Exasperated, I lift the window shade and stare out at the blue surrounding us. Just as it’s impossible to make out where the sky ends and the sea begins, it’s impossible to know how much of Colt’s game face is the real Colt.
I get into round one of the main draw of the Kremlin Cup. The indoor arena is full of flags from every country, making the match seem more official and important than being on some back court. I start to question if I deserve to be here.
You can beat this first-round jinx. I’ll be watching you.
In the taxi to the match I take deep breaths and think of Purple Time.
‘Concentrate on the facts,’ says Milo, ‘not the superstitious first-round curse nonsense the press have decided to focus on. That’s just a compelling headline. Repeat the positive self-talk we discussed.’ When I don’t respond, he adds, ‘Out loud. Now.’
‘I am fitter and stronger than ever. I don’t believe in curses. I believe I can get into the top 100. Every day, in every way, I’m better than I was the day before.’
And I do want Colt to see me beat the jinx on the live-stream website.
‘Good. Now visualise your serves, your drop shots, your backhand. Visualise that winning shot across the net.’
In the end, Purple Time settles me down. The memory of its calm purple haze, of the happy moments in the woods, resembles a warm hand holding mine. I feel less alone, less vulnerable in the middle of the court; the court becomes my turf. When I was younger I had the heart of a lion, rampaging through life without fear. Remembering Purple Time gives that back to me.
I win in straight sets, and in that moment I understand why the big players chuck their racquets in the air or crumple to their knees like they’re worshipping the court. But I’m not a top 10 player and I haven’t just won a Grand Slam so I keep myself together enough to shake hands across the net, thank the umpire, and drop into my chair next to Milo. But I’m squealing inside, my heart feels like it’s ten times bigger than normal, and I want to get on my hands and knees and kiss every inch of the court.
As I exit the area Milo’s huge grin and crushing hug don’t match his words: ‘“We are responsible for what we are . . . we have the power to make ourselves.” Swami Vivekananda.’
Going into the second round, Milo equips me with another weapon. ‘The memory you call up to settle yourself? What if your opponent is trying to destroy it?’
I’d never let anyone take Purple Time from me – from the Raggers. When we reach a tie breaker in the next match, I’m psyched, and refuse to let my opponent take the win from me. Milo is teaching me that tennis is not just about chasing a dream. It’s a one-point-at-a-time, high-stakes psychological battle.
The next morning, Dad, who Milo hadn’t wanted to accompany me this time, texts a quote from the Sydney Morning Herald: ‘Milo banishes Kominsky curse’.
Milo actually does curse when he reads the article. It’s more about him than me, and suggests he’s a Merlin-like coach and Kominsky must’ve cast the curse. ‘Don’t read anything in those papers. They’ll distract you. What a pile of – it suggests you have nothing to do with your result and that’s – Scheiße.’ He storms from the room, slamming the door, and later confiscates my phone. It means I can’t text Jacob. I feel unsettled, and when my partner and I lose the women’s doubles game later that day, I blame Milo’s no-phone rule.
In the third round of the singles tournament the number 10 seed puts a stop to my winning streak, but it’s a close match and I know I’ve played the best tournament of my life.
‘Defeats make you fight harder for victories,’ says Milo as I exit the court.
‘You got a book you’re writing these quotes in?’ I’m on an adrenaline come-down and not up to philosophy. ‘You’ll make more money from them than from me.’
‘Defeats are the foundation of victories,’ he teases. I playfully shove a bag at him and we practically float to the press room for the obligatory post-match conference. Maybe Colt’s watching.
On the flight to the Singapore tournament I beg for my phone. But Milo doesn’t want me relying on anyone. He’s still working to independify me.
‘We can call your family, but all this constant texting, Instagram, Twitter, keeps your mind on things back home when it should remain 150 per cent here. What do you think players did before mobile phones?’
I mope for most of the flight, not because of the phone so much as because I’m mad at myself for missing Jacob’s voice on the phone more than Aria’s.
While we wait for our bags in the baggage hall, Milo checks his phone messages then offers me a stick of peppermint gum. I decline.
‘If you stop behaving like a brat, I’ll share Colt’s news,’ he says. The sentence contains so many underlying meanings I don’t know where to start. He’d told Colt I wasn’t a tennis brat, Colt had believed I was one. Maybe I am and didn’t know it. I’ve broken my jinx and yet I’m sulking about not having a phone so I can talk to the sister I betrayed and the boy I shouldn’t have kissed. I am a brat. And what news about Colt?
I accept the gum.
Milo yanks off his sunglasses, revealing eyes fizzing with excitement. ‘Colt won the Futures tournament in Australia – in straight sets. Quickest final ever.’ And we’re hugging and dancing in circles in the baggage claim hall, whirling and twirling because it’s impossible to stop, to remain static with such amazing news, and the world’s spinning faster anyway and we’d better go with it if we want to keep up.
When we’re too dizzy we clasp each other at the elbows to steady ourselves. People nearby smile and laugh.
‘Oh my God, can we go home right now?’ The urge to see Colt is overwhelming. I’ve never been this happy for someone else. Milo shifts from one foot to the other, fingers woven through his hair, smile so huge he can’t speak yet.
Finally, he says, ‘I accepted he’d take longer to improve his ranking if he concentrated on local tournaments, but if he keeps winning –’
‘Can I eat some of whatever you’re feeding him?’
‘You’re doing fine, Dampfnudel. Colt’s getting back to where he should be. He took time off and his ranking slipped – he was hovering around the 120s a year ago.’
I’m back to wondering what happened to Colt. He’d have said if it’d been an injury or something like a death in the family. It must be something really bad – illegal perhaps. Was he banned for taking drugs or fighting? But I had googled him and only found some dry biography that listed his tournament results. So what’s the big secret not even Milo can tell?
Excited to arrive home after a quarter-final loss in Singapore, I smile at a sun-baked Sydney through the cab window. I broke the first-round jinx not once, but twice. Yet while I long for Jacob’s arms around me, it’s Colt I want to celebrate with. The realisation is disconcerting. Colt’s taking up more and more of my headspace these days, but I guess it’s normal because we share tennis and we spend hours training together. Still, my stomach does a loop-the-loop.
‘It was always in you to do it, Harper,’ says Milo, with chuffed eyes. ‘Just needed to make you believe it.’
‘That and a million miles of running and swimming and a billion hours of preparation.’
‘You needed to step up to the mark and you did.’ Milo opens his newspaper and points to the small article we read earlier about me and Colt. ‘You did that. I gave you the framework, but you chose to do the rest.’
‘You’ve made such a difference to Colt, too.’ Colt had won another tournament while I competed in Singapore – an even bigger Challenger event.
‘He was destined to win those tournaments.’ Milo cracks his knuckles. ‘Big local wins plus match experience equals increased rankings. Hell, it’s a great plan, even if I do say so myself.’ He high-fives me. ‘And he really needed that prize money. Stability in the schedule, consistency, and there’s not a lot stopping him. He’s got fou
r more Futures to win before Christmas. If he does, and you keep improving your ranking, we’ve a great chance of landing you guys an agent, a sponsor, and a place in the main draw at the Australian Open. It’ll be a cinch getting into the mixed doubles event.’
Nerves sprawl through my belly. Training with Colt is one thing – playing in a Grand Slam together for $150k in winnings, knowing that he really needs that money, is quite another.
When we pull into our driveway I’m out of the cab before it stops moving. Mum’s on tiptoes photographing our arrival and Dad runs down the stairs to greet me first.
‘I knew you could do it,’ he says, squeezing the breath out of me. I beam over his shoulder –
My brain blobs.
Colt.
He carries himself with quiet certainty, as if he knows he’s on this earth to do something special, but doesn’t need to shout about it. As he ambles closer I see him clearly for the first time. He’s dropped all masks and his beaming face is jammed with praise.
My heart plunges. Whoa. Having Colt see me beat the curse must’ve meant more to me than I realised.
Dad releases me and I rush to hug Colt, my cheek against his chest. I recognise the smell of arnica – and fresh laundry powder. ‘You did it,’ I say.
‘We did it,’ he says, clinching me to him.
I pull free as Jacob approaches. Something in the way he glances between Colt and me isn’t right. He punches my shoulder too hard, grinning, but doesn’t hug me. All at once, Venus and Adagio bounce at us, their tails whacking my legs, and Mum and Aria tumble into me, hugging and kissing and using every word of amazement ever printed in a dictionary.
We move up the dog-clogged stairs and into the house in a big ball of inseparable human. No-one finishes a sentence, but everyone talks non-stop. In the kitchen Mum pours champagne, spilling it in her excitement. I pass around overflowing glasses. Colt declines.
Aria threads an arm through mine. ‘My sister is going to be a world champion.’
‘A toast,’ says Milo, lifting a flute high in the air. ‘Hard-working, determined and good-looking – but enough about me. Here’s to Colt and Harper.’
Jacob downs the bubbles in one gulp.
After I recount every detail of the tournaments and Milo has made Colt do the same, Colt thanks my parents for inviting him and pulls some keys from his pocket.
‘Colt, you can’t go now,’ says Mum. ‘Stay for dinner. This celebration is for you too. There’s apple pie –’
‘Stay, Colt,’ I say. ‘We were about to leave the oldies and go down to the river. And Mum always cooks a lot – you can even take thirds.’
Colt stuffs his hands into his pockets. ‘Thanks, Mrs Hunter. That would be great.’ I catch Jacob silently mimic, Thanks, Mrs Hunter. I glare at him, then mouth, Childish.
Aria takes forever to find her sandals – she’s afraid of splinters. Jacob follows Colt and me outside onto the deck. Colt spots the tennis court. He doesn’t need to say a word because his thoughts are written all over his face: Harper has it all. But I’m not angry. He’s right. I do. And I never want to waste it.
‘You can come over anytime to play,’ I say, making an effort to include him, wanting to be his friend. He nods and scans the pool.
Jacob inspects me, then Colt. I secretly brush Jacob’s toes with my bare foot and a grin replaces his frown. Throwing me over his shoulder, he strides down the stairs to the garden, runs, then trips, and we tumble to the grass. Instead of making light of it, I’m irritated.
From the deck above, I hear Colt talking to Aria. My jaw clenches.
‘Last one to the woods is a squished toad,’ Jacob yells, leaping to his feet. His challenge has been thrown out there many times but today I’m torn between racing him and waiting for Colt.
I hesitate and confirm that Colt and Aria are following, but when I turn to chase after Jacob I’m taken aback: it’s Purple Time.
It appears to happen overnight each year. It’s always magical, the blue-purple haze painting the woods in lilac fairy dust. I follow Jacob, my insides whirling with laughter and lightness. The tunnel of honey-smelling purple deepens. I weave down the path, our footsteps muffled by fallen blossoms, until Jacob steps from behind a tree, making me squeal with fright. He yanks me out of sight, kisses me, and, still fizzy with happiness and light-headed from the champagne, my blood spikes to a thousand degrees and I kiss him back. But only for a moment.
When I pull away and turn to run for the river, he grabs my ponytail, making my scalp smart. We reach the Mother Tree and Jacob brushes my jaw with his nose, nips at my neck.
‘Behave yourself,’ I scold, my scalp still stinging. Confusion clutters through me because kissing Jacob usually feels so right yet I half wish Jacob and Aria would disappear so I can talk to Colt about all things tennis – and winning.
I push him away when I hear Aria and Colt approaching. She barely stops to breathe between sentences – Colt seems to make her nervous. Jacob and I sit on the ground just as they come into view.
Colt is quietly taking in the surroundings. I always figured it’d be weird to bring anyone here, but it isn’t. Today he fits. He’s calm and at peace, as are the woods.
Aria and Colt sit cross-legged next to us. I lie back to track the shafts of sunlight forking through the canopy where the blossoms resemble sparkling lavender jewels. Aria shoves Jacob for being smart-mouthed about something and Jacob shoves her back. Colt studies them.
I tap Colt’s leg. ‘Time seems to stop in here. Amazing, isn’t it?’
His eyes still on Jacob and Aria, he nods.
‘It’s this separate piece of the earth,’ I add, ‘separate from the scary outside world. In the 1960s, the local hospital handed out jacarandas to new mums who planted the saplings and watched them grow alongside their children. That’s why there are so many of them around here.’
‘Mum says families planted one for every local soldier who didn’t return from the war, too,’ adds Aria.
Jacob thumps me on the stomach. ‘Let’s hit the river.’
We hop onto the rocks and leap from one to the next till we reach the other side. I wave Colt over, but he’s leaning against the Mother Tree, arms crossed, looking the other way. Jacob and Aria keep going. I follow for a while, but don’t want to abandon Colt so I turn back.
He’s parked on the lowest branch of the Mother Tree, staring upwards. The blossoms mimic lilac clouds stuck in the branches.
‘The river transforms into this purple stream of confetti when the blossoms fall,’ I say. ‘And there’s this part of the river where the trees are low and they meet in the middle and it becomes a purple cave.’ I indicate downriver. ‘They’re going there now.’
Colt leans a shoulder against the trunk. ‘You don’t need to stay. Go with them.’
‘S’okay. I want to – to hear more about your victories.’ I straddle the branch opposite. ‘Guess you feel amazing. You’re really chilled out.’
He tells me about the break points, the tie breakers, the final triumph when he hit that winning shot across the net. I want that to be me one day. In turn I confess how Milo and I danced in the baggage claim hall.
A flurry of wind makes it rain trumpet-shaped blossoms. Colt peers up at the petal shower. One lands in my open palm.
‘I bet you’ve never climbed a tree before,’ I say. ‘Come on. Dare you.’
His eyes swoop into mine. ‘You think if you dare me, I’ll do it? Not much of a psychologist, are you?’
I shift to squat on the branch, pocket the blossom. ‘You never just muck around. Totally let go. Hang out. You’re seventeen, not seventy-seven.’
‘Now I’m a boring old fart?’ A petal falls onto his shoulder and he chucks it at me.
‘Yeah. You are,’ I say.
His eyes cling to mine for a few beats before he stands on the branch. ‘You win
with that cross-court shot.’ He reaches for the bough above then pulls himself from branch to branch and we race up the tree, me grabbing his ankles and him flicking me off, over and over. Where Jacob moves like Mowgli, Colt is a black jaguar.
Near the top, we blink at each other, puffing and chuckling. ‘This is the good bit,’ I say, between pants. ‘Another metre and you won’t believe what you see.’
Our heads emerge above the treetops and I’ll always remember the expression on his face: it’s stamped with a child-like wonder, stripped of all attitude and fear and whatever else made him into the current Colt. I grasp what it would have been like to be his friend when he was a small boy. The swaying canopy circles around us, a vast purple parachute of petals flickering in the wind.
‘I’m speechless,’ says Colt.
‘That’s not saying much – coming from you.’
He bounces the branch I’m perched on.
‘This is my memory,’ I add. ‘The one I think about when I’m fighting the pressure in a match. This and the woods themselves, the memories me, Aria and Jacob made here.’
‘The warm bath effect?’
‘Yup. It’s called Purple Time and these are the Purple Woods and it’s the best place on earth.’
He smiles at me and I’m thrilled to finally feel as if I’m the best friend he’s never had. More than that, it’s the kind of smile that makes my heart fly right out of my mouth.
After dinner around the kitchen table, Aria plays the piano while Milo and I talk about Singapore. Colt seems to clam up in company and listens in silence, tapping his glass with his fingertips. Jacob slouches in a chair, legs sprawling, and pats Venus. His sulky glances in my direction are frequent and long. I swallow my irritation and to cheer him up I retrieve a can of spray cream and plunk it on the table – next to an apple pie Aria’s made.
He pants, tongue hanging out. ‘I’m going to eat as much as I can stuff into my chops.’ Rubbing his stomach, he sprays cream into a wide-open mouth. When he stops, I snatch the can and spray more until it’s foaming around his nose and chin. He swipes at the slipping cream, licking from fingers to wrists. The table erupts with hoots and comments.
The Harper Effect Page 9