ago changed everything; the fireballs I’d learnt to hurl off my own racquet had transformed into stupid yellow balls that had it in for me.
Dad said the only thing it changed was that I could win money, ‘but don’t let that get to you – money’s not important right now.’
It isn’t the money, though. Before, I was living my childhood dream, touring the world, and now I’m fighting to keep my scarily grown-up job. I’ve staked my claim and everyone is watching.
Kominsky cracks the knuckles on both hands, his elastic lips set in a long straight line. ‘Physically you have all the potential you need to be the best. But as a singles player, you are putty, Harper. Hard and tough until the heat turns up. Then soft. Easy to control. Easy to beat.’ He points a long finger at his temple, prods hard enough that it must hurt. ‘Not tough enough up here. I cannot waste my time any longer.’
‘Waste?’ I collapse into a chair, my arms as floppy as empty sleeves. ‘I almost got to the second round at Washington this week. I almost broke the first-round jinx –’ I look to Dad for backup, but his gaze is trained on the view of the Sydney Harbour Bridge. ‘Who’s taking me to Cincinnati next week – the US Open? I’m young enough to –’
Kominsky holds up a hand. He’s not into discussion, only commands.
Other players say their coaches are like second fathers to them, but Kominsky’s never been that. Still, how can he abandon me? He’s going on to better things – without me. If mental toughness means being so unfeeling, I will never be strong enough.
‘Almost is not enough. I go home now,’ Kominsky says, glaring at Dad’s profile. ‘The body I can train. The mind is for you to train, Harper.’ In the sunny room, his whitewashed blue eyes drill down on me from his freakish height. He leans closer and pulls the final thread on my career. ‘Being at the top is about winning the mind game.’ He extend
s a stiff hand in Dad’s direction.
Each word is a tennis ball being smashed into my chest. If Kominsky doesn’t rate me, where does that leave me? He’s never been wrong. My throat swells with forbidden tears. Kominsky doesn’t tolerate crying.
Dad stands. He runs three fingers through his floppy silver-white fringe and I realise it’s not just me who’s getting dumped.
Kominsky pumps Dad’s hand. ‘I recommend doubles tournaments if she want to continue.’
If I want to continue?
Where would my life lead without tennis? Would I go back to high school instead of being tutored? Would I take up netball or swimming or piano and make friends – and keep them? Would I allow myself ice-cream and hot dogs? Would I have time to hang out with Aria?
Without tennis, what’s the point of me?
The familiar sound of Jacob playing the guitar drifts into the room from his house next door, like the closing credits of a movie. Except I’m not ready for anything to end. I take the fastest exit and vault out the French windows.
The woods to the side of our house are the same now as when my older sister Aria and I played Hansel and Gretel with Jacob a decade ago. We know every rock, fork, rut and ridge; even at night we can navigate the path to the river. It’s uncultivated land that Dad’s toothpaste company owns, crowded with jacaranda trees, but the three of us have called them the Purple Woods since forever. In spring the trees become fountains of colour, the blue-purple flowers waterfalling from each branch, and when the wind gusts, blossoms ride on the breeze. The ground transforms into a violet carpet and the river is peppered with petals as if a wedding had passed by and everyone had gone crazy with confetti.
It’s because of the woods that childhood is, for me, the colour purple.
Today the woods are sleepy and gaunt. Wispy branches hang on to the last of their yellow foliage and spindly evergreens hunch until spring, or as we call it, Purple Time. Twigs crack and dead leaves crunch under my tennis shoes as I run. Right now I need to let the woods swallow me.
Running headlong toward the river, I hurtle back into a world where Kominsky doesn’t exist, and collapse under the Mother Tree. Once upon a time I declared this the mother of all the trees because it took all three of us, fingertips touching, to circle the trunk. Its low, solid branches became home to a zillion childhood games. Being here is travelling back into the past, back to when life was simpler, when nothing was expected of us but to return in time for dinner.
The problem with being a professional player is that everyone judges: coaches, players, the media, even inanimate objects – the hiccupping whir of the air conditioner in my last hotel bedroom seemed to mock my inconsistent serve.
I curl up and hug my knees, afraid that pieces of me might drop away, lost forever. Kominsky has not only been my coach, he has organised my life – I just arrive on time every morning.
Finally, I let the tears come.
The sound of someone scuffing through leaves as they approach makes me scrub at wet cheeks with the inside of my wrists.
‘Harps. Wassup? Saw you take off.’ Jacob’s lean frame lopes closer, even now gripping a guitar by its neck as though he left home in a hurry and forgot he had hold of it. He’s just washed his hair – long blond waves touch his collarbone, leaving damp patches on his blue T-shirt. When he grins he morphs into the small boy who became our best friend – we were no longer Aria and Harper, the Hunter sisters, but Aria, Harper and Jacob, the barefooted, adventure-seeking Ragamuffins, soon shortened to the Raggers.
‘Were you eavesdropping again?’ I ask, pulling on a smile. Jacob’s music studio is to the side of his home, close enough for him to listen in if he sits on the doorstep.
‘Couldn’t hear much. You guys need to shout louder.’ He plops to the ground, shoulder-bumping me. ‘Your dad told me to stay away – he said he needed to talk to you about something important.’
I push Kominsky’s words from my mind. ‘Never mind that. How’s school?’
‘Skipped today. Surf’s pumping.’ Beaming cheekily, he nibbles a fingernail on his fretting hand. Bondi-blue eyes study me. My heart backflips.
I remember the precise moment I fell in love with him. He’d come to support me at a local tournament when I was thirteen. My opponent’s dad was sitting behind me and every time I hit the ball into the net or out, he cheered. Kominsky said I should get used to heckling, but during the changeover Jacob approached the dad, a guy built like a skyscraper – and the mocking stopped for the rest of the game. When I asked Jacob about it he shrugged, saying, ‘I’ll always protect you from dicks like that.’
Love exploded into my heart and has never left.
But as Kominsky drummed into me year after year, I didn’t have time for boyfriends – or friends or parties or shopping. And so that I could play more international tournaments, a tutor replaced school. Jacob became my last remaining friend – another reason to ignore my heart. But I was on the junior tour, often away from home, and the autumn I turned fourteen, I returned from Europe to find Jacob kissing Aria on the back deck. They’ve been joined at the pinkie finger ever since.
I hug my knees and pluck a string on Jacob’s guitar. We watch it hum until it hushes, then survey the river flooding over rocks and gullies. The surge is constant, reassuring – the same as it’s always been.
‘Spit it out.’ Jacob flings an arm around my shoulders. ‘What’s happened? How was Washington?’
I twist my hair into a chestnut-brown rope and suck the end. ‘I’ve beaten Alexia in qualifying like, five times. I was three points away from going through to the second round.’
‘First-round jinx strikes again.’ Jacob snatches the hair rope and flicks it out of harm’s way. ‘You’ll do it next time. You’re an amazing player.’
My chin quivers and my lips twist. ‘But not good enough. Kominsky ditched me.’
‘He what? Why?’
‘Said I’m a waste of time.’ Unable to hold back any longer, I’m shaking and wilting into Jacob, darkening his T-shirt with tears. He’s always been a good listener, and a good hugger.
‘He’s the frigging waste of time.’ Jacob’s chest vibrates. I cling on, our denim-covered legs interlocked, and though I should let go, I don’t. I can’t. Even though it’s winter, he smells of summer – salty air, surf wax and vanilla ice-cream – and when I breathe him in I feel the tiniest bit brand new.
‘Kominsky’s a dick,’ adds Jacob. ‘What did your dad say?’
‘He always agrees with Coach,’ I say, still sobbing.
Even when I’m cried out I don’t move away and Jacob doesn’t unwrap me. Only when he rests his cheek on the top of my head do I draw back and scramble for the lowest branch of the Mother Tree. Jacob vaults onto my branch and we face each other, riding make-believe horses. But we don’t pretend to whip the branch as we used to, or squish it with our thighs to gee up the horse, or shout ‘yeehah’ while swishing imaginary reins.
Jacob clears his throat. ‘Kominsky might change his mind.’
I shake my head. ‘Apparently I don’t have what it takes mentally. He’s moving on to someone who does.’ With my eyes, I trace the carved letters of our three names in the trunk above Jacob’s head. They’ve been there since before Kominsky. I snuck the knife we used from our kitchen, egging on Jacob and silencing Aria’s protests. Jacob got into trouble when he cut himself, but he never snitched on me. The pale half-moon scar still dissects the heart line on his palm.
‘I don’t think I can give up tennis, though. As pressured as the circuit is, as lonely and scary as it is on court – not having tennis anymore –’
If I stop playing, it’d be like denying who I am. It’d be like telling the Mother Tree that nature just ran out of purple and to flip to plan B and grow yellow blossoms instead. Or like demanding the river flow up the hill, or banning the birds in the woods from singing. It’s why I’
m on this earth; rivers flow downstream, birds sing, the Mother Tree must blossom and grow – and I must play tennis. Dad once said every racquet is the same until it’s strung. Then it’s unique. My dream is not to be the same as every unstrung racquet in the factory. I want to hurl fireballs. I want to be an inspiration. Someone’s hero.
For a moment everything blanches, my life wiped out by a nuclear flash.
Tennis is my whole world. I have no plan B.
‘Tennis makes me count. I’m someone.’
‘You’ll find a better coach,’ says Jacob. ‘Anyone with a brain knows you’ll be a star.’
‘If Dad will keep paying.’ Dad had sacrificed the day-to-day running of his company to his number two in order to tour with me these last few years, and it’s not like I’m as profitable as his company.
Jacob lies back on the branch, hands clasped behind his head – Mowgli in his jungle. ‘You’re earning prize money now.’
‘But is it enough? It’s not just the coach – it’s the tutor, the travel, the hotels. And Kominsky’s right – I can’t seem to get past the first round. Maybe I’m not good enough.’
And I’m not sure Dad believes in me anymore.
I wait for Jacob’s words of reassurance, but he keeps his gaze in the sky. ‘Must be the week for big changes,’ he says, so softly I barely hear him over the rush of the river.
‘What do you mean?’
He straddles the branch again, picks at the bark. ‘Seen Aria since you got back?’
‘No. I think she’s working at Mo’s today.’ Mo’s is a local music centre and the owner loves the fact that Aria can play six instruments. His sales spiked after he employed her.
Jacob swings to the ground, sits cross-legged, guitar in his lap. It’s the one he got for his seventeenth birthday earlier this year and it’s worth thousands. He plays a chord. His hands are soft and smooth – girl’s hands. ‘We broke up.’
‘What? Why?’ Why hadn’t Aria called me? But I already know the answer. Choosing tennis meant letting the bond with my sister crack.
He moves to form a new chord and strums. Strums again. ‘Didn’t work out.’
The Harper Effect Page 1