Fifteen Love (12 page)

As the minutes tick away, the questions fade and my head slowly stops spinning. I don't care what Vanessa told Renata or what she says to Will. I don't care what Will thinks. I don't care how many young women my father sees. I don't care how many Year 7 girls Will signs his name on. I don't care what Vanessa's smiles mean.

When I look around at the empty chairs I imagine an invisible orchestra, playing with the perfect rhythm of silence. The rhythm fills the empty room. It rings in my ears. Imagine a world without silence. Without silence there could never be music.

Suddenly, the door to the orchestra room opens. The lights go on and in walks Ms Stanway.

‘Mia!' She looks surprised.

I stand up, embarrassed. ‘Sorry. I was just—' ‘How are you finding the Vivaldi?' asks Ms S.

‘My viola—' I don't know what to say.

Like a metronome, Ms Stanway wags a pale finger at me. ‘You left it at home?'

I burst into tears and her face softens.

‘Don't worry. I'm sure we can borrow one.'

‘It was my father's!' I sob. ‘My dad is going to kill me!'

WILL

There is no announcement at school assembly. Announcements are for winners. Losers get ignored. When I walk down the corridor, no one pats me on the back. The teachers are all too busy. The Year 7 girls look away, embarrassed.

It's not whether you win or lose . . . because losing is not an option.

Yorick has been reading about the space–time continuum. ‘Time travel will never be possible,' he says. ‘No one from the future has ever come back to visit us.'

‘Who would ever want to?' I say.

Winners get trophies and their names in the Hall of Fame. They get free tennis racquets, guest spots on talkback radio and their photos on packets of breakfast cereal. Losers get forgotten. They turn into ghosts and spend the rest of eternity arguing about whether the ball was in or out.

Thank you for calling Losers Anonymous. Please leave your
name and number, your personal hopes and dreams, and we won't
remember to ring you back
. . .

At lunchtime I see Bryce, the arm-wrestling champion, preparing to defend his title against the challenger at the head of the queue. It's a stupid game, but somehow, as a spectator sport, it's got me in. Because you have to keep one arm behind your back and both feet on the ground, because there is no shouldering or punching allowed, it becomes a game of strategies and lightning reflexes. To win, you have to predict your opponent's moves and use them against him, the way Yorick does on the chessboard.

I watch the next challenger put up a brave fight, until eventually Bryce has him on his knees. Bryce looks pretty ordinary, though. Apart from having strong arms and a height advantage, there is nothing very impressive about him. His movements are slow and obvious. He is top-heavy – all his strength comes from shoulder height. According to the laws of biomechanics, he would easily lose his balance if he ever got caught off guard.

I could beat him.

According to
The Encyclopedia of Tennis
, a
wild card
is an under-ranked star who decides to enter the tournament at the last minute.

‘Holland!' Bryce calls as I take up my place in the queue. ‘Finally come to get your arse kicked?'

‘Actually, I was planning on kicking
your
arse.'

Bryce laughs. ‘You're going to need more than a strong serving arm, mate.'

Bryce orders the other guys in the queue to make way for me, which they do without complaining. Everyone is interested, suddenly, as if it's a title fight.

I step up to face Bryce. He is taller than me, but I have a longer reach.

‘You know the rules?' he says.

‘I think so.'

‘First to move his feet or first to give up. You ready?'

I look around at the guys who are watching. I can tell from their faces that they are waiting to see me lose. Further away, leaning against the fence, I see Vanessa is watching, too. Suddenly, it feels like the whole school is watching.

I know Bryce will try to strike first, and I am ready for him. As his arm comes shooting towards me, I grab hold of his wrist and pull it, leaning sideways to upset his balance. As Bryce falls, he grabs my arm and twists it hard. I feel a sharp, stabbing pain in my elbow, but I know I'm the winner.

The fight was over in a flash. Will Holland – the new school champion!

The other guys nod their heads in approval and Bryce vows to get me next time for sure. The next guy in the queue looks like a pushover, but my elbow hurts, so I forfeit the fight and he gets the title.

Vanessa signals to me and I wander over, rubbing my sore arm.

‘Impressive!' she says, though I can't tell if she means it or not.

When she sees I'm in pain, Vanessa smiles sympathetically and reaches out to touch the sore spot. ‘Poor baby,' she says.

I'm still wary, but I like the feel of her soft, cool fingers on my skin.

‘My personal trainer?' I say.

‘At your service,' she says.

According to
The Encyclopedia of Tennis
,
service
is the act of putting the ball in play, and any motion – underhand or other – is permitted.

MIA

There they are – Vanessa and Will – together in broad daylight. She is touching his arm, and he is letting her! Will and Vanessa, being intimate and physical for all the world to see. She is massaging his arm and he is letting her! She is using both hands and he is loving it! Will sits down and Vanessa kneels behind him. She leans against him, rubbing his shoulders. He rolls his head around like he is in heaven. For a moment it looks like they are actually going to start
doing it
right here, in front of the whole school!

It's a truly sickening sight.

I'm in shock. I know people do
do it
. I
have
seen movies with people doing it. I
have
read books. Some days, it seems like everyone is doing it. It's everywhere, but invisible. I don't know what boys imagine when they imagine doing it, but when I imagine doing it, I imagine almost everything but the actual
it
. I can get a clear picture of what happens before and after, but when it comes to
during
, I tend to leave out the gory details.

And now, here I am, being forced to imagine Will and Vanessa doing it. Maybe not today, maybe not here, in front of all the school. But the when and the where are clearly not going to be a major problem for them.

I feel sick in my stomach.

For the rest of that afternoon, I drift along in a kind of daze. I imagine
it
happening everywhere. Insects are out in the garden, doing it. Beetles are crawling into holes and doing it. In biology lab, all the single-celled organisms are doing it under the microscope. In media studies, the newsreaders are doing it during the ad breaks.

Finally, the bell goes. I grab my bag and manage to get out the gate before the whole school starts doing it. Walking home, there are people doing it in cars. People are sneaking into shops to do it. Busloads are going home to do it and the ones in the back seat can't even wait that long.

That night, after dinner, the phone rings and I answer it. For a moment I hope it might even be Will. But it isn't Will – it's
her
. The girl who is
doing it
with my dad. ‘Is that Mia?' she says, sweetly. ‘It's Tina, a friend of your father's. Is he there? Could I have a quick word?'

I am dumbstruck. How does she know my name? Who does she think she is, ringing up like this, telling me her name and saying she's
a friend
of my father's? I don't want to know her name. I don't want to know anything about her. And why is she ringing, on
my
phone, in
my
house, to speak to
my
father!

What about my mum? Has the whole world gone stark raving mad?

I put down the receiver and call out in a loud voice, ‘
Dad! Your girlfriend's on the phone . . . I think she feels like
doing it!
'

WILL

At lunchtime I see Vanessa Webb standing alone by the back gate.

‘I'm out of smokes,' she says. ‘Want to nick off to the shops with me?'

I don't smoke, and leaving the school is forbidden.

‘Sure,' I say.

We wait until the coast is clear, then we sneak out the gate and around the corner into a side street. We are walking fast and laughing nervously. When a police car goes past, Vanessa takes my hand and squeezes it hard.

‘Partners in crime,' she laughs.

At the milk bar Vanessa buys her smokes, then we go and sit out of sight in the car park at the back. When Vanessa offers me one, I turn her down.

‘Mr Fitness,' she says. ‘I almost forgot.'

‘Why do you smoke those things, anyway?'

Vanessa shrugs. ‘To stop me eating junk.'

‘You're in good shape,' I say.

‘You finally noticed,' she smiles.

She passes me her cigarette and I take it between my fingers. It feels light and unfamiliar, like something I might easily crush or drop accidentally. It feels like a baton in some kind of intimate relay race. It feels like flirting.

‘Are you going to smoke that thing or just look at it?'

It takes a major effort to keep my hand steady as I give it back to her.

Vanessa smokes her cigarette like a movie star. There is something exciting but not quite real about it. It's as if the director has rolled the camera and now Vanessa is smoking. Is this why I'm here – to watch Vanessa smoking her cigarette? When I zoom in for a close-up, I can see the pores of her skin. I can smell her warm, smoky breath. It would be so easy to lean across and kiss her. I'm sure it's somewhere in the script . . .

. . . and CUT!

A car pulls up and Vanessa immediately stubs out her cigarette. The principal winds down her window and glares at us both.

‘Will Holland! What are
you
doing here?'

MIA

In class, I smile at the teacher:
Yes, I AM listening.
I smile at the canteen lady:
Yes, I know donuts are fattening and yes
I want THREE!
I smile at Ms S when she kindly lends me a viola to keep until the concert:
Yes, but we BOTH KNOW I
don't deserve it.
At lunchtime, I wander the school grounds, smiling at the world:
Yes, it's a sunny day! Yes, I'm alone
because I LIKE being alone
.

The truth is, inside I'm festering with poisonous thoughts about T*** – that lipstick-smeared, adulterous home-wrecker whose name I can't even mention. I think about her husky voice on the phone. How
dare
she ask, ‘Is that Mia?' How
dare
she talk to me! How
dare
she use my name! And how
dare he
tell her my name!
Why
did he tell her? What
possible reason
could he have had?

Her name is Mia and she doesn't suspect a thing.

Don't worry about Mia. She's a pushover.

When we get married I'm sure Mia will make a lovely
bridesmaid.

I am walking and fuming and festering with black thoughts when I see something that stops me dead in my tracks. Up ahead, Will and Vanessa are sneaking out the back gate –
sneaking
in full view – off for a not-so-secret rendezvous!

The whole world is sneaking and lying, keeping secrets and smiling to hide them. No one cares about how other people feel. Everyone does what they like and gets away with it. All the rules are broken.

Including the one about not dobbing on your friends.

WILL

After school we have detention. The principal sits at her desk writing letters, while Vanessa and I exchange meaningful glances. Whenever she has to leave the room, we whisper desperate messages, like true partners in crime.

‘
How much longer?
'

‘
You worry too much
,' she says.

‘
What if she keeps us here till midnight?
'

‘She wants to go more than we do.'

‘
How do you know?
'

‘
This is your first time, isn't it?
'

I nod.

Vanessa grins. ‘
I've corrupted you, haven't I?
'

Eventually, the principal tells us we're free to go. The corridors are empty and our feet make squeaky sounds on the lino as we walk like pardoned prisoners towards the gate.

‘I'm starving,' says Vanessa. ‘Let's get something to eat.'

MIA

When I get home from school, Mum is watching
The Bold
and the Beautiful
. There's a glass of wine in her hand and an empty bottle on the table. Mum's clothes are crumpled and her make-up is smudged. There's nothing bold or beautiful about her.

‘Are you okay?' I ask.

‘I'm fine, sweetheart.'

‘You don't look okay.'

Mum looks up at me with her sad, blurry eyes. There is so much she wants to tell me, but can't. There is so much she won't even admit to herself.

‘Dad didn't come home last night, did he?'

Mum looks confused. ‘He was working late,' she mumbles.

‘You don't have to cover up for him!' I say. ‘And you don't have to protect me!'

‘He's a good father,' she says meekly.

‘Mum!' I scream. ‘How can you say that!'

I go to my room and slam the door. I open the viola case and stare at its awful contents. The viola began its life as a maple tree. It would have been chosen specially, maybe even specially grown. It would have got cut down and sawed up into sections. The best timber would have been slowly crafted – chiselled with great care and expertise, then fitted, sanded and repeatedly varnished. It would have taken hours, weeks, months of delicate, skilful work. A labour of love, lost forever.