Head of the River

by Pip Harry

  I’m allowed to play rugby for the firsts, but there’ll be at least two random urine tests carried out by a school doctor. I’ll be watched like a hawk all year. I have zero credibility and I’ve proved I can’t be trusted.

  My marks have to reach at least a B average if I’m to hold onto my scholarship. I’ll have to work like a dog. The only good news is that the police won’t be called in. God knows the school doesn’t want that kind of media attention.

  VADA has agreed not to file my records so I won’t forever be marked as a drug cheat. On the proviso that Mr Kentwell gets the ban on random drug testing at APS events overturned.

  He said he would do his best to make it happen.

  When I get home, my room has been ransacked – everything I own is tipped out on the floor. My bed sheets have been stripped and every drawer and cupboard cleaned out.

  ‘Did we get robbed?’

  ‘Your dad wanted evidence,’ says Mum. ‘He found it. You’d better clean up here and start studying. Lie low. I need to talk Dad down from the ledge. He is absolutely furious, Cristian. I’ve never seen him like this. Given our background in rowing and the natural gifts you’ve been given as an athlete, he feels so betrayed by you.’

  ‘I’m so sorry, Mum. It was a stupid mistake.’

  Mum puts her hand to my cheek.

  ‘I know. Let’s get you to a check-up later today. It’s not my area but I understand the detox from steroids can be rocky. You might feel low, a little sad, lethargic. That’s normal, okay? Make sure you tell me if you’re feeling down. We’ll get through this, Cris.’

  She leaves and I pick up my clothes and re-fold them into the cupboards, listening to my parents fighting in their room. It’s more intense than any argument they’ve ever had. I hate that it’s because of my actions. The bedroom door slams and footsteps thunder towards my room. I put my back up against the wall and brace for something terrible. My father has never hit me, but today could be the day.

  Dad stands at the door, his eyes hollow and red. He looks at me like I’m a stranger.

  ‘I’m sorry, Dad. Please don’t take it out on Mum. I’m the one you should be shouting at. Punish me. Whatever you say, I’ll do. Anything.’

  ‘You study, work, sleep. No phone. No TV. No go out. I don’t want talk to you. You shame our family today.’

  As soon as Dad leaves for coaching and Mum for work, I sneak out. I want to do the right thing and abide by his punishment, but there’s something I have to do before lockdown begins. I’m on the number 8 tram, scuttling away from the graffiti and housing commission flats into a world of high fences and hedges. After pacing up and down Adam’s street a few times, I pluck up the courage to press the intercom at the ornate iron gates. I jab the button more times than I should, desperate. I need to find out how Adam didn’t get caught and why he won’t answer any of my texts or calls. How did I end up in this mess all by myself, when I had an accomplice?

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Adam?’

  ‘No, it’s Mitch. Come in, Cristian.’

  The gates open automatically and I walk down the driveway, the eye of a security camera following me.

  Mitch is drinking a tumbler of something icy and golden as he ushers me into the marble foyer, with cowskin rugs and a black grand piano in one corner. A chandelier hangs above us, sharp crystal pendants aimed at my head.

  ‘Adam isn’t home,’ says Mitch. ‘He’s at the river, of course.’

  I’d forgotten this afternoon was a group ergo. I feel almost guilty for missing it.

  Mitch makes no move to invite me in. In fact he seems to be blocking me from going past the foyer.

  ‘You got caught, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yeah. You know everything, don’t you?’ I say, bold with a new anger. ‘I never asked to take the fall for this.’

  ‘I don’t like your tone,’ says Mitch.

  ‘Adam told me you got him on the gear.’

  Mitch puts his drink down on a nearby stand, knocking it heavily onto the glass.

  ‘If I started it, you finished it, son. Take the blame. Be a man. Have some backbone.’

  ‘And you? Do you have any backbone?’

  ‘I’m in real estate; a lack of moral standing is good for my business interests.’

  He looks me over and his smile fades.

  ‘People are talking about you, Cristian. They’ll be talking even louder when you mysteriously resign the firsts with, what was it Adam said, a back injury? I’d try to play the part, by the way. You’re supposed to be bedridden. My son, in the eyes of VADA, is clean. I don’t want you two mixing together anymore.’

  ‘How did Adam get away with it?’ I ask.

  ‘There are ways of masking any kind of drug, if you know the right people and you have the right colour of coin.’

  I back away. Trying to talk to Mitch is a waste of time.

  ‘You might have gotten Adam through the net, but if he feels anything like I did before I was found out, he’s not in a good place. Mentally or physically. I’m glad I got caught. At least I don’t have to lie anymore.’

  ‘Some of us have less trouble lying than others,’ says Mitch, closing the door in my face.

  I’m in a park when my phone rings.

  ‘Hi Mum.’

  ‘Where are you?’ she asks.

  I look around the little park, with its kids’ play set and yummy nannies sharing coffees and gossip.

  ‘Some park in Toorak.’

  ‘Come home. I’ve got dinner on. We’ll work this out, I promise you.’

  March

  One week to Head of the River

  Leni

  Cris and I have a coffee after my rowing training, at a café in Southgate. His face has already filled out. He looks healthier. We sit on the outside balcony, overlooking the late crews starting their sessions.

  ‘Are you okay?’ I ask.

  The house is too quiet. Dad barely speaks to Cris and Mum’s furious with Dad for not resolving things. The whole house hums with resentment.

  ‘Are you going back to school, after your suspension?’

  ‘Yeah. Why not? Got my last rugby season to play.’

  ‘And after that?’

  ‘Travel maybe? Go back to Romania. Visit Bunica and Bunela. Backpack in Europe. I’m saving. I think I can make enough to buy a round-the-world ticket. Maybe I’ll pick up some work over there. Who knows?’

  Maybe it’s because he’s out of uniform, but Cristian seems years older.

  ‘You can meet me overseas, if you like? We could travel together.’

  ‘That would be cool. It was too much pressure for you, wasn’t it?’

  Cristian nods. He seems loose and relaxed in a pair of shorts and thongs. The stress has gone from his face and body.

  ‘I was never cut out for rowing. Not the way you are. I didn’t have the hunger. In the end I don’t care who wins and who loses.’

  He gestures at the chocolate cake between us.

  ‘And I like the sweet stuff too much.’

  ‘Don’t ever mess with your body like that again.’

  ‘I won’t. Promise.’

  ‘Think you and Dad can patch things up? Bit tense around the homestead.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  We share the cake, silently, until there’s one more bite left. Just like when we were kids, we cut it in half and share it. Cristian looks at his phone.

  ‘I gotta go. I’ve got a shift tonight. See you at home?’

  ‘Yeah. Maybe I’ll run back to Fitzroy. Fit in a bit more training.’

  ‘You’re nearly there. You deserve to win the Head.’

  Friday, 1 April

  Day before Head of the River

  Our first official Head of the River business is to appear at a send-off at our boatshed on the Friday night.
We get into minibuses to drive to the Yarra to stage a formal ‘row past’ for old boys and girls. I sit down next to Penny, who is white with fear. It’s her first Head of the River as a senior rower.

  I put my arm around her. Neither of us will sleep well tonight. There’s no escaping the raging nerves. ‘Don’t worry, Pen, we’ve done the work. It’s up to us now.’

  We drive down the long road towards the school gates and hear a roaring, drumming sound in the distance. As we get closer, it gets louder.

  Adam rolls down the window and the sound is deafening.

  ‘No way,’ he says. ‘Guys. You’ve got to see this.’

  Outside the school band’s drum section is thumping and the entire senior school has lined the road as we slowly drive past. Kids are screaming and jumping. This is our goodbye and good luck from the school. It happens every year. We just never know where it’s going to happen. Sometimes the basketball courts, sometimes at assembly. This year, they’ve taken over the driveway.

  ‘Win! Win! Win! Win!’ shout the students, fists in the air.

  I hang my arm out the window at some Year Sevens who high-five me, feeling like a rock star.

  Penny grins at me and we grab hands, excited.

  ‘This is it,’ Penny says. ‘I can’t believe it’s tomorrow.’

  At the river we dress in our zooties and head out for a demo row. No hard strokes, just a show-off for invited guests.

  ‘This is weird,’ says Rachel behind me. ‘I feel like we’re on stage.’

  ‘We are,’ I say.

  Our rowing is better than ever. Strong, balanced and together. Everyone’s been talking about our chances at the regatta. We are equal favourites with St Ann’s. Anything could happen. The boys’ first eight do their row past after us. With Cristian out of the boat, they’re struggling to connect and catch up to the other lead crews. They’re fit but look a little scratchy. Is it too late for them?

  On the staging we get out of the boats and meet a few of the old Harley oarsmen and women. Members of the winning crews from 1953, 1966, 1971, 1984, 1995, 2003 and last year wear medals, sip on free drinks and reminisce about the big race.

  It may have been a while since they saw a podium finish, but they all have a winning quality.

  ‘Leni Popescu,’ says a very short, round man wearing a tarnished medal around his flabby neck. ‘I rowed with your old man. When I say rowed, I mean I steered him straight. He was quite an athlete. As are you, young lady. It comes as no surprise to see you stroking such a fine crew.’

  ‘What was it like, winning the Head of the River?’ I ask, eyeing off his medal. We are so close now, I can taste victory.

  ‘It was the happiest moment of my entire school career. Even when they threw me in the wretched Barwon River. Good luck out there, Elena. Do your school proud.’

  He shakes my hand and I smile. ‘Thank you. I will.’

  Afterwards we have a boat-club barbecue and everyone hangs out on the balcony.

  Amelia and her Year Nine mates come up to me with a wrapped present.

  ‘Leni, the Year Nines wanted to give you this,’ she says. ‘To say thanks for being our captain this season.’

  I take the present and feel a surge of emotion. This is all really coming to an end. In a few days I won’t be their captain anymore.

  I unwrap the gift. It’s a photo of the first eight, in a silver frame. It obviously has some parental involvement. They also give me a massage voucher for a spa in the city and a bar of my favourite chocolate.

  ‘Aw, thanks, girls,’ I say, giving Amelia a hug. She’s sweet and funny. I’ll be keeping an eye out for her in the future. Maybe one day I’ll even get to coach her.

  ‘Win it for us?’ says Amelia. ‘For Harley?’

  ‘I’m going to try,’ I say.

  After a restless night’s sleep in Geelong, Rachel, Penny and I are on a secret mission. Before breakfast, we sneak out to the McIntyre Bridge on the racecourse. We have a message for our crews.

  ‘Did you get any sleep?’ I ask Rachel.

  ‘Not a wink,’ she says, looking as tired as I feel.

  We’ve taken over a motel near the course. An eighties throwback with peach-coloured bathrooms and a TV bolted to the wall. When the lights went out, I lay in the dark, coursing with adrenalin and nerves. I was desperate for the morning to come so we could get our races over and done with. I didn’t need a wake-up call. I was already up, dressed and sitting in the toilet with the light on, reading, when Rachel knocked lightly on the door.

  We walk onto the footbridge together. The other schools have been here too and space for our banner is limited.

  We check out the other banners.

  Row like there’s no tomorROW, Ren!

  The body achieves what the mind believes. Row hard!

  It’s in Y-OAR hands St Ann’s!

  This is it Stotts. Make it count!

  I can’t believe we are really here. No more training rows. No more preparation.

  ‘Are you ready?’ Penny asks.

  ‘Let’s do it,’ I say.

  Together we unfurl our white banner over the edge and tie it in place with ropes. It’s a serious moment. Our moment.

  ‘Let’s go down and see how it looks from the bank,’ says Rachel.

  We stand on the grassy bank, looking up as the sign flaps gently from the bridge. It’s simple, but it’s the first thing every crew will see as they come down the home stretch in three hours’ time.

  IT DOESN’T HURT WHEN YOU WIN. GO HARLEY!

  As we walk back to the motel, Rachel holds my hand and Penny’s too.

  ‘This is it,’ she says. ‘Game day.’

  ‘No turning back now,’ I say, nervous goose bumps rising on my arms.

  Today I will remember every ergo, every freezing cold morning, every weight lifted, every blister, every seat race, every lost race, every painful stroke, every time I said no to a drink, a movie, a party. I’ll remember it all and row my heart out. Not just for me, but for my crew and my coach.

  ‘Wait. I want to tell you guys something,’ says Penny, looking serious.

  ‘What?’ says Rachel. We both stop and stare at her.

  ‘We are Harley, couldn’t be prouder!’ shouts Penny into the wind.

  ‘If you can’t hear us, I’ll shout a little louder!’ we join in.

  We run along the bank, singing our hearts out. Letting go of some of the awful tension.

  Back at the motel, Rachel heads towards the dining room for breakfast and I notice Sam hanging around in the courtyard. We’ve been forced to work together and get everything ready for this weekend, but I’ve been careful to keep my distance. With Sam Cam, if you get too close, he can pull you into his tractor beam.

  ‘Can we talk?’ he asks coming into the empty room.

  ‘Of course. Everything okay?’

  ‘I just wanted to tell you how amazing you’ve been, as a captain. We all appreciate it. I appreciate it.’

  There’s wistfulness to the way he says it and a lingering silence.

  ‘I broke up with Bee,’ he says. ‘Like, for real. It’s totally finished.’

  ‘And that’s supposed to make everything between us okay?’

  ‘I still think about that night. About us,’ says Sam. ‘Do you?’

  Before I can answer Sam leans in and kisses me, gently, on the mouth. This time, I’m ready for it. I don’t let his Sam-ness blur my clean lines. My focus for what lies ahead. I steel myself and gently push him away.

  ‘You don’t want to try again?’ Sam, asks. ‘Now that things are less … complicated?’

  I feel a rush of bittersweet pain at what could have been. That lost fragile thing that neither of us could label or take ownership of. It would be so easy to go back to obsessing about Sam. Pining and waiting.

  I
take a step back from him. What we had is over. I’m different now. I’ve moved on.

  ‘No, I don’t want to try again, Sam,’ I say firmly.

  ‘What do you want, Leni?’

  ‘An apology would be nice.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Good,’ I say, smiling.

  As I walk away, I put my headphones on and play ‘Roar’ by Katy Perry – the kick-ass song that helped me recover from Hurricane Sam.

  Saturday, 2 April

  Head of the River

  Leni

  My stomach gurgles as it tries to digest the toast and eggs I forced down at breakfast. Laura gathers us in a school minivan before our heat, air con up. It’s going to be a scorcher. We’ve drawn tough competition in the heat – we’ll go head-to-head with our arch rivals St Ann’s. Our confidence has dimmed a little, knowing we have to race them first up. We’ll have to win to go through to the final. Everyone else will fight out a repechage. We don’t want to race the rep. Laura has already gone through the technical aspects of the race, now all that’s left to do is inspire us. She leans forward and everyone in the van falls silent.

  ‘In no other sport does the word team mean so much than in rowing,’ she says. ‘You guys know that already. If one of you is having a bad day, then the whole boat will feel it too. If someone is rowing a perfect race on their own, who cares? This morning, don’t go out there as nine separate schoolgirls. Go out as one amazing crew. It’ll hurt. But I’ve made sure you’re ready for that. Embrace the pain. Stand up to it. Don’t let it win. If it wasn’t hard, everyone would row. It’s the hard that makes it worth doing.’

  She glances at me. ‘Leni will take you there, guys. But you have to back her up. Be there for her every stroke. You can win this heat. You will win this heat. Okay, huddle up.’

  Everyone gathers in a circle in the middle of the van and puts their clammy, nervous hands in on top of each other.