‘She okay?’ I ask, scratching holy crap on the branch with a piece of bark. What about the Con? I wonder. After graduating from high school last year, Aria took a gap year before applying to the Sydney Conservatorium of Music so that she and Jacob could attend together. But now I feel a sense of something shifting, like a kaleidoscope changing its pattern.
‘Guess so. Haven’t seen her since. Buried herself in her music,’ he says.
‘I bet you’ve done the same, knowing you.’
He chucks a twig at me, and smiles into his lap.
‘Who broke it off?’ I ask.
Jacob clicks his jaw from side to side. ‘Me.’
Inside my belly something sparks and my eyes stick inside his so I can’t look away. Got to get a grip. Even though we’ve been best friends since kindergarten, he can never be mine. Not ever. That would break the sisters’ pledge Aria and I made when I was eleven. We’d sworn an oath, pricked each other’s fingers and smeared our blood on Aria’s pink guitar picks – one each as a reminder to never steal each other’s boyfriends. Even though we’re not as close as we used to be, oath or not, she’s my sister and I couldn’t do that to her.
Jacob plucks an intro. While he sings some boy band cover, I climb higher into the tree – away from the desire to stroke his neck as it arcs over the guitar, away from the need to touch the small cleft in his chin, away from the temptation to watch his curvy lips as he sings.
Away.
But when he finishes he leans the guitar on the trunk and scrambles after me, pouncing onto the first branch, then the second, and the next. He’s deeply tanned from surfing, and barefoot, and his blond hair, now dry, flies out behind him.
He comes level with me and sticks his tongue out. ‘Last one to the top’s a stinking cane toad.’ His long limbs reach upwards, past the branch still spiky with metal nails – all that’s left of a treehouse the Raggers built the summer before I went on the junior circuit.
All for friends and friends for all. I chase after him, our childish Musketeer chant repeating in my head. He catches my wrist to help me up the last few branches, even though I’ve done it myself a gazillion times, and we poke our heads through the sparse canopy. A sea of yellow leaves, polka dotted with spiky branches, sweeps toward the houses at the top of the surrounding hills – an ocean wave and we’re in the trough.
We grin; bodiless, floating heads above the foliage.
Eventually Jacob says, ‘You’ll always have me and Aria. And we’ll love you whether you’re ranked ten or ten thousand.’ Our long hair flickers in the wind like lions’ manes.
‘Thanks, Jacob.’ I peel my gaze away and concentrate on both feet as I climb down. If Kominsky knew how hard it’s been for me to watch Aria and Jacob together, how hard it is now to move away from Jacob, he wouldn’t call me weak.
‘This is just perfect,’ I groan, crossing my arms. ‘Kominsky’s goodbye gift – an injured doubles partner.’ Aria gives my shoulder a sympathetic squeeze. Two weeks on, still coach-less, I inspect the players on several courts as they warm up for round two of the Western and Southern Open in Cincinnati.
‘It’s not Kominsky’s fault Saskia twisted her knee,’ Dad says, curt. When his grey eyes aren’t sparkling they appear small and too close together. I hate it when they don’t sparkle, because it’s usually my fault. He made it as far as national level tennis, but once admitted he didn’t have the mental strength to make it professionally. Guess we’re both terrified I inherited that trait. Judging by his pinched expression now, he’s probably wondering whether I’ll ever live up to my name: Jack Harper was an Australian tennis player from the 1940s who still holds the record for the shortest singles match ever – eighteen minutes. The only record I’ll probably ever set is for highest number of first-round knock outs. ‘Kominsky’s going to help us,’ Dad adds. ‘He’ll call back after he’s verified the lucky losers. He’ll find someone to pair up with you soon.’
‘Great,’ I say under my breath. I know I’m being a brat, but when the earth is shifting beneath my feet with every step, it’s hard not to be defensive. Before we left for the airport, Mum advised me to let Dad worry about a new coach so it doesn’t affect my game. ‘This time next month you’ll have forgotten all about this problem,’ she said as she hugged me goodbye. ‘I bet you can’t remember what you were worrying about this time last month.’
Aria pokes me. ‘What’s a lucky loser?’ A droopy bow adorns her messy, half-up hairdo.
‘Someone who lost in the qualifying round who gets called up to replace dropouts. Great for them, crap for me.’ I’ve got a bad feeling about all this – no coach, I lost in the first round of the singles event, again, and an injured doubles partner. Kominsky was right – physically I’ve turned up, but I’ve pressed the self-destruct button on all iron-willed cerebral activity.
Aria nudges me in the ribs as Dominic Sanchez saunters past. He’s number three in the world. She pops on a pair of sunglasses so huge I could be staring at a panda in a tartan maxi-dress. ‘This is so cool. Why haven’t I come away with you before?’
Because Kominsky wouldn’t allow the distraction. Because you didn’t want to leave Jacob’s side.
I take a sip of the green smoothie Dad made.
Aria’s not exactly hacking it since the breakup with Jacob. It’s the real reason she’s here with me and Dad. She’d packed herself away like a broken doll, staying after hours at Mo’s to practise, barely seeing the light of day. She’s always been pale, but now she’s translucent. She won’t talk about Jacob either and that hurts – sisters are meant to talk about this stuff. Thinking about the bond we’ve lost used to make me want to hit myself over the head with a tennis racquet, but I figure it’s not wrong that I chose to hit the junior circuit – after all, she chose to be a musician. She also spends hours alone practising. Except I suspect it’s not as simple as that; sisterly bonds tend to need more than absence to break them.
Today, though, I need her here with me like it’s my first day of school. I wonder if I can heal us. The thought of becoming close again has only just occurred to me – probably because Kominsky has turned my world upside down. Or is it because she’s no longer with Jacob?
Relieved that a natural smile has replaced her clip-on one, I sling an arm around her. ‘Glad you’re here, sis. I totally mean it.’ She yanks my ponytail, which is the exact same shade of chestnut as hers. Despite her smile, a shadow crosses her features. I poke her, in case her mind is wandering back to Jacob.
We’re waiting in what’s become a thoroughfare and when Aria tickles me back I jerk away from her. The last of my green smoothie escapes out of the flask and onto a man’s black T-shirt as he picks his way through the crowd. My eyes saucer.
He’s tall – given my own height I reckon he’s well over six foot. He also has a solid, athletic build and a chin shadowed with stubble – you wouldn’t want to bump into him in a dark alley. But when he swings around it’s clear from the deep-set eyes to the arch of his cheekbones that he is someone you’d want to bump into on your first day of university. And he can’t be much older than me, even if he is man-sized.
I throw on my biggest smile. ‘I’m really sorry – bit crowded here.’ My smile gulps when he stares back at me, actually into me. His espresso-coloured hair is short and spiked at the front, revealing a small widow’s peak, and his skin is a deep brown, similar to mine. He must spend a lot of time outdoors.
I try another smile, stashing the flask behind my back. ‘Sorry. We were goofing around.’
‘Harper Hunter,’ he says, low and smooth – a man’s voice. I’m not sure if he’s asking or telling. I nod. ‘Another one,’ he snaps. ‘I’ll be sure to avoid you in future.’
My mouth pops open, but the words, Another what? remain hooked in my throat.
He pivots and strips off the smoothie-gunked T-shirt as he walks away, revealing muscles that didn’t
just grow there on their own. And judging by the fact that his right bicep is slightly bigger than the left, he’s a tennis player.
‘I’m not sure if he’s amazingly rude or amazingly sexy.’ I half laugh. ‘Who broke his tennis racquet?’
‘Is he famous?’ asks Aria.
‘Obviously he thinks so.’ From his accent he’s American – how does he know my name?
‘Those eyes. Perfect for drowning in,’ Aria adds. She’s saying the words, but by the far-off look in her eyes, she’s actually talking about Jacob.
Dad’s phone rings. He’s been watching the match on Court 4 and walks away from us, one finger stuck in an ear, his round glasses slipping down his Roman nose in the heat.
Aria and I lean on the railing to inspect the play below. Dad reckons this doubles idea will give me more match play, get my name known, and maybe if I have a partner to buoy me, I won’t choke when the pressure’s on – maybe I’ll even get past round one. Even though the words are a repeat of something Kominsky would say, I don’t argue because it pleases Dad and might get me a new coach.
‘Let’s go.’ Dad pulls us into a group huddle. ‘Kominsky’s come through again. We’re meeting a potential coach in the player’s lounge. You’ve heard of Milo Stein from Germany?’
I hug myself and don’t move. What if this coach is worse than Kominsky? He might also tell Dad I don’t have what it takes. ‘Dad, I’m on court in three hours. What about a new partner?’
‘Partner’s sorted, but this is important – this is the long term.’ He tweaks my nose, then weaves through the crowd, Aria and I trailing behind.
The players’ lounge, normally filled with cliques and gossip, is almost empty. It’s easy to spot the guy I chucked green smoothie on. Still shirtless, he’s talking to an older man with such long silvery-brown hair it could belong to a girl.
Dad heads for Mr Shirtless.
‘Oh, poop,’ says Aria. She winces on my behalf.
While Dad shakes hands with long-hair guy, I hang back and count Mr Shirtless’s six pack. I’m used to seeing Jacob without a shirt on, and he’s ripped too, but he’s wiry and boyish, smooth-chested. This guy’s wide shoulders taper into a narrow waist, and his muscled chest is covered in a smattering of dark hair.
Dad beckons us. I slow, twirling my ponytail and sucking the end, and decide Mr Shirtless was plain rude before – how dare he say he’ll try to avoid me? It was an accident, Mr Humourless.
The guy Dad’s talking to, my possible new coach, I assume, is wearing thongs with jeans rather than the usual trainers or tennis shoes. He has the air of someone on the way to a music concert – or a bikers’ reunion.
‘Harper,’ says Dad, ‘this is Coach Milo Stein, and say hello to Colt Quinn.’
Even though Aria’s older than me, I’m two centimetres taller. I pull up to my full 178 centimetres and extend a hand to the coach, who is younger up close – maybe late thirties. The stress of tennis must’ve turned him prematurely grey. There’s a tattoo on his neck almost covered by the collar of his shirt that reads Train insane or remain the same in black cursive.
Steeling myself against his judgement – this is the girl who never gets past the first round – I’m surprised to find labrador puppy-dog eyes. But they don’t say hello. They seem to gently look right into me as if leafing through a book. His grin expands as he says, ‘Well, the rabbit lies in the pepper.’
What? I wrinkle my nose. Great. He is insane. Irritation prickles under my skin.
Switching to Colt, I say, ‘Sorry you couldn’t manage to avoid me.’ I point with my chin toward the black T-shirt he’s left in a heap on the table. ‘And what did you mean by another one?’
Colt’s handshake is as firm as stone to match his manner, but instead of replying he turns to Aria. ‘I didn’t know you were a twin,’ he says.
‘Not twins, I’m nearly two years older,’ says Aria, squashing down the annoyance I see flickering in her eyes. ‘And we’re nothing alike, you know.’ Aria’s words speed up, a dead giveaway she’s nervous. ‘Harper lives for tennis. I live for music. She’s addicted to coffee. I hate even the smell of it –’
I nudge Aria’s calf to stop her prattling. She never could talk to boys – other than Jacob.
Colt keeps inspecting us. ‘You have green eyes and Harper’s are blue.’
‘Impressive,’ I say, sarcastic. ‘You can tell the difference between blue and green.’ The words land in an awkward heap in the middle of our circle.
‘Harper,’ reprimands Dad.
‘A smart-arse. I like it,’ says Coach Stein, slapping Dad on the back. I’m surprised that his accent sounds mostly Aussie, with a tinge of something foreign in the background.
‘A smart-arse with a soft heart that stops her from winning,’ adds Colt, pronouncing my death sentence.
‘Is that right?’ I snap. For the first time I notice he has a tattoo on his arm – no doubt a naked lady or something equally offensive – but I refuse to show any interest in it.
‘Good court speed. Tight footwork. Powerful groundstrokes. Takes the ball early, can play defence and offence, double-handed backhand, but you have a wandering ball toss when you serve, thankfully made up for by a strong, consistent return of serve. Singles ranking top 150 in the world, a position you’ve not improved for several months thanks to a tendency to go soft on your opponent when you start beating them.’
Flames rise through my cheeks and to the tips of my ears. ‘It seems you know me better than I know myself.’ He doesn’t flinch but stares back – no humour, no embarrassment. No nothing. Is he a robot?
‘I’ll be watching your doubles game this afternoon, Harper Hunter,’ says Milo Stein. He pops on a pair of aviator sunglasses, even though we’re indoors. ‘I’m told you’re in need of a new coach.’
I lose the doubles game in front of both Coach Stein and Colt. Though I pretend they’re not there, the pressure to perform is sky-high, and as Kominsky predicted, I turn to putty. Plus my doubles partner and I don’t gel – she’s too greedy for the ball. My mood worsens when Dad informs me he’s agreed to help Milo Stein by putting me up as a doubles partner with Colt for a practice match.
I chuck stinky socks across the hotel room. ‘I’m out of the tournament. What’s the point?’
‘Colt is too. Milo asked a favour and I’m not about to say no to a coaching legend who’s considering taking you under his wing. And Sebastian Norman is coming – Norman’s high up in one of the sports agencies. He wants to see Colt play, as well as your opponents.’
But not me.
Dad says Colt’s from Florida, but if he’s so good, why’s Milo looking for a new player – especially considering I live in Australia?
When it’s time to leave for the warm-up, Aria’s still got curlers in her hair. ‘You’re not going to the royal box at a Wimbledon final,’ I yell as she pulls free the last curler and scoops her hair into a messy up-do.
‘And neither are you. I had to practise my flute.’
‘But did you have to play the same piece a hundred times over?’
‘I have to perform each piece –’
‘Twenty-five times. I know. But today?’
Her narrowed eyes inspect me. ‘You could do with varying your ponytail – I mean, what statement does that make? It’s so clichéd.’
‘I’m not trying to make a statement. I’m trying to get to a tennis match on time.’
I wonder what happened to the Aria who’d trail around after me and Jacob, who’d agree to all my suggestions about games and movies to watch and what to wear. Now we can’t even agree on a ponytail.
But remembering that Aria hates to be rushed, Dad has fibbed about the start time so we’re only delayed by five minutes. When we walk onto the practice court Coach Stein is expertly juggling three racquets. He catches each one by their grips before waving. Colt keeps
hitting the ball against the back wall like he’s punching someone in the face. I grasp my racquet tighter and scowl at Dad.
‘Sorry I’m late, Coach Stein,’ I say.
‘Call me Milo – just Milo,’ he says, the aviators reflecting the glare. ‘Colt! Over here.’
Colt switches to backhand and keeps hitting against the wall as though I don’t exist. Just as Milo opens his mouth to say something, Colt takes off for the service line. Milo tuts to himself. I trudge to the opposite end of the court. This is a huge mistake.
Colt’s serve is fast, powerful, dangerous. I stick my racquet out and block it, but the return spins out. What’s he playing at? We’re supposed to warm up, not kill each other. He goes for a second serve and this time aces me.
That’s it. I storm to the net. ‘What’s your problem?’
Colt strides toward me. ‘My problem is you’re late.’ His eyes flash. ‘This is my career, not some play date. You’re selfish, spoilt, and you think you’re too good for me.’ He doesn’t shout, but speaks as if reading from a list he prepared earlier.
My brain empties of words like a leaking water bottle. I was late, but I refuse to get into a discussion about hair curlers. As Milo approaches, the best I can come up with is, ‘I think I’m too good for you?’
Colt spots Milo, ditches his racquet and jogs around the court. Milo and I watch Colt, his arms spinning in circles, doing crossovers, high steps – anything but engaging with us. I slouch at the net and waggle my head at Dad.
‘Sorry, Harper,’ says Milo. ‘Just give him a moment.’ Milo joins Dad on the side of the court, leaving me thinking that Colt must pay Milo heaps. Colt eventually retrieves his racquet and proceeds to his baseline where he hits the ball. It plops over the net next to me. I glare at him. He stuffs two extra balls into his pockets. Dad points to my baseline with his eyes.
I want to hurl the umpire chair at Colt, but somehow I drag my mood under control. We rally hard for twenty minutes in silence. My body gradually uncoils while we go through our strokes, taking comfort from being in a well-worn groove.
The Harper Effect Page 2