The Harper Effect

by Taryn Bashford

  I tug at the tennis skirt. ‘I heard you had a family emergency.’ Colt cuts to Milo, face loaded with reproach. Milo shrugs. I almost mention the US Open, but decide Colt won’t want to be reminded of a loss, even if it was a good one. Instead I go for humour. ‘I see you’re wearing your lucky T-shirt.’

  Colt’s expression chokes. He pivots and hawks toward the baseline, smashing a ball into nowhere.

  I study Milo from under lowered lashes. ‘Guess he’s mad at me for poaching you.’

  Milo lobs a racquet metres into the air and catches it. ‘Nope. He has other issues.’ Milo turns to Dad, instructing him to return in four hours.

  When Dad hugs me goodbye, I whisper, ‘Stay.’

  ‘You’ll be fine,’ Dad says, glancing at Colt. ‘Time to stand on your own two feet. A new era.’

  Colt bounces the ball, cracks a flawless serve. He eyeballs me, clearly irritated, and serves again.

  ‘Let’s get started,’ says Milo. ‘Coffee down, Harper. Dairy’s a no. You’re not a cow, unless you’ve acquired four stomachs.’

  After a tough warm-up, walking on court to play Colt is even tougher – as scary as being shoved into a cage with a tiger. Except this time Colt doesn’t attempt to kill me with his serve and we hit a few rallies.

  A couple of guys arrive. Milo beckons me and Colt over while they limber up. He passes us cups of homemade electrolyte he calls Milo Potion. Colt scoffs his in two seconds.

  Milo spins a racquet 360 degrees. ‘These boys are here for doubles practice. Your goal is the Australian Open mixed doubles final in January – less than five months away.’

  I glance at Colt, wondering if Milo’s joking, but Colt’s staring into the distance – he’s heard this before.

  ‘We’re attempting something that’s going to stretch us all.’ Milo balances the tip of the racquet on the toe of his tennis shoe. ‘Ultimately, it’ll get you both noticed and that means wild cards, better rankings, sponsorships and an agent. It means your careers get a kick in the butt.’

  ‘Ha. I can’t even make it into a women’s main event final, never mind the ultimate Grand Slam final,’ I say.

  ‘Sort of the point, Harper. And achieving this goal will improve your singles games, help you earn money faster, meaning you can keep going on the singles circuit, and it’ll confirm what a damn fine coach and tactician I am. Remember this – one hand washes the other.’ Milo tosses his racquet into the air, seizes it and performs an elaborate bow.

  The two guys join us and we rally to warm up. Colt seethes. It’s like playing tennis next to a pit full of vipers. I can’t concentrate. When the game starts we go for the same ball – twice – our racquets clattering. I flinch to protect my cheek. Next we both leave the ball for the other and it bounces in the space between us.

  After the first set, which we lose, Milo calls us over. ‘Not quite Cincinnati,’ he says. ‘How are you going to learn to become winners together? Is it the power of your serves? The consistency of your groundstrokes? Is it your speed –?’

  ‘Trust,’ says Colt from behind me. I can hear the eye-roll in his tone.

  ‘Thank you, Peter Patient.’ Milo leans forward to pass out more drinks. ‘When you played in Cincinnati, what I saw was chemistry. Underlying whatever’s eating you today – and let’s hope you put a lid on that box – there’s chemistry.’

  I splutter on a gulp of Milo Potion.

  ‘I’m not talking the love kind of chemistry,’ continues Milo. ‘I’m talking about what makes two people connect as doubles partners – even before they get acquainted and understand each other. That’s important and you have it. And yes, trust is needed, but what comes before trust?’

  Colt sighs. ‘Jeez, Milo. We’re not children. Spit it out, would you.’

  ‘Okay now, Colt. You’re a dangerously good player, physically and mentally, yet you still have many flaws.’ Milo’s tone stays smooth, steady. ‘Luckily, I know that crooked logs also make straight fires so can I suggest you let me coach? You acknowledge you have a lot to learn?’

  Colt’s stare challenges Milo’s. His Adam’s apple ripples. ‘Never said otherwise.’

  ‘But you act otherwise. It’s okay to accept help from people around you. Me, Harper – let us in.’ Milo massages his temples. ‘Tennis is a serious business, but there needs to be balance or it’ll eat you alive. You need to hippy-up. Upsize the child in you, Colt. When you’re on court you must loosen up, otherwise when the pressure builds your strokes become fixed and robotic and, mentally, like concrete in the sun, you crack.’

  ‘I get it, but can we talk about this stuff another time – when Flappy Ears over here isn’t listening?’

  Flappy Ears? I want to wrap a tennis racquet around his ears.

  ‘Before trust comes communication,’ continues Milo, giving Colt a warning glare. ‘As doubles partners, you need to read each other’s minds – or bodies. Wordless communication. That’s why I’m saying all this, Colt. Not to embarrass you, but to bring Harper into the circle. This is a partnership and she needs to be aware of this stuff.’

  Colt crosses his arms and turns away from Milo.

  ‘Harper,’ says Milo. I flinch. ‘You’re a talented player. Experienced, strong, committed. But you nurture a chip on your shoulder as big as Texas.’

  ‘I do not!’ The words drop out like bombs. ‘Sorry. I mean – no-one’s told me that before. My flaw is that when I’m under pressure I turn to putty.’

  ‘The two-inch version of you right there?’ Milo points at my shoulder. ‘She’s the spitting image of you and we both know what she’s saying.’

  I hunt at my feet for a hole to fall into.

  ‘She’s screaming it from your shoulder. I’m not good enough.’ Milo picks up a second racquet and spins two at once. ‘But you are good enough and you can do this. You must commit more, work harder, get stronger, to compete at this level. It’s inside you and only you can access it – but I can open the gate. When you believe you can do it, you’ll become a winner. What are you afraid of? Winning?

  ‘And what you said before about turning into putty – you rely on others too much. There’s always someone there to hold your hand or pump you up or catch you when you fall or tell you what to do. So, when it’s just you on that court, you crumble. We’ve got to independify you. Then we’ll see your singles game take off.’

  I grind the words I want to spit out until they’re small enough to swallow – because I suspect he’s right. When I started playing competitively at the age of seven, that’s what I demanded from my family, from Jacob, my other friends at the time – what was the phrase Aria used? The Harper Show.

  ‘Okay, now check out how you just played,’ says Milo, spinning his two racquets. Colt and I shuffle. ‘You resemble ice cubes in a bowl of water, jostling and crashing into each other, going in different directions. What you need to do is melt into the water and then you’ll find yourselves moving as one entity, in tune, in flow with each other. Don’t question my methods, listen to what I say, and it’ll happen.’

  Colt and I jog back on court for the second set, but within minutes we collide and I’m knocked to the ground. Colt helps me up without looking at me. At least I’m left with all bones intact. Milo stops the game and thanks our opponents.

  ‘Let’s go,’ he says. We follow him toward a shady spot on the bleachers. ‘Sit.’

  I plop down where I am and Colt sits two rows up.

  ‘Let’s play a game you’re going to get extremely good at. It’s called mirroring. Colt, get down here, next to Harper.’ The bleachers rattle as Colt moves beside me. His shoulders hunch, elbows on knees, attention on Milo. ‘It works like this. You become the other person’s eyes and hands. You see the other person’s need and your hands fulfil the need.’

  ‘Sorry, explain again. I don’t understand,’ I say, sensing this is going to be embarrassing.


  ‘No problem.’ Milo pulls at my shoelace. ‘Colt. You see Harper’s shoelace is untied. You are Harper’s hands. Do up her laces.’

  Laughter bursts out of me. ‘No way. Wait. Yes way. Colt, go ahead. I can live with that.’ Colt scratches the back of his neck then bends to tie the lace.

  ‘Harper. Colt’s neck is itchy. You’re his hands. Scratch his neck.’ My laughter breaks off. Milo isn’t kidding.

  I lean forward to reach around Colt’s square shoulders. His neck is sweaty. I scrunch my nose and rub my fingers on my skirt.

  ‘Colt. Harper’s ponytail has come loose. No way can she play tennis. Fix it for her.’

  Colt gets up, kicks at his bag. ‘Am I going to take a leak for her as well?’

  ‘Quite possibly,’ says Milo, stern. ‘But not now. The problem right now is her hair needs fixing. Up, Harper.’

  I comply, amazed that Colt is taking orders from Milo.

  Colt moves behind me. There’s no gentleness as he abruptly scrapes my hair back into a ponytail and secures it with the elastic. I wince.

  ‘Sorry if I pulled,’ he says, stepping back.

  ‘Harper. You’re Colt’s eyes. What does he need? Look at him.’

  Colt’s squinting into the sun, impatient. ‘The sun’s blinding him.’

  ‘Get his hat.’ Milo points to Colt’s bag. I unzip it and find the tennis cap – next to a motorbike helmet. Mum and Dad won’t like that – they’ve warned me to stay clear of motorbikes.

  I pass the cap to Colt.

  ‘Stop,’ says Milo. ‘You’re his hands. Put it on.’ I step closer, perch it wonkily on Colt’s head.

  Colt straightens the hat. ‘When do we play tennis?’

  ‘You can play tennis already.’ Milo slaps Colt on the shoulder. ‘Being a top doubles partnership entails more than being top players. You proved that when you lost to those two barely ranked muppets today.’ Colt kicks at the dust and slumps onto the bleachers.

  Milo pulls the aviators off, perhaps the better to glare at us. ‘What don’t I know? You appear to have a problem with each other. It needs to get stated right now. Ladies first.’ The look Milo gives me could snap racquet strings.

  ‘What? I don’t have a –’

  ‘You’re about to become the greatest mixed doubles partnership ever. Because I know. You will discover each other’s flaws and embrace them. You’ll love each other’s strengths, smooth out any sharp edges, and toughen up the weak parts. Don’t go shy on me now. Spit it out, my little Dampfnudel.’

  The remains of Colt’s annoyance swirls around us and I turn away.

  ‘I’ll start then,’ says Colt. ‘She’s another one of them – a tennis brat.’

  Is that what he meant when he called me ‘another one’ in Cincinnati?

  ‘Why are you telling me? Tell Harper.’ Milo settles on the ground, cross-legged, happily staging a sit-in – or a yoga session. What’s next, the peace sign?

  ‘Fine,’ says Colt. ‘Everything’s given to you on a plate. You don’t need to struggle for anything –’

  I swing to face him square-on. ‘You’re kidding, right? You think I got the ranking given to me? Or perhaps I paid for it? You don’t think I trained and trained and sat on the same flights as everyone else, lived in the same hotel rooms? I sacrificed family life, friends, a social life, got a tutor instead of going to school, gave up my childhood –’

  ‘My point exactly.’ Colt folds his arms. ‘Hotel rooms? Try youth hostels or caravan parks. A tutor? Try keeping up with schoolwork at midnight. Friends? Family?’ Colt almost chokes on the last rage-soaked words.

  He buries a glare into Milo. ‘She has no clue.’

  ‘But why be angry with Harper?’ says Milo. ‘Should she get kicked off the circuit because she has a tutor and stays in better hotels?’

  I flex my fingers. ‘He’d love that.’

  Milo bounces a tennis ball. ‘You’re angry because you don’t have that, Colt, and that’s allowed. But don’t take it out on Harper.’

  Everyone’s wrapped in a boiling silence.

  I start speaking softly. ‘I’m a bug under Colt’s shoe. He thinks he’s too good to breathe the same air as me – I should perhaps kiss the ground he walks on.’

  Milo claps once and rises. ‘Harper, this is where you’re not familiar with Colt and you’ll find it’s simply barriers – it’s just that he doesn’t know you. When he does, he’ll let a more human version of himself come out from behind the barrier. Right, Colt? As I’ve said, life is extremely serious for him.’

  ‘Maybe that’s because life is serious,’ Colt says. ‘Tennis is not a joke for me. Not something I may or may not do. I’m going to reach number one and some spoilt brat isn’t going to get in the way.’

  ‘Perhaps you should tell Harper about your life – it’ll help explain –’

  ‘No way, Milo.’ Colt looks as though he’s seen a ghost. ‘I’m done.’ He snatches his bag and strides away.

  ‘Dad, it was like marriage counselling. Worse – divorce court. We barely hit a ball. Milo is some sort of hippy and Colt rides a motorbike.’ I glare at Dad as he drives me home. After Colt stormed off, Milo went to talk with him and Colt had remained astride his bike.

  ‘Milo’s the expert, Harper.’ Dad’s back to thinking the tennis coach is God and every word He utters should be immortalised in stone.

  Even a long shower doesn’t stop my insides from feeling unsettled and stretched. Something big is about to change and I’m not ready for it – like that moment when you’re learning to swim and you want to jump into your mum’s arms in the pool, but what if you miss or she tricks you and steps aside to force you to swim?

  And what if you can’t do it?

  I need comfort and abandon my schoolwork for the Purple Woods. Gazing across our pool and tennis court toward the woods I remember that ‘brat’ word. I am grateful for what I have, though – I’ve always known we’re lucky, and that it’s thanks to Mum and Dad I have the freedom to follow my dreams. But is it possible I’ve started to take it for granted?

  ‘Hey, you.’ Jacob’s head appears over the wall between our houses.

  ‘Hey, back. You cut school again?’

  ‘Keep me company?’ He never asks me over. Guess he’s not spending hours in the music studio with Aria anymore. The studio was built a year ago and I haven’t visited it since the grand opening. It was their space. Best keep it that way.

  ‘Nah. Going for a walk.’

  He cocks his head to one side and makes whining dog noises. ‘Pleeease. I’ve had a crap day. Need cheering up.’

  ‘What’s up?’ I ask, frowning. Jacob usually falls in with what Aria and I want to do.

  ‘The record label my band sent a recording to? Straight rejection. Flat no. Nada. No way. Forget it.’ He nibbles at a nail.

  ‘They’re crazy.’ I approach the wall. ‘Couldn’t spot talent if it prodded them with a drumstick.’

  ‘And my piano teacher says I won’t get top marks in the exam next week – can’t get this set piece right. Why can’t we choose the music we like to play for these freakin’ exams? It could affect my chances of getting into the Con.’

  ‘You win. Your day’s ranked the worst.’ I haul myself onto the wall and straddle it. ‘What’s your band called these days?’

  ‘The No Names. We still can’t agree. Come drown my sorrows with me.’

  Jacob leans against his side of the wall. He’s dressed in a loose vest top and boardies, his bare feet on the firewood box. I jump down onto the box, purposefully knocking him off. He sprawls on the grass, blond hair fanning around him. I welcome the warmth of those bubbling eyes. Jacob makes me feel safe and as if my life isn’t whirling down a plughole.

  Slumping next to him in the grass, we gaze up at the fast-moving clouds. Their rushing makes me dizzy, though. Th
ey need to slow down and let me feel calm inside. I push myself upright, pulling at the grass.

  Jacob rolls onto his front, stands. ‘Coke or OJ?’ He strides away, bathing me in that billion-volt smile.

  The music studio appears small from the outside, but inside the room swells, cave-like. It’s all soundproofed walls with high-up slits for windows, and it’s filled with instruments – a saxophone, a grand piano, a drum kit, guitar stands with six different types of guitars. The ceiling is enclosed in material-covered squares – something to do with sound quality. At the far end is a door into a recording studio. Plates of unfinished cereal or half-eaten toast clutter the carpet, along with glasses containing sticky orange juice pulp, beer bottles, sheets of random music, drumsticks and vinyl records. The pong of sweet cola only just overpowers the smell of leather from the sofas.

  Jacob often sleeps all night on the sofa that’s shaped like a pair of oversized red lips. It’s sad his parents don’t notice. The other sofa looks like it’s made from giant, multicoloured LEGO pieces, but I remember that it’s spongy and squishy. It slumps when I sink into it.

  The door to the studio closes and blocks out the world beyond. The tension leaches from me. Jacob whoops and takes a flying leap, almost landing on me before I roll aside. The sofa sags further.

  ‘Devastated, are you, Jacob? Where’s that OJ?’

  Struggling out of the sofa, he pushes aside a sax to open a fridge loaded with drinks. He twists off the lid and gives me a bottle of juice. ‘Ran out of clean glasses.’

  ‘Tell me something,’ I say. ‘Do you think having this studio means you don’t work as hard as someone who doesn’t?’

  ‘Whoa. Philosophical much?’ He steps lightly onto my toes, wriggling his against mine. ‘I don’t practise any less than anyone else in the No Names. And if this place burnt down tomorrow, I’d find somewhere else to practise. Why so deep?’

  ‘Tough day. First session with that Colt Quinn and the new coach.’