The Harper Effect

by Taryn Bashford

  I spray a puff onto Colt’s elbow. He wipes it with a napkin, smiling, and asks Milo to punish me tomorrow with a gruelling drill.

  ‘You two will never grow up,’ says Mum, plonking a wet cloth on Jacob’s head. ‘Always into mischief, Milo. Two mud-covered, barefoot, wild children dragging Aria with them.’

  ‘Excuse me. They never dragged me anywhere.’ Aria snaps shut the piano lid, her face pouty. ‘They just had better ideas.’

  ‘Remember when we slept on the roof the night before Christmas to surprise Santa?’ says Jacob, talking around a spoon of pie.

  ‘The worst was when they set off to school and half an hour later they were back, uniforms dripping wet. They’d gone to the river because the jacarandas had bloomed,’ says Dad.

  ‘Why were they wet?’ asks Milo.

  ‘They were competing to get somewhere and fell in the river,’ says Mum.

  The Purple Cave.

  ‘Actually Harper pushed me in. She hates losing,’ whines Jacob.

  Aria points at him. ‘And you pulled us in.’

  ‘It explains a lot,’ says Milo, mock-frowning. He places my phone on the table. ‘Don’t bother bringing it next time.’

  I snatch it up, beaming. ‘He’s the worst coach ever, Dad. I mean, no phone? It’s child abuse.’

  Milo starts to leave but gets caught in a detailed discussion with Dad. I wait with Colt as he studies Mum’s sketches in the hallway. When Mum’s not curing animal ailments, she’s on the deck drawing while listening to Aria practise, offering suggestions to slow down, watch her staccato notes, or get louder at the crescendo. Over the years she’s framed a dozen pictures of us: Aria, dwarfed behind her double bass while wearing a towel turban; me emerging from the surf, long hair wet and tousled; Aria playing the flute; me, aged fifteen, playing the fool in a pair of bunny ears. Jacob’s also there. My favourite is the one where he’s balancing on one leg on the wall between our homes while eating cake.

  ‘Great family,’ Colt says, bending to pat the dogs. They pester him as much as they pester Jacob, except instead of the maniacal bouncing they do with Jacob they slide around Colt’s legs, looking up expectantly. He straightens and peers down at me. ‘So how long has Jacob been in love with you?’

  My mind splits in two then clashes together like cymbals, leaving me dizzy.

  Snorting, I point toward Jacob in the kitchen. ‘You’ve got it wrong. We’ve known each other since I was five. He’s like a brother to us.’ Jacob flicks a blob of soap bubbles at Aria. ‘We’re just close, that’s all.’

  The words are dipped in poison and I let Colt swallow each one, and hate myself, both for lying to him and because the truth is, for Aria’s sake, Jacob should only be like a brother to me. I squash down the idea that I lie in case Colt is interested in me – in that way.

  Later, when Jacob says goodnight, he hugs Aria first, then me. His eyes pluck at my heart when he whispers, ‘See you at midnight.’

  I shake my head, frowning.

  Aria follows me upstairs. ‘Thanks a lot for splitting with Colt and leaving me with Jacob in the woods.’

  I halt in the doorway at the sight of my bed covered in purple blossoms. Aria huffs and flops against the doorframe, knocking the side of her skull against it. ‘Jacob did it. He said it’s to celebrate your wins.’

  There’s a silence so thick it could be stirred.

  ‘He never did that for me.’ Her chin trembles. She bites her bottom lip.

  For a moment, I’m floored. How could he be so thoughtless toward Aria? So careless with our secret? For the umpteenth time today, I’m mad at Jacob. I want to hug her, but she’s struggling to keep it together and the part I played in this holds me back.

  I walk into the room, ignoring the blossoms. ‘Guess everyone’s come along for the ride with me. Everyone’s overexcited.’ When Aria doesn’t respond I assume she’s gone to mope in her room, but when I look up she’s still there, her face stony, her eyes questioning.

  Her mouth, her brow, twists.

  ‘So how’s the audition stuff coming along?’ I ask, fiddling with the lock on my suitcase until it releases. ‘Going to blow them away?’

  Strains of Jacob’s voice reach us through the open window as he sings ‘You Can Count on Me’. I roll my eyes at Aria, but she directs her crushed expression out the window.

  ‘Is there something going on with you and Jacob?’ she says, her voice colourless.

  I hesitate, stop myself from gasping or throwing my hands in the air in pretend shock. But I can’t look her in the eye when I say, ‘I’m not sure what you mean. He’s just trying to fit in – you know, adjust to how things are now –’

  ‘And how are they? Seems you two are back to being the wild ones, dragging me behind you. You two always made me feel left out, you know.’

  ‘What? You hooked up with him. I think you’ll find I was the one left out.’

  ‘And now you want him?’

  ‘Jeez, Aria. I can’t deny it’s good to have him back as himself and not permanently attached to you.’

  ‘But being the Raggers again. I’m not sure that’s possible.’

  I pick at the Blu-tack on the wall where one of my tennis posters has curled at the corner. ‘Neither am I.’

  Aria stares at me, eyes searching, then disengages and approaches my bed. She scoops up a handful of blossoms. ‘The audition stuff is going well. Thanks for asking,’ she says, her tone flat. I go to hug her, partly to stop her inspecting my face, partly as an apology for the lies. ‘Jacob and I practise every day,’ she continues over my shoulder, her hands light on my hips. ‘It gives me hope we might be able to work things out. Does he ever talk about me?’

  ‘Enough about Jacob. I missed you so much, and I couldn’t even phone you, and we promised to spend more time together and we haven’t, not really.’

  She pulls back, grabs my shoulders. Face slightly pink, she’s recovered herself and quirks an eyebrow. ‘Let’s sleep together. We can talk all night. Maybe we could have a midnight feast and climb the Mother Tree in our PJs like the old days.’

  Nausea muddies my stomach. Jacob might climb through the window at midnight. I need Aria to be asleep while I put him straight. I unzip my suitcase, the poster eyes of almost every Grand Slam winner on me as I think up another lie. My hands tremble.

  ‘I’d love to. But it was an exhausting trip. Tomorrow night? I promise.’ I’m such a cow. No, worse. There isn’t a word for what I am.

  ‘Sure thing,’ she says, wandering into our bathroom. ‘Tomorrow.’ She slams the door.

  I don’t blame her for being disappointed – angry, even. I’d promised to make more of an effort to spend time together. I drop my lying head into the muddle of clothes in my suitcase and listen to the sound of her electric toothbrush. Colt is suspicious, Jacob is being insensitive, and I can’t keep my promise to Aria because I’m still betraying her.

  I don’t wait for Jacob to climb through the window at midnight. I’m exhausted from the tour and seething about the risks he’s taken, and sneak out an hour earlier. When I poke my head inside the studio a huge grin overtakes his face as he puts down his guitar and checks out my body. The grin falls away when he sees my expression.

  ‘You have the body of Catwoman these days,’ he says, taking a step toward me. Suddenly my usual crop top and shorts don’t seem a good idea. His smile uncertain, his fingertips reach for my six-pack. I side-step and slip into the office chair at his desk. I do feel strong, my body hard with muscle, arms defined, legs firm. But my heart isn’t in good shape.

  Jacob doesn’t get the hint and comes closer.

  ‘Stop right there. What were you thinking, putting petals on my bed? Aria’s already suspicious. And you shouldn’t have kissed me earlier –’

  He places a warm hand on my shoulder and strokes my arm. ‘You kissed me back.’ His fin
gers massage my neck. ‘I missed you so bad some days I nearly ripped apart my ribcage to stop the ache.’

  Though I often felt the same way, the truth is that the petals on the bed hurt Aria, and knocking back an appeal to hang together tonight wounded her. If she knew –

  ‘Then the texts stopped,’ he says. ‘I realise now what happened with your phone, but at the time – freaking hell. I couldn’t concentrate or practise. If I fail the Con audition, it’s your fault.’ He digs my side playfully.

  I flinch and exhale, glance at the door.

  Jacob’s face cracks. ‘Is something going on with you and that Colt guy?’

  ‘What? No!’ I stand, keeping the chair between us. ‘Why would you think that?’

  ‘Sorry. Just jealous. He gets to spend all this time with you. I mean, what about me? When was the last time you came to one of my gigs?’

  ‘You know I can’t have late nights. Or drink alcohol.’

  ‘And you took him up the Mother Tree – he’s not part of the Raggers.’

  He’s got a point. And I’m not even sure why I did it. A heaviness sits on my chest. I decide to avoid the subject. ‘There’s nothing between us. It’s Aria. We can’t do this to her.’ The words sound crueller than I intend.

  Jacob stalks toward the red lips sofa, sitting heavily. ‘Thought we were waiting for Aria to move on. So we keep us a secret until then.’

  I gaze out the window at the prickly stars. It’s time to be strong, to push away what I want but can’t have. It’s time to make grown-up choices. ‘It’s too risky. It’s just wrong.’

  Jacob’s eyes swirl with sorrow. He pulls his knees to his chin, circling them, then shakes his head and doesn’t stop. ‘How can this be wrong when it feels completely right? How can loving each other be wrong?’

  Chin trembling, my throat clogs. We’ve bottled up our feelings and refused to let them blossom for years, and now we’ve allowed them to take hold of us, now we’ve said them out loud, denying them is as useless as telling the jacarandas not to bloom.

  But give him up I must. My mouth twists.

  ‘Don’t do this,’ he says, suddenly determined. ‘We’ll do everything we can to protect Aria. I don’t want to hurt her either – not ever.’ He stands, eyes glossy with hope. ‘We’ll keep our secret until it’s the right time. We’ll love each other but protect Aria. How can that be wrong?’ Silence simmers between us.

  ‘How does scattering petals on my bed and kissing me in the woods, with Aria right behind us, protect her?’

  ‘I’ll be more careful.’

  What wise saying would Milo spout now? You can’t have your cake and eat it too. But how do I change what I feel? I remember something Milo said when I complained about moving up the rankings too slowly: ‘When you stop chasing the wrong things you give the right things a chance to catch you.’ Is Jacob the wrong thing?

  Is Aria the right thing? We’ve drifted apart enough –

  ‘I don’t want to hurt you,’ I say, ‘but this can’t happen right now.’ I tread backwards, fumble for the door handle. ‘Please don’t climb through the window again.’

  He pinches the end of his nose, waggles it. ‘Okay. I’ll be more discreet.’

  ‘We can only be the Raggers, that’s it.’

  I shut the door behind me, but not before he shouts, ‘For now.’

  Back in the kitchen I drink milk from the carton and pace. I hit my hip bone against the table. Milk slops onto the floor. ‘Okay, so that conversation felt like crap, but it was the right choice,’ I mumble, staring at the spreading milk. I grab a cloth to clean up. ‘That’s that.’

  I put my bawling heart in a box and seal it with tape. For now.

  Next I grab butter, sugar, flour – time to make it up to Aria. She has a book of her favourite recipes in the bottom drawer. Her vanilla cupcakes take ten minutes to prep, ten to cook. While they bake, I make coffee for me, hot chocolate for Aria and set it on a tray. But something’s missing. I steal outside and across the lawn to the woods to gather handfuls of petals.

  Aria’s room is dimly lit by her butterfly nightlight. She hates the dark. She’s sleeping in the middle of the bed, so I sit to one side, the tray on my lap. I spread the icing when the cupcakes were too warm. It’s trickled into a puddle around each cake, but the tray still looks pretty, sprinkled with petals.

  I shake her, whispering her name. As she stirs, I flick on the bedside lamp. That’s when I see it: Aria’s pink guitar pick resting on the same kind of plastic bag mine is stored in. Except while the pick is patchy and stained, there’s no sign of our mingled blood. She’s washed it.

  She knows. How could she? She’s probably just angry with me. Or jealous about the petals.

  I wrench my eyes away. Aria squints and sits, taking in the tray. I liberate the petals I’ve been squashing in one hand, like confetti. ‘Surprise.’

  But it’s me who’s had the surprise.

  Colt and I sprawl on the grass at the top of ‘Murder Hill’ after a ten-kilometre run with a sprint finish. Milo’s training turns me inside out until my lungs feel as if they’re hanging off the front of my body. But I’m growing stronger and fitter. My groundstrokes are decisive and powerful, footwork tight.

  Milo hovers over us. ‘I’m going to say a word and you must respond with the first word that comes to you.’

  ‘Right now it might be X-rated,’ rasps Colt. I splutter with laughter.

  Milo searches in his sports bag for cups. ‘Start with the word me.’

  ‘Milo,’ we both shout from our positions in the grass.

  Milo gives a thumbs-up. ‘Okay. Next word is you.’

  There’s a beat’s silence before I say ‘grumpy’ and Colt follows with ‘childish’. I elbow him.

  ‘Interesting.’ Milo shares out Milo Potion. ‘I think we’ll go with child.’

  ‘Is this some sort of intelligence test because clearly I’m the smart one?’ I say.

  ‘Only if intelligence is a measure of the number of times you end up on your butt,’ quips Colt.

  ‘Let me finish,’ interrupts Milo. ‘What about up?’

  ‘Trees,’ I say, and Colt says, ‘Purple.’

  Milo and I gawp at him. Colt actually flushes, which has to be a first. ‘You should know. Purple trees?’

  I roll my eyes. ‘Purple Woods, not trees.’

  ‘Purple it is,’ Milo says. ‘No-one needs to understand apart from you. The last word is alley.’

  ‘Smelly,’ I say, straight away.

  ‘Smelly works for me,’ says Colt. ‘Are these code words for when we play mixed doubles?’

  ‘How can we practise them when only the Grand Slams run mixed doubles competitions?’ I ask.

  Milo removes his sunglasses. ‘You’ll practise with me. And you’re practising the skills with other partners, and when you add up your fitness training, the doubles exercises including mirroring, the bond rope . . .’

  I don’t hear the rest because I’m competing with Colt to swipe more Milo Potion before it runs out. Colt wins. I dig his ribs. He clenches against the tickle. I’m a little thrown when I realise this feels a lot like I’m flirting.

  ‘Attention on me, guys.’ Milo clicks his fingers. Colt pulls off his shirt, wet through with sweat, revealing a new tattoo on his shoulder blade. I strain to read it without him noticing. ‘When Colt shouts purple, Harper, you’ll know he’s about to attempt a lob – up. Got it?’

  ‘So if I’m calling for a ball I don’t say me, I say Milo?’ I ask.

  ‘Exactly. Or if you’re aiming for Colt’s alley, call the code for you alley – child smelly.’

  ‘And my alley is Milo smelly,’ Colt teases, chucking his sweaty shirt at Milo.

  Milo clutches it. ‘I’ll take the fall. You guys mustn’t be two individuals playing next to each other. Come together after every p
oint. Talk codes. Be conspiratorial, a physically close team at all times, even if you’re losing. Tennis is not merely a ball game, but a mind game, and this teamship psyches out the opponents.’

  He tosses Colt’s shirt back.

  ‘New tattoo?’ I shuffle closer to read the words. ‘Choose to win.’

  Colt uses the shirt to wipe the sweat from the back of his neck.

  Something in me wants to touch the tattoo, rub it out even. ‘Isn’t winning kind of up to your opponent as well?’

  ‘Interesting you should think that,’ says Milo. ‘Even winning is a choice.’

  ‘You’re saying I choose to lose?’

  ‘Break it down to something smaller,’ says Milo. ‘When you call for a ball with our new code, you’re saying, “I’ll win that shot – I’ll get there. This is my win.” That’s choosing to win. Winning a match is about choosing to win, one point at a time. If you lose a point, you delete it from your memory and go after the next point. And the more you practise this technique, the more you train – the better you get at it.’

  ‘But there are other factors such as weather, your opponent, the court conditions, the crowd –’

  ‘Yes. But they affect everyone.’ Milo kicks the bottom of my shoe. ‘Think back to each match you lost. The moment you chose to lose is always clear – your body slumped, your mind told you it was overly hot, or your wrist ached, or your opponent was busting with energy, or the sun was blinding you. You forgot to choose to win.’

  I pan from Milo to the tattoo to Colt, who’s glaring into the distance. ‘The other tattoo? Is it supposed to mean “I can and I will win”?’ Milo nods for Colt and I add, ‘You’re both insane.’

  Milo winks at me, but Colt’s strained gaze is lost somewhere in the sky and he’s hung up from the conversation. I tap his arm. He jolts back to earth. ‘You okay? Did I say something wrong?’ I ask.