The Harper Effect

by Taryn Bashford

  Colt jumps up to go, face unbuttoned. ‘The tattoos are a reminder,’ he says, looking like he swallowed what he really wanted to say.

  Soon after my homecoming from Singapore, Milo and Colt come for breakfast – Dad wants to confirm the new world rankings on the pro website together. After we’ve eaten, we file into Dad’s study.

  With Mum’s and Jacob’s arms around my shoulders, Dad punches in the web address. After our talk in his studio, Jacob’s doing a good job of pretending we’re still the Raggers. In the nervous quiet of the study, Aria leans against the door, arms folded, a pursed smile on her face. Lately, she’s locked herself away with her instruments, claiming to need more practice. Neither of us has brought up the guitar pick or the sister pledge.

  Dad searches for Colt’s ranking first. It’s a massive jump, to 121. Colt’s chest puffs out and he beams while Milo slaps him on the back. Dad pumps his hand and Mum kisses him on the cheek and I want to go to him, but Jacob has me in a headlock, tactlessly chanting, ‘Harper, Harper, Harper.’ Annoyed, I pull myself free.

  I feel rotten for Colt. His dad should be here.

  When Dad types in the women’s rankings search, the air in the room seems to get sucked out the door.

  Dad springs out of the office chair. ‘You did it. Number 100.’ And the room is jumping up and down. There’s squealing, jostling and kisses covering my cheeks. Even Aria hugs me. But all I want to do is go to Colt, who waits alone, his smile bolted on. I wrench away and bowl into him, making the air whoosh out of his chest as he stumbles backwards. I hold on to the sound of his chuckle.

  ‘Does that mean Harper can beat you, Colt – since she’s ranked higher?’ asks Jacob. Jacob knows perfectly well that men’s rankings remain a different entity and are far more competitive, so I kick his knee to shut him up.

  I kiss Milo’s cheek when he joins our scrum, then Colt’s. But Colt’s face is somehow haunted, as though he’s lost in a bad memory.

  I can’t stop thinking about Colt. I don’t know if it’s because he’s such a mystery or because we spend so much time together pursuing our shared goal. Or if it’s because, unlike when I think about Jacob these days, I get this sense of lightness in my body like I’m anticipating – something.

  Why wasn’t his dad there this morning? Why is his dad never even mentioned? Where does Colt live? I’m guessing not in a car park. Why won’t he talk about his life? What are the tattoos a reminder of? Why are his moods so erratic? The questions grow from mere curiosity to a scratchiness inside my head that I can’t ignore. They begin to consume me, and when I follow him home after training the next day I tell myself that it’s because I want to help.

  He doesn’t go home, though. He parks the motorbike at a couple of tatty tennis courts where he hits the ball against the wall until a girl – a woman – walks onto the court as if she owns it. Her long black ponytail matches a mostly black tennis kit. Shoulders square and strong, waist narrow, she’s a tad scary – Lara Croft–esque – and somehow familiar.

  She gives Colt a whack on the butt with her racquet. He swings round and kisses her cheek. I’m shocked at the idea of Colt having a girlfriend – let alone one who’s about ten years older than him. Why hadn’t he mentioned her? My heart feels like it just got strung up.

  I let the breath I’m holding dribble out. Why does this unsettle me so much? Am I here for more than friendship? I admit I feel – differently – toward Colt these days. But that’s stupid – this is scary Colt, born aged eighty, wrapped in issues I’m too inadequate to be told about. And I love Jacob. It’s not jealousy I’m feeling, it’s disappointment – Colt doesn’t rate me enough to let me into his life.

  Whoever Lara Croft is, she’s a top player and gives Colt a good game. I watch them, feeling as though I’ve been slapped across the face.

  Despite the girlfriend discovery, I haven’t uncovered any real answers, so when they’re done I keep following Colt. If neither he nor Milo is going to tell me about this big secret, I’ll just have to find out for myself. If I’m to be Colt’s friend, to be his partner at the Grand Slam, I deserve to know. Anyway, by helping him, I’m helping myself.

  He parks his motorbike outside an old, grey weatherboard house near the car park where I dropped him off. The picket fence might once have looked quaint, but now it hangs broken, the paint mostly peeled away. The lawn is uncut, crowded with weeds that extend across the two strips of concrete that serve as a driveway.

  Colt bounds up the steps of the porch and reaches above the doorframe to fetch a key. I park the Jeep further down the road, doubling back on foot. The cars parked in the street are rusty and unloved and the air smells of petrol and old rubbish.

  I pause across from his house, wondering if I should knock. A trio of teenage girls, pushing prams and smoking cigarettes, walks past me. A car alarm goes off, adding to the noise of traffic on the main road and the frequent trains that screech in and out of the nearby station. There’s not a flower in sight.

  We come from different worlds.

  The screen door bangs. I duck behind a car as Colt sets off for a run. We’ve just finished a four-hour training session, including a ten-kilometre run, and he’s going on another one? I watch the house while he’s gone. There’s no sign of his dad.

  Forty minutes later, I’m about to leave when Colt sprints up the street and drops on all fours in front of his house, hauling air into his lungs. When he heads indoors I almost go home, but realise that apart from the fact that he’s clearly not well-off, he’s overtraining and risking burnout, and that he has a girlfriend, I haven’t discovered any reasons for his erratic moods or for him having to take time off the circuit.

  I wait a little longer, too embroiled and curious to give up easily.

  Colt emerges wearing a retail uniform. He does have a job. That only proves he needs money. But surely there’s more to this than Colt’s shame about where he lives or his financial status. Because if that’s all this secrecy is about, it means he thinks I’ll judge him or look down my nose at him like that brat he once accused me of being.

  I thought we’d got past that. I thought we were good friends.

  Gunning down the road in my Jeep, stomach churning, my thoughts turn ugly with outrage. I don’t want to train with someone who thinks I’m a tennis brat. It was one thing when he didn’t know me, but now, after all these hours of training, us against Milo, the mirroring, the bond rope, the dinner at Milo’s, taking him up the Mother Tree – I feel betrayed.

  I decide to confront him tomorrow.

  My grasp tightens around the wire fence surrounding the two dingy courts. I’m glad it’s between us. Colt serves ball after ball then collects them using a pick-up tube. Several balls have rolled over to where I’m standing.

  ‘You know you’re overtraining?’ I say as he nears. ‘Milo would blow his top about burnout if he knew.’

  Colt’s careful not to make any sudden movements, as though I’m aiming a gun at him, and slowly straightens. The grey tank top he’s wearing reveals defined back muscles and powerful shoulders. He stuffs two balls into a pocket, then wipes the back of his neck and chest with the towel pinched in his waistband. When he lifts his eyes they’re so dark and stern I wilt under their stare.

  Looking past me he pokes his tongue into the side of a cheek and exhales. ‘What are you doing here?’ The question lacks any sign of friendship.

  I shrivel inside. ‘I was in the area.’

  ‘Yeah, sure.’ His assessment of me is short, cutting to my bare feet. The first thing I do after training is to strip off sweaty shoes and socks. ‘You’re spying on me.’ Spit flies from his lips. I curl my toes into the dirt. ‘Why?’ He strides to the fence and dumps the word between us as if it’s a grenade.

  ‘Because you never tell me anything,’ I reply, rapidly. My focus ping-pongs around the court. ‘You’re this big secret all wrapped up. I’m trying
to be a good friend, and –’

  ‘And what?’ His words are bullets. I steel myself against them.

  ‘And I want to know more about my tennis partner – to figure you out.’

  ‘What if I don’t want you to know more? Everything you need to know you already know. You know my serve is shit-hot, my backhand is my secret weapon, my short shots let me down – that’s the stuff you need to know.’ He drinks from a water bottle. A dark sweat mark gathers in the centre of his shirt and all the way to his waist. He smells familiar – like hard work, like a good day’s training, like a winner.

  ‘Why didn’t you want me to know where you live?’

  Anger ripples off him and I’m no longer brave. He glares fiercely across the tennis courts. I’m about to walk away, thinking I’ve blown our friendship, when he says, ‘It’s not because I’m ashamed.’

  ‘It makes no difference anyway.’

  He approaches the fence again. ‘If it makes no difference, why stalk me?’

  ‘I told you. I want to understand you – you’re such a closed book.’ His eyes hold mine, sending a shard of heat into my belly. It happens sometimes, but I figured it was because he’s hot and I’m a teenage girl, reckoned it was because I didn’t know much about him, as if he were some mysterious prince. But now I know something closer to the truth, and he’s no prince, no knight in shining armour. Now I’m thinking it’s the heat of fear.

  I turn on my heel and start walking.

  The muffled tread of trainers follows me, but I don’t dare stop.

  ‘This isn’t exactly a safe area for a rich girl with her rich-girl car,’ Colt calls after me. As if to prove his point, a guy with several hooped earrings in one ear approaches. He gives me the once over, lingering on my bare legs under the short tennis skirt.

  I pick up the pace. ‘I’ll survive.’ When I reach the car I dig for the keys in my backpack. I sense Colt right behind me.

  ‘Why do you need to understand me?’ he asks, softer.

  I shift to face him. He’s close and I step back, butting into the car door. My heart raps like its volume is on high.

  ‘I wish you’d be honest with me, Colt. Do you know what I think?’ Nerves creep into my throat. ‘After everything, you still think I’m a spoilt, stuck-up brat who will look down on you if I find out you’re not well-off. You think I’ll judge you.’ Indignation makes me bolder. ‘Thanks for thinking the worst of me.’ I stare at the park at the end of the street where the swings don’t have seats. ‘Doesn’t say much for our future as tennis partners if you don’t rate me, and you won’t trust me.’

  ‘I’m not very trusting – it doesn’t reflect on you. And we didn’t always live in this shit pit.’ He flings his arms in a circle to indicate the area around us. ‘So I know that being rich doesn’t make you a snob. I do have a more balanced view of the world. And I stopped thinking you were a spoilt brat a long time ago.’ He threads his gaze with mine. My heart squeezes.

  It’s also the most he’s ever revealed. And I want more. ‘Where did you used to live?’

  He shifts to lean his back against the Jeep, arms crossed. ‘Before my mom died we lived on the Northern Beaches.’

  Coastal, middle class, and nothing like here.

  A souped-up black car squeals past, the engine gunning.

  ‘Then we moved to Florida because after she died, Mom’s family offered Dad a job. That’s where she came from.’

  ‘I’m sorry. About your mum.’ He doesn’t respond. ‘When – did she die?’

  He pushes his arms between his back and the hot chassis of the car. ‘Been over eleven years.’

  ‘You lived in Florida all that time?’

  ‘Yup.’ He hunts in the sky for something, tapping a foot.

  I sense him closing up, Aladdin’s Cave hiding its treasures. ‘That’s where you learnt to play tennis? Florida?’

  ‘Yup.’ He straightens.

  If he isn’t ashamed of where he lives, why’s he such a closed book? What’s he hiding? ‘Then you moved back to Sydney? Why?’

  ‘Didn’t work out. I gotta go.’ He pushes away from the car and stands square-on, hands clasped behind his head.

  I can’t help myself. ‘Go where?’

  He laughs out loud, his shoulders shaking, a deep belly laugh. I take him in, enchanted for a moment by the sound; by the curl of his lips, by how open his face has become, by the way his eyes roar with energy. By the real Colt.

  He catches me watching and reels in his smile. ‘Nosy, much? You’re unbelievable.’

  I chuckle, eventually adding, ‘It makes no difference to me where you live. We’re partners. So long as you keep up that serve and that backhand, yeah?’

  As I speak his eyes cup mine, then zone in on my mouth. My lips part to pull in oxygen, but it’s somehow a sort of signal. Without warning his mouth is on mine, one hand clasping my jaw, the other wrapped around my neck, his shoulders surrounding me. His tongue fills my mouth. A firecracker goes off in my belly. I kiss him back. A hand moves to the base of my spine, compelling me closer. Our hip bones bump. There’s a trip-wire between us and we’ve set it off, but instead of blowing us apart, it’s pushing us together.

  An image of Jacob and Lara Croft causes me to pull away. Colt reels to the back of the Jeep. I clasp the door handle and mash my recently crushed lips together.

  Colt smacks the roof of the car. ‘Not a good idea.’ He drops his chin to his chest. ‘On every level. I’ve gotta go. You should get out of here.’ Tramping to the court to fetch his abandoned tennis gear, he looks back at me, mournful, before pounding down the street. His shape shrinks until it disappears and I keep clutching the door handle, my knuckles white.

  Colt leaves for a Futures tournament that night. I’m left to torture myself about the significance of the kiss until I join him and Milo in Wollongong in a week’s time.

  I distract myself by training harder than ever and playing brutal games of tennis with Kim Wright, half hoping to pick up on her ‘kill or be killed’ attitude. Afterwards, she hangs around the house with me, Jacob and Aria. I’ve been trying to spend more time with Aria, but she says she’s busy rehearsing, not a hint of apology in her voice. Jacob scrapes through his HSC and with school over his band – currently named Road Kill – uses his studio to rehearse while we’re training. Then Jacob parks himself at our house for the rest of the day. Aria has stopped working at Mo’s to concentrate on audition prep, and while she rehearses each piece the requisite twenty-five times, Jacob jokes around with Kim.

  During breaks Aria conveyer-belts food between the kitchen and Jacob, clearly loving the smile and cuddle she gets in thanks. And clearly failing to see the long looks he sends me. Jealousy uncurls in my gut when he touches her, but he follows their hugs with an expression that tells me, Wish it was you. At first, I’m convinced Jacob will know I’ve been kissed by someone other than him, but it’s not like Colt left a sign on my lips. Colt stirred me up, though, and I’m inside my head so much, Jacob’s heated glances turn quizzical.

  ‘Jacob, you’re so lazy,’ says Aria. ‘I’ve rehearsed all my pieces and your flute is still in its case.’

  ‘You need to stop feeding him. He’s like a pet monkey,’ teases Kim. ‘He’ll choose food over work every time.’ Kim leafs through a maths assignment I’ve just finished. ‘Ugh. Glad I’m done with school.’

  ‘I’ve missed so much – even with tutoring,’ I explain.

  ‘School’s for mugs,’ says Kim, curt. ‘How many kids in your school will become world famous and earn a couple of million bucks a year?’

  Driving to Wollongong, my stomach is concave with tension. Do I pretend that kiss didn’t happen even though the memory wakes me at night, my heart wriggling with confusion? I decide the kiss was thrilling because it was stolen. I can’t like Colt like that – I love Jacob.

  ‘Where’s Colt?
’ I ask Milo when he meets me in the hotel lobby. I’m half relieved Colt’s not there – I’m not sure how to have a conversation with someone who, when I last saw him, kissed me and walked away annoyed.

  Milo guides me to check-in. ‘He’s not staying here.’

  I pass a credit card to the receptionist. ‘But he’s winning decent prize money.’

  ‘He’s his own man. I can’t tell him how to spend his money. Where he’s staying is full of students and travellers, though. No way he’s getting enough peace and quiet between matches.’

  ‘Will we see him later? We gotta celebrate.’ This past week Colt won the men’s doubles and lost in the finals of the singles event.

  ‘He’s in full prep mode for tomorrow’s tournament – you know how he gets.’ The receptionist presents a keycard. ‘Now call your dad. Then your phone is mine, Dampfnudel.’

  For the next three days I don’t see Colt. Our schedules either clash or he misses Milo’s training, plus we’ve entered both the doubles and singles events, making us time poor. Milo tells me Colt prefers to eat alone at night to get match ready, but with his eyes hidden behind those aviators I don’t believe him: the crinkled grin is missing.

  Colt’s closing me out again.

  Because of that kiss.

  I see him by accident. He’s striding out of the players’ lounge, texting as he walks. How is it Milo hasn’t confiscated his phone then? He seems thin and pale and tense. Probably from overtraining and lack of sleep.

  Grabbing his shirt I say, ‘Hey. Howdy, stranger.’

  He doesn’t seem surprised to see me. ‘Hey,’ he says, focusing over my head. And there’s something wrong with the way he says it, like hearing a mis-hit on your racquet.

  ‘You don’t look yourself – are you sick?’

  He scratches his nose. ‘I’m good. Match on soon – first round. Gotta go. See you later.’ He says the words, but I know he doesn’t mean them – both the ‘good’ bit and the ‘see you later’ bit. That was either a serious game face or he’s messed up about our kiss.