The Harper Effect

by Taryn Bashford

  When we depart for the match court, I whisper to Dad, ‘I don’t think he brings out the best in me.’

  Colt stops. I almost walk into him. He sizes me up as he says, ‘In case you’re interested, my strength is my serve. Solid placement, lots of power. My weakness is net shots.’

  He strides away, overtaking Milo, who waits for me. ‘Don’t mind Colt – he takes things real seriously at tournaments. Great player, though.’

  ‘I’ve never heard of him. What’s his ranking?’ I ask.

  ‘His ranking doesn’t reflect his ability. What that boy’s gone through to get here, my little Dampfnudel – let’s just say rankings are not only determined by how good you are.’

  Unless he’s killed some dragons, survived shark-infested waters and solved world starvation, I’m not interested in what Colt’s been through.

  The coaches have pulled some strings to get an umpire and linesmen, giving the match an official, competitive atmosphere – Sebastian Norman is a really important guy.

  I have two brains. Or perhaps there are two voices in there. One is the glass half-full type, the other is not. Either way, both are whispering the same thing right now: Holy crap.

  Our opponents weigh us up, whispering behind water bottles. Colt stands next to me fiddling with his racquet strings. A small group of spectators take their seats. I scrutinise them, but a sports agent is unlikely to be wearing a flashing name badge.

  We win the toss and Colt declares he’ll serve. We take the first set without dropping a game and without looking at each other. Colt’s a strong player and hits with such power he makes a grunting sound with each shot. It’s low and guttural and, I can’t help thinking, kind of sexy.

  As we take a break between sets, sitting next to each other on blue plastic chairs, Colt swigs from a water bottle. ‘Nice play,’ he says.

  ‘You too.’ I make nice back. ‘Sorry about that net shot at the end.’

  ‘Don’t ever apologise.’ He places the bottle on the ground. Nothing I say is ever right.

  In the second set our opponents step up. So I’m meant to step up, too. I make several unforced errors instead and, soon, I’m fighting the negativity in my head. Kominsky’s right. This is me turning to putty: whenever I’m winning a game the fight to pulverise my opponent dribbles out of me, similar to gas secretly escaping from a slit helium balloon, and next thing I know the hole’s too big to plug. I lack the killer instinct.

  They take the next set 7–6.

  As I pass Colt a ball, instead of taking it he wraps strong fingers around mine and the ball.

  ‘We got this,’ he says. One side of his mouth quirks up, instantly transforming him from hot guy in tennis whites to a total Adonis. I command myself to stop staring.

  We got this. I can’t let Kominsky be right. Because if he is –

  I can’t let Colt be right. A smart-arse with a soft heart.

  My world narrows to the court, the net, my racquet. I win points with tactical drop shots twice in a row and Colt raises a palm for a high-five. He puts a spin on the next return, giving me the chance of a smash, which I execute. He jogs past and fist-bumps me. The energy rises on court and I rise to it. I haven’t felt this confident in ages – I truly want to win – not just for the coach, or Dad, or the ranking points. My competitive streak swings into action, as if it’s a hibernating bear being poked awake. When did it go to sleep? When did I stop playing for myself and start playing for everyone else? But just as I’m getting cocky, I move close to centre and Colt’s racquet cracks me in the face. I clutch my cheek. Tears ambush me.

  ‘Let me see,’ commands Colt, peeling away my fingers. ‘We need ice,’ he yells over his shoulder.

  He walks me off the court, parks me in a chair. I concentrate on controlling my erratic breathing. Shoulders hunched and the breath pinched inside my throat, there’s relief as someone places ice on my cheek and cups my jaw. After a minute I open my eyes. It’s Colt doing the holding, his face centimetres away. In other circumstances he could almost be about to kiss me.

  ‘Okay?’ he asks. I can only nod.

  ‘Can she play on?’ says someone.

  ‘Jeez, give her more than a minute,’ Colt bellows.

  Though my cheek pulses, I push away the ice to test whether I can see straight. ‘I’ll be okay,’ I say. ‘In a minute.’

  I pull the ice back on and watch Colt watch me. He’s kneeling in front of me. My nerves snap and crackle. Maybe I need a tension release because, even though it hurts, a laugh jumps out of my chest. It keeps going. Colt’s expression spins from anxious to confused to amused. And then it happens. He smiles. And his whole face unfastens like a window blowing open in the breeze, letting in the fresh air and sunshine. It’s as if I’ve witnessed one of the Seven Wonders of the World; seen something not many people get to see.

  We continue the game, my sight somewhat affected, cheek throbbing, but I’m on a high and playing for the next fist-bump. Our winning point comes when I respond to a lob with a tight drop shot. My arms shoot into the air. I whoop and twist to Colt. He’s already there. His hug is brief but strong; a wall of muscle.

  ‘You’re tougher than you look,’ he says, then jogs toward Milo, who’s leaning over the barriers. Colt double high-fives him.

  Dad races to the edge of the court, Aria following in her own good time.

  ‘Brilliant game, honey. You beat two players ranked 79 and 92.’ Dad is beaming and I’ve made his eyes sparkle again.

  ‘That was really exciting to watch,’ says Aria, her earbuds still in place.

  I trek back to where Colt is packing up, zip shut my bags, stow the water bottles.

  ‘Sorry,’ Colt says. He focuses on the swollen cheek and winces. ‘Impressive comeback, though.’ For a moment, I see that inside Colt Quinn the robot there is a tiny piece of human.

  But he brings out the steel in me. ‘I thought you said never apologise?’

  Stapling a gaze to the floor, he smirks. ‘Touché.’ He throws his tennis bag over a shoulder. ‘Game over.’

  ‘Nice Halloween mask,’ says Jacob, sticking out his tongue when he falls in beside me. Despite my face being yellow and black after the cheek-smashing incident three days ago, I’m determined to continue with my training.

  I rotate my arms as we run. ‘You heard, then?’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he says, picking up the pace to show off. ‘We’ll still love you, even if you’re ugly and deformed.’

  We reach the base of the hill I usually challenge myself to sprint up. Jacob’s tied his hair into a short ponytail and I tug it and yell, ‘Last one to the top’s a soggy banana.’ Jacob thrusts out an arm to stop me overtaking, sniggering through heaving breaths. I crease up, pushing at him all the way. At the summit we slide to our knees on the grass verge, huffing and groaning.

  I suck in the salty wind, squinting at the sun setting behind light-grey clouds that are reflected in the ocean below. ‘You are so childish.’

  ‘Can’t let a girl beat me.’

  ‘We’ll see about that.’ I’m up before he can grab me.

  When we reach the beach, Jacob bends himself in half. ‘Jeez, I’m unfit.’ He’s not. He has a hot body. I’m just fitter. ‘How’d you go, Harps – the tournament?’

  I think of Colt and how we won our game, how he held the ice to my cheek, how I glimpsed a different version of him behind the intense mask. Was that version just his game face? My own face had swelled overnight and a doctor confirmed a small fracture of the cheekbone – luckily there’s no bone displacement and it’ll heal without surgery.

  ‘I’ve had better tournaments.’ I bend to remove my trainers, plunge sweaty toes into the sand. ‘Given I lost in the first round, my doubles partner got injured, and some guy broke my cheekbone and then flew home without so much as a see ya later.’

  ‘You’re kidding. He fractures
your face and leaves? Jerk!’

  First Colt had refused Dad’s invitation to dinner, saying he needed to rest. Even though he was probably being sensible, I felt hurt – we’d had this amazing win, but it seemed to mean nothing to him. And after the doctor confirmed the fracture, only Milo came for lunch the next day – Colt had changed flights and gone home.

  ‘Like I said, I’ve had better.’ The stretched sensation in my chest springs up my throat, making my voice break.

  We stroll along the jetty above the churning breakers. When we reach the end, Jacob throws an arm across my shoulders. ‘Poor Harper.’ My heart whimpers.

  ‘You stink of sweat,’ I say, shoving him. He smells of Vegemite today; the last time I saw him, before I left for Cincinnati, he smelt lemony. I sit down and swing my legs above the slapping waves.

  He sprawls next to me. ‘How’s Aria?’ he asks, mournful.

  ‘She’s okay. Not quite herself yet.’

  ‘I miss her, Harps.’

  My face whips up an instant frown. He adds, ‘I miss the three of us hanging out together without me feeling like the bad guy. Being able to come over whenever I please.’

  ‘Whenever you’re hungry, you mean.’

  Jacob pokes me. ‘Wish we could go back in time. We used to hang out every spare second we got. Remember the rock pool search expeditions?’ He points to the rocks near the café. ‘And the summers we hung out with that old radio, and got great tans and surfed and taught your dogs to fetch sticks.’

  The smell of burgers and coconut sunscreen and wet dog floods my nostrils. Mum had brought home two sheepdog puppies from her vet practice. I named one after Venus Williams and Aria named Adagio – something to do with music.

  Jacob, eyes still lit with memories, adds, ‘Remember how we believed the Purple Woods were magical and somehow joined our souls –’ His smile wobbles. ‘Hasn’t been like that forever.’

  Since you and my sister became joined at the lips.

  We track the soaring seagulls testing the thermals. Waves splatter our legs.

  I remember how Mum used to say Aria and I were joined at the brain. When we were younger, we’d simultaneously have the same nightmares and even once had an ache in the same tooth. One year our report cards were so similar our parents swore the teachers had us mixed up – we did look alike. Sometimes we’d trick people by wearing matching dresses. Now Aria prefers skirts so long she trips on them, and quirky hats and anything with feathers, while Mum buys jean shorts and singlets for me in bulk. We used to have the same favourite colour, read the same books, share our shoes, write identical Christmas lists. Now I’m not even sure of the name of her best friend – except that it’s no longer me.

  ‘Do you think we can go back there, or is everything messed up now?’ asks Jacob.

  ‘Aria postponed her audition for the Con so you could go there together. Now there is no together. I don’t know –’

  Jacob scans the thickening cloud blotting out the sun. I reckon this has scratched at him for a while.

  ‘Why did you break up?’ I ask.

  ‘Aria hasn’t told you?’

  I shake my head. After five years, the crack in our sister bond is now a chasm, and I don’t know how to bridge it. ‘Says she’s not ready to talk about it.’

  ‘I tortured myself to death about us breaking up. There was the Con and also your parents – but Aria’s more of a sister to me now.’ His eyes ensnare mine. ‘I hate not being part of your family. It’s not like I have a real one. I’m like a boarder at home. Without you guys –’

  Jacob’s parents, both solicitors, leave the house by 7 am and don’t return until late. They’ve employed the same efficient housekeeper for ten years as a parent substitute. It was no wonder we’d practically adopted Jacob.

  A drop of rain startles me. The cloudy sky has turned pewter in the dimming light. ‘You’ll always be part of our family. Besides, the dogs would miss you.’

  Jacob shoulder-bumps me and we fall back into silence.

  Everything is broken and messed up – I still don’t have a coach, Dad’s casting around for our next step, Aria’s lovesick, Jacob thinks he’s been evicted from my family, and I have no clue what to do about tennis. Most of the time I feel like turning pro has put me on a pedestal and everyone is trying to knock me off, but I’m not ready to give up even if others think I should. The game with Colt proved I’ve still got some fight in me – or that maybe my dream isn’t over yet.

  When I imagine my future I’m certain tennis is what I was put on this earth for, because nothing else makes me feel like I’m glowing from the inside out. Nothing else gives me that sense of purpose – like Aria has with her music. Tennis has always called to me and still does. If I stop playing, I may as well carve away a piece of my heart.

  As if to prove it, my heart flinches.

  Jacob hugs his knees.

  I flick his calf. ‘I’ll talk to Aria.’ Maybe this is one part of my life I can fix. ‘We can try to get back to being the Raggers again.’

  ‘Yeah? Thanks, Harps.’ He smacks a kiss on my shoulder as if merely kissing a boo boo away. A starburst of heat floods into my chest, even though he probably sees me as a sister, too.

  When I get home, Aria’s in the kitchen making a snack. Mushroom-coloured feather earrings swing below her suede cowboy hat as she sets down a tray of choc-chip cookies to cool on the benchtop. The radio blasts a nameless piano concerto. I can always tell if Aria’s home, or which room she’s in, based on which room is filled with classical music.

  On the run back to the house I rehearsed what to say. We should’ve had this talk a long time ago, but she had Jacob, and I always thought it was my problem, not hers. If I can get the three of us back on track, I’ll feel as though life isn’t splitting apart at the seams.

  ‘We need to talk,’ I say, switching off the radio and perching on a stool at the island bench. She slaps butter on bread as if it won’t sit still on the plate. Her nose scrunches.

  My knee bounces rapidly. ‘What’s happened to us? Why don’t you talk to me like before? We used to share –’

  ‘You’re hardly ever here, Harper.’ Aria’s mouth tightens. She unwraps a block of cheese and slices too-thick chunks.

  I slap the counter to get her attention away from the cheese. ‘And when I am here –’

  ‘It doesn’t work like that.’ Ditching the knife, she yanks off her hat and tosses it across the room onto the farmhouse kitchen table, where it skids to the floor. She’s so fired up I realise she’s been bracing herself for this conversation, too.

  ‘Why not?’ I say.

  Aria crosses her arms, bites her bottom lip. I expect a death stare, but instead tears spill down her cheeks. ‘Did you ever wonder how I felt when you started the junior circuit? You weren’t the one left behind with reminders of the Raggers – every room filled with you. I realise you missed me, but you had a new life – I had to learn to rely on you less.’

  I swallow my own tears. ‘But I haven’t made a life without you. You’re as important as ever.’

  ‘When you go away, that’s your new life for a couple of weeks, a month. Tennis is your life. Then you visit with us until the next tournament and home becomes The Harper Show.’

  ‘That’s not how it is.’

  She comes around to my side of the benchtop, squeezes both my hands in hers. ‘But it’s how it feels for me. We were the Raggers and soul twins, and when you went – it wasn’t easy. But I made my own life with my school friends, my music, of course –’

  ‘And Jacob,’ I add. The words sound spiteful. Jealous.

  ‘Yes. And Jacob. Without him, it would’ve been ten times harder.’

  If Aria had left me for the circuit when I was eleven? She’s right – not easy. My world also changed, but I was going after a dream, not being left behind. I stare out the window at the
tennis court and swimming pool below, wading through my emotions to find the right words.

  ‘When we waved you goodbye that first time, Jacob and I marked off the calendar every morning before school. When you came home we packed in so much, but then you vanished again. The fun went out of waiting for your visits. Our lives became dull. Every day we waited for your news. We were living in your shadow.’ My fingertips turn white from Aria’s grip. ‘It took a while, but when it hit us – that life as we knew it was over – I’m not being dramatic, but it was as if you had died. No-one understood how Jacob and I felt.’

  I disentangle my hands from Aria’s and reach for the cheese knife, spinning it in circles on the benchtop.

  My leaving pushed Aria into Jacob’s arms.

  ‘I’m sorry. I’m glad you had each other.’ I don’t explain how hard it was for me, how I left behind all that was familiar and safe, how it felt like I was breathing through a straw the whole time I was away, how coming home felt as magical as Christmas Day had when we were little. I study her short, neat nails, glossed with light green polish.

  ‘But I’m used to you coming and going now,’ she adds. ‘I have my own life. I’d like to spend more time together – especially now Jacob and I –’

  ‘Promise. I promise we will.’

  Aria gives me a look that suggests she doesn’t quite believe me, but then takes my hand again and leads us to the twin sofas in front of the fireplace. Her warm smile gives me hope.

  ‘How do you feel about Jacob?’ I ask, and crash next to her.

  ‘I want him back.’ Her eyes glaze over. ‘I miss him. I love him. Proper love, you know?’ Outside the window the drizzly rain masks the view of the Purple Woods. ‘But these last few months something was wrong – he became hard to reach. Like he wasn’t with me – was somewhere else – with someone else.’

  I pick at a dry cuticle, swallow hard. ‘Is there someone else?’

  She studies me, grave. I hug a cushion.