The Harper Effect

by Taryn Bashford

  ‘Did you hear what her dad said? That I’m all toy poodle to Kim’s Rottweiler.’

  ‘He lets the media attention go to his head. They’re fame-chasers. Who says something like that?’

  Superwoman does. With her kill-or-be-killed attitude.

  She’s just a girl like me, not Superwoman. She trains, she eats, she worries, she pees. Yes, we have history – compartmentalise it. And Kominsky – he’s not Super Coach. Wasn’t he wrong about me? I’m no longer stuck in the first-round graveyard.

  It’s simply another match to win. One stroke at a time.

  But not simply another opponent.

  I screw up the napkin and squish it into my half-eaten dinner, wanting to do the same thing to Kim. She hadn’t known about my argument with Colt when she went to his house. She tried to take him from me, screwed with his head knowing his dad’s history with alcohol. And she timed her attack precisely – she moved in as soon as his dad had killed himself and Colt was at his lowest.

  Leaning back, I observe Kim in the mirrored bar area. She’s perched on a stool, muscled legs sliding out from under a short dress. Surrounded by three guys, she whirls a glass of red wine. That’s the real Kim. The one on court wears a killer game face.

  But I’ve never had one.

  I drop into a Harper-sized wormhole; the table shrinks and everything and everyone whirls away into the distance. The pressure to beat Kim resembles a heavy rock tied to my chest, pulling me down, hurtling me further away, faster and faster. I clutch the arms of the chair against the sensation of falling. Sounds muffle and blur so it’s less my ears that hear her say my name, and more my heart.

  My head whips round.

  Aria’s arms are stiff at her sides, a smile skidding across her face. I’m instantly out of the chair, wrapping myself around her, inhaling her rosin and oatmeal scent.

  ‘I live in an appartamento in a building that’s two thousand years old and there are Roman statues outside,’ says Aria. We fall into step on the wet pavement. She’d been drowning in guilt about refusing to meet in Rome and wanted to surprise me, she said.

  Our knuckles bump. I expect her to pull away. Instead she knots her fingers with mine, manically swinging our arms between us. ‘And I eat biscotti for breakfast, dinner’s at nine, the pizza is to die for, and I drive a scooter.’

  ‘Risky. The streets resemble a Mario Kart course,’ I say, remembering a visit to Rome. ‘And still working at the Teatro dell’Opera, I hear.’ We dawdle along a cobbled street, a light drizzle reflecting hazily in the streetlights. ‘What else is new?’

  She glances at me sideways. Her hair has grown and flicks up daintily at the ends. Spotted green feather earrings brush her collarbones. ‘I do have some news.’ I note the buoyancy in her eyes, and grin. ‘I met this guy at work. He won a scholarship to the Conservatorium in Rome.’ She shakes me by the arms, needing me to share her excitement. ‘We’re talking one of the oldest music institutions in the world.’ I chuckle and clutch her shoulders, too. ‘He’s helped me with my music. I’ve got an audition.’

  I hug her. The mizzle trickles down our cheeks, flattening our hair, but there’s no place I’d rather be.

  ‘That’s not all,’ she says, continuing to walk. ‘This guy, André, we’re kind of seeing each other –’

  ‘You are? I’m – speechless – happy for you. What’s he like?’

  Her spaced-out gaze darts upwards, face opening. ‘He’s French. But speaks English. He’s tall with dark, curly hair, and freakily intense about music. He’d practise all day if I didn’t drag him outside.’

  ‘And you’re happy?’

  ‘Yes.’ She studies me. ‘I’m fantastically happy.’

  Our eyes have a conversation both of us can hear – she’s let Jacob go and she’s forgiven me. The sky splatters us with oversized drips of rain, forcing us to run for shelter. We huddle under the canopy of a shop and agree the rain smells grassy and coppery rather than the hot, wet-dust smell of Australian rain.

  She pulls a lip gloss from her bag. ‘I heard about you and Colt. You okay?’

  I slump against the shop window. ‘Got to keep moving forward.’

  ‘True. I had to leave everything that was familiar behind just to see the next step. I realise now that sometimes playing it safe means you limit yourself.’ She mashes her glossed lips together. ‘I bumped into Colt in Rome. He said to say hello.’

  My heart flies into my throat. ‘Yeah?’

  ‘I introduced him to André and Colt took us for drinks at his hotel. He’s doing seriously fine – the place was dripping in crystals and a Coke cost ten dollars. He was way more chilled than before. Except I could tell he misses you. When I talked about you he got this look –’

  I blink wildly. ‘What do you mean – what look?’

  ‘Like someone turned a light on inside him. Or like his face came out of the shadows – even though it was broad daylight.’

  The rain drums at the cobbles.

  Aria caresses my arm. ‘After Melbourne I thought you two were so in love.’

  The memory bites me. I straighten, bracing myself. ‘Love never lasts,’ I say. ‘Same as Purple Time. It’s sudden and magical and beautiful, but it can’t last.’ Streams of water run off the front of the canopy, splashing our ankles.

  ‘Mum and Dad still love each other,’ says Aria. I scuff at the red post box next to us. ‘Do you think love is the colour purple, Harps?’ she asks. ‘I do. Love makes me feel all safe and happy and – purple inside.’

  My heart is aching too hard to answer. Aria rounds on me. She pushes down her bottom lip and pokes my ribs. ‘Don’t worry. I’ve proven it’s possible to find love again.’

  ‘Wait. Oh my God. I’m so slow. You’re in love!’

  She covers her blushing cheeks with splayed fingers. She’s glowing. We didn’t realise back then, but when Aria gave up the Con she let go of the familiar, spread her wings, and gave something better a chance to catch her.

  And Aria’s right. Childhood isn’t the colour purple – love is.

  Kominsky had instilled in me the habit of always packing a notebook to record training logs or reminders for myself. As I get ready for bed, setting out my kit for the final against Kim tomorrow, I fetch the notebook. The purple blossom I caught and pocketed that night with Colt is flattened between the pages – I had kept it safe after Jacob got the all-clear from the hospital.

  Walking over to the open window I kiss it and toss it high. It falls with the rain onto the wet pavement.

  It’s time to spread my wings.

  In the wood-panelled changing room before the match I perform my usual warm-up routine. Kim doesn’t show until twenty minutes before we’re due on court. Her eyes are heat-seeking missiles when she charges into the room. They flash and drill into me, narrowed, assessing, strategising, and she’s in full armour, no chink of human showing.

  She slams a bag onto the bench, then herself. The room resonates with a low growl. ‘I’m going to put that much heat on you, you’re going to melt like ice-cream.’

  The hairs on my neck stand on end. ‘How nice of you,’ is all I can come up with. I pull my leg into a stretch.

  ‘No room for nice on the court, darling. Don’t you get that yet?’ She chuckles like a serial killer. ‘It’s about survival and I’m taking you down.’

  I whip around, but my words glitch; despite her fighting talk she’s slumped on the bench, nursing her head in her hands.

  ‘I wouldn’t be so sure, Kim.’

  Palms slap into her lap and she lets out a strange, dark cackle. Her stare arrows into mine. ‘Did you see me at the French Open? A singles event? No doubles partner to prop me up with fist-bumps, no-one to protect me when the itty-bitty ball hit me. You’re soft and sweet – ice-cream, as I said. You may have won the war with Colt – but this is my win.’

 
I walk to the furthest end of the claustrophobic changing room and run on the spot, bouncing up and down.

  ‘Or did you win Colt? Reckon I’ve seen more of him lately. Colt and I – we’re cut from the same cloth. After he stops needing all the sunshine and ice-cream pie shit you feed him, perhaps he’ll make a different choice.’

  ‘You two? The same? You’re an irresponsible lush, craving a spotlight. You don’t give two hoots about the opportunities you’ve had handed to you on a plate –’

  ‘Shut up, tutti-frutti.’ Kim waves me away. ‘And stop that pounding before I cut your feet off.’

  I keep to my routine. When the court official collects us Kim’s a wad of bubblegum stuck to the surface of the wood and she peels herself off the bench. I wonder if she had a late night out on the town, and I imagine her slipping on the tiles and half-grin.

  The spectators erupt when we emerge on court. I seek out Milo and Aria in the player’s box, but also spot Kim’s rock of a father, a red bush of hair topping him off. He’s chewing gum, rat-like eyes trained on me. He raises a thumb, as though hitching a lift, then switches it upside down. Kominsky is parked ramrod straight beside him, attention on Kim. I stare past them at the old-fashioned buildings visible beyond the rows of spectators, watch a couple of red robins flutter into nearby trees. With the grass beneath my feet, I could be in a park – except for the few thousand eyes on me.

  Having won the toss I prepare myself opposite Kim. Her sluggishness gone, she glares into me from across the court, bouncing on her toes. My stomach ripples with nerves. I look beyond her game face. She pees too. I’ve never wanted a win this badly – not because it’s the final of Eastbourne, but because I want to grind her into the ground after what she did to Colt.

  I take the first set 6–4, but she’s not letting me win the next set without a battle – and neither is her dad. At the end of a changeover break, his words boom onto the court: ‘Take her out, Kim.’

  Kim sneers as we pass each other. I gauge her bloodshot eyes and she reacts to the personal space invasion by knocking into me.

  ‘Everyone wants you to win, Kim.’ I don’t take the bait, but it’s Kim’s dad, for sure.

  I grit my teeth. I can do this. She’s gone. I’m not losing today.

  I glance at Aria, her knees jiggling up and down. She’s creating an amazing future for herself and Jacob is touring with the band – while the Raggers have reconciled, the two of them are making their own dreams come true.

  Now it’s my turn. This is my dream and Kim is not taking it away from me.

  We go to tie breakers over and over. Kim’s power is amazing, her ability to stay settled at times of pressure allowing her to rob me of the second set.

  ‘Your serve is da bomb, Kim.’ Mr Wright again, careful not to say anything that could get him thrown out, but enough to rile me if I let him.

  I don’t.

  During the final set Kim’s an advancing one-woman army. When I force her to run for dropshots she sends in the speediest warrior. I get her running from side to side, but she finds reinforcements and there are five of her on court. After I pull some power shots, she uncovers more power in her own arsenal. I pound her backhand, she attacks my backhand. Yet despite her defence, I’m the one calling the shots. She’s reacting to me. I’m in charge. That knowledge sends a surge of energy and determination into every muscle.

  The next time we change over Kim calls for a bathroom break. She stumbles over her feet as she walks away. Step it up. She’s tired. I’ve done that. I’ve tired out Superwoman.

  When we resume I reach further into myself, grunting with each stroke, powering the ball over the net. Always a silent, self-contained player, now I fist-pump the air each time I win a point. ‘Come on,’ I mumble, after losing a point. Then I yell, ‘You’ve got this.’

  I wipe the slate clean, as though every point is the first of the match, and I choose to win it.

  The energy on the court rises. The spectators catch on, cheering and clapping. I absorb their energy, a battery recharging itself, and witness the energy dribble out of Kim. And then it happens. One point from my match point, 30-love – I lunge for a drop shot and strain the same knee I’d twisted before. I can walk, but it doesn’t feel good. I should call for ice, strap the knee, protect it for Wimbledon, but Kim is a prowling wild animal and she’ll target my weakness. I grit my teeth and head for the baseline. 30–15. Still two points away from winning. It has to hold. But my serve wallops the net and a lightning bolt shoots through my knee. I push the signature of pain out of my face for the second serve, hitting the net again. Double fault.

  Kim shrieks, ‘Yes! Ice-cream.’ She pumps both arms.

  I think of myself as a soldier with a bullet wound – it hurts but I’m not dead. I can still fight in this battle. 30-all. My next serve is solid and I move to centre, teeth gritted. I smash the ball at her feet and win the point. The crowd rumbles with anticipation.

  ‘Match point, Hunter,’ announces the umpire.

  One point and I can ice it. The knee on fire, I bounce the ball five times and serve. It hits the net and my knee gives way. I suppress a scream.

  Kim points her racquet at me, as if it’s a loaded gun.

  One point. That’s all I need. The throbbing tells me if I run on this knee, I’ll damage it and have to drop out of Wimbledon. And if I don’t win this point we’ll reach deuce. We could go to tie breaker after tie breaker again – and that’s not an option. One chance. It has to be an ace. It has to be a steady, straight ball toss.

  Choose to win.

  I can and I will.

  Kim hunkers down, a tiger ready to pounce. I perform the five bounces, but catch the ball, halting play. The crowd exhales. I put my weight on the uninjured leg, study the ball in my grasp.

  This is it. The moment I win a professional tournament. The moment I prove I have what it takes.

  I bounce the ball just three times, toss it dead straight, flick my wrist.

  It’s a fireball that not even Kim can stop.

  It’s an ace.

  The knee iced and strapped, I practically float down the passageway for the post-match interview. Before I’d exited the court, fans thrust notebooks at me. A girl of no more than nine caught my eye and I reached for her notebook first. I’ll never forget the expression on her face; she looked at me like I was a god – no – her hero.

  I enter a packed media room and a tournament official gives me a bouquet of roses big enough to need their own cab. Every one of them is purple.

  I cast around for Colt, soaring even higher with a moment’s hope. Could a movie-like ending happen for me? Instead, I find the familiar, perfectly round, shaved head of Kominsky parked at the back of the room.

  He chose to attend my interview.

  Our eyes snap together. Elastic lips sweep up at the corners as he bows his head to me. I smile and nod back.

  ‘Please take a seat, Miss Hunter,’ prompts the official. I slide into a chair, laying the flowers on the table.

  My voice comes out high and excited when they ask about the game. ‘I guess I had to dig deeper than ever before and I liked what I found.’

  ‘You resemble the cat that got the canary, Harper,’ shouts the Channel Seven lady. ‘Who are the flowers from?’

  Words swirl in my mouth, my heart suddenly stunned with love. ‘There’s no note. But can you pass on a message?’ The room ripples with nods and murmurs. ‘It’s this: “Child Milo, Milo child. Forever.”’

  You me, me you. Forever.

  I explain it’s a code for them to break. But two days later I regret saying it – because Colt doesn’t respond.

  Hardening myself against the hurt that gnaws at me, I push Colt to the back of my mind. It really is over, the roses a way of saying congratulations without having to call or text. The only purple I need to concentrate on now is the purple a
nd green of Wimbledon.

  Keep moving forward.

  I’ve always had a soft spot for Wimbledon. I’ve played on the grass courts four times in the juniors, and once in the qualifying rounds of the professional circuit. Being the oldest tennis tournament in the world, they’ve clung to certain traditions, making it stand out from the other Grand Slams. There’s a dress code for players – a mostly white kit – and there’s strawberries and cream everywhere. And although last year I had to use the upstairs changing room, I did sneak into the champions’ locker room, imprinting the details of the old-fashioned space in my memory. There’s deodorant and hand cream next to each basin and an attendant passes out handtowels. The men even get shaving cream. This time, I’ll be allocated to the champions’ locker room. No more first-round graveyard changing rooms.

  Milo, Aria and I arrive in Wimbledon with two days to get settled. Dad’s employed a physiotherapist to join our team and my knee is feeling good. We’ve also hired a house rather than accommodating everyone in hotels – Mum and Dad arrive soon.

  England is experiencing a heatwave and Milo doesn’t want me to get dehydrated so he sends me on crack-of-dawn runs. The morning hour has gold in its mouth. Milo’s definitely right – I crave this calm hour when there’s time to put myself together for the day ahead.

  I run around the nearby lake, through the waddling ducks, the pale morning sunlight shimmering across the tranquil water. The paths around the lake are lined with bluebells and squirrels inhabit the oak trees – a contrast to the palm trees and kookaburras of home. As I run, I wave back at the rowers lined up in their boats and others who launch small sailboats, the water slapping at their bright hulls. Afterwards, I walk to the end of a boat jetty to recover and to imprint the landscape into my memory. I’m in the main draw of Wimbledon. It’s happening – my tennis dream is coming true.

  Something knocks my trainer and I look down. To the side of my foot is a tennis ball. Has Milo followed me to start another drill?