Fifteen Love (4 page)

Renata is more complicated – she won't actually say what she likes, in case Vanessa thinks it's stupid. For example, I
know
Renata likes Kylie. I'm sure she has some of Kylie's albums – and when Kylie did her concert, I'm pretty sure Renata went, although she never mentioned it.

‘Why is Kylie so popular, anyway?' says Vanessa. ‘She can sing and dance, but her songs are
so
forgettable.'

‘She's stylish, though,' I say, seeing the disappointment in Renata's face.

‘Kylie
is
beautiful,' says Renata. ‘Don't you think?'

But Vanessa's response is swift and severe.

‘No, Renata, I do not, but I'm
sure
she's a very nice person.'

If Will Holland came to watch our orchestra rehearse, he must know something about music. Ms S seemed to know who he was. Maybe he's writing an article for the local paper? Or maybe he's a talent scout, on the lookout for gifted musicians?

WILL

These are my remaining options:

a) Start up my own orchestra and ask Mia to join (any instrument she likes).

b) Start up a string quartet (might be easier).

c) Employ pies in the face, buckets of water, exploding cigars or other attention-seeking devices.

d) Get down on my knees and beg.

e) Go and talk to her RIGHT NOW!

MIA

The lunch bell has gone and I am late for class. The corridor is full of kids queuing outside classrooms or hurrying to get books from their lockers. When I put on my glasses I look up and see Will Holland coming straight towards me! We are on a collision course, being pulled along in the current. Then suddenly there we are, face to face, blocking each other's way. Will looks like he wants to say something. He opens his mouth, but no words come out.

Will smiles like he's just had his wisdom teeth pulled, top and bottom.

I smile back, helplessly. Like someone pressed
mute
on the TV remote.

Will and I stand there without moving, for what seems like a lifetime, an aeon, an ice age. Then I step to the right. At the exact same moment Will steps to his left, so there we are blocking each other's way again. To correct the mistake we both step back to the centre, like in a barn dance. It feels as though we should clap hands and dosido. It's ridiculous, but neither of us is laughing.

‘Stay there,' I say. ‘Don't move, okay?'

I didn't mean to sound rude. It just slipped out.

Will stands still as a lamppost while I step past him and walk off down the hall.

I don't want to look back. It is already far too complicated.

WILL

If my life were a video, I would rewind to my meeting with Mia Foley in the corridor. I would pause it there, just to see her perfect face again in close-up, then I'd roll it in super-slow motion, taking it one frame at a time. And this time we wouldn't be stuck for words.

They need a line down the middle
, I might say.

With a sign saying KEEP LEFT UNLESS OVERTAKING
, she'd reply.

And double lines on the dangerous corners.

SLIPPERY WHEN WET
, she'd say.

No . . . Pause . . . Rewind . . . Mia definitely wouldn't say that.

FORM ONE LANE above the doorways
, she'd say.

FORM ONE PLANET, it could say, if you add a
P
and a
T
.

Mia would think about this and decide it was very profound.

Kiss me
, she'd say . . .

Stop the video. Close file, delete and trash. Then wipe the hard drive, just in case.

Who am I kidding?

MIA

When I get home from school I practise my viola. I start with my scales, playing them
lento
, slowly, then faster,
marcato
, before moving on to the Vivaldi. There are some days when I'd rather be blobbing out in front of the TV. But mostly, once I'm started, playing the viola helps my thoughts to unravel . . .

My bedroom is nowhere near ready for a boyfriend. The wallpaper, for instance, has
pink flowers
on it. My bedspread has daisy chains! There are lace curtains and a chandelier with fake plastic candles! My bedroom looks like a doll's house. It's too
nice
for a boyfriend. In fact, the whole house is too nice. My parents are too nice. Before I even
imagine
having a boyfriend, I would need to paint my room a strong, serious colour, possibly indigo. I would need heavy curtains – possibly magenta – plus a matching doona and a dimmer switch. I would need a three-quarter-size bed, with a new mattress – one that's not quite so loud and boingy. And I would definitely need a lock on the door – to keep out my nice mum and dad, and my mad, slobbering beagle.

Today, in the library, I saw Will again. He had taken time out from watching the sky to borrow a book. Was this an improvement or a backward step, I wondered? Did it make him more mysterious or less? I guess that depends on the book. From where I was standing I couldn't see the cover. It was a big, thick hardback and Will put it straight into his bag as if he didn't want anyone to see. It could have been about Shakespeare or baroque musicians or Renaissance art. It definitely looked like the kind of book to make a guy more deep and interesting.

I shouldn't have been so abrupt in the hallway yesterday, telling Will to stand still while I walked around him. Obviously, Will is the kind of boy who takes time to assemble his thoughts. Because his thoughts are so deep and meaningful, he has trouble with,
Hello, how are you?

I should have walked up to Will in the library and asked him what his book was. Will and I need to talk. What about, exactly, I don't know. How, when and where, I'm not sure. Mainly, we need to talk so that we can stop being so ridiculous. It doesn't look like Will is going to make the first move, so I guess it's up to me.

And maybe I should brush up on my Shakespeare, just to be on the safe side.

WILL

I am walking out the school gate when I almost collide with Mia Foley again! I'm stunned. Here we both are, with the entire school ground to move around in, and yet we keep on bashing into each other. Mia and I are like dodgem cars or billiard balls. We couldn't avoid each other, even if we tried.

‘Hi!' she says, as if our meeting in the hall never happened.

‘Hi,' I say – then, hoping for something with a bit more oomph, ‘Hello!'

‘Hello,' Mia replies.

So far, so good.

Safely through the gate, Mia and I drift along the footpath together. I'm not about to tell her my house is in the opposite direction. Instead, I stumble along, putting one foot in front of the other and trying to work out what to say next, hoping to capitalise on
Hello
. Then I have a brainwave! Of course! How obvious! It was right there in front of me all along.
Don't forget V!

Casually, I point to the case she is carrying. ‘Is that your violin?'

‘No,' she says. ‘It's my machine gun.'

‘Silly question, I guess.'

‘Actually, it's a viola.'

‘Ah!' I say, hopelessly faking it.

‘What's the difference between a violin and a viola?' Mia asks.

This seems like a very unfair question to me. After all, it's not a TV quiz show.

‘Um . . . ' ‘You can tune a violin,' she says.

I nod uncertainly.

‘It's a joke,' says Mia. ‘
What's the difference between a violin and a viola? A viola burns longer . . . How do you keep your violin from getting stolen? Put it in a viola case.
People are always making jokes about violas.'

I don't know whether to feel stupid or relieved. ‘How come?'

‘Violas are weird,' says Mia. ‘They're either too small to get a good sound out of, or too big to fit under your chin. Really, they should be played on your knee –
viola da gamba
style. Also, music for the viola is written in the alto clef, which most conductors can't read and most composers can't be bothered writing for. Violins rule. Violas don't get many solos, even though Beethoven and Mozart both played the viola . . . Sorry, I'm talking too much.'

‘Can I have a look at it?'

Mia looks at me suspiciously. ‘If you like.'

We stop walking. Mia opens the case and takes out the viola. It's a beautiful instrument, with its solid curves and tiger-striped wood grain.

‘It's a really old one,' she says. ‘My dad used to play it when he was at school. It was made in Italy. It needs a bit of work, but it's probably worth a fortune.'

Mia takes out the bow, tightens it and brushes on some resin. She picks up the viola and tucks it under her chin, plucking the strings and adjusting the pegs, then bowing the strings in pairs to check the tuning. She plays a simple melody and the instrument comes alive with beautiful sound. The tone is like a violin's, only darker and richer, like chocolate. It gives me goosebumps. When she finishes playing, I am speechless. I don't know whether to applaud or not.

MIA

I finish playing and Will just stands there, looking uncertain. I pack away the viola, then to cover up my embarrassment, I change the subject.

‘Anyway,' I ask, ‘what's that book you got out of the library yesterday?'

Will looks worried. ‘It's just a book.'

‘It's not Shakespeare, is it?'

‘Who? William Shakespeare?'

‘No, Freddie – his brother.'

‘It's not the complete works of Freddie Shakespeare, no.' ‘Aren't you going to tell me?'

‘Do I have to?'

‘I showed you my viola.'

‘But what if you think it's stupid?'

‘I probably haven't even read it.'

‘You
definitely
haven't read it.'

‘It's not the Bible, is it?'

‘No, and it's not the Koran, either.'

‘Then just
tell
me!'

Will Holland – literary enigma and mystical sky-gazer – fishes around in his bag and reluctantly brings out his big book. At last, the moment of truth . . .

The Encyclopedia of Tennis
, it says on the cover.

I take the book and open it. Inside, there's a photo of a woman called Doris and a whole lot of dates and statistics.

‘It's . . . not what I expected.'

Trying hard not to look disappointed, I close the book and hand it back to Will.

‘It's for my brother,' he says. ‘No, really. It is.'

Will puts the book away and we walk on in silence. How could I have been so stupid? Will Holland is not a journalist or a talent scout. The reason why Will wears a tracksuit is that he
plays tennis
. The reason why he lies out on the grass at lunchtimes is that he's so
exhausted
from playing tennis. The reason he doesn't say much is that he'd rather be
playing
tennis
! I feel stupid for having talked so much about things that Will must think are so boring. Stupid, that I showed him my viola and
made him
listen to me play it! No wonder he didn't say anything. I swear, he must think I am
such an idiot
!

When we get to my street, I say goodbye.

‘That's my house over there,' I point. ‘Behind the big brick wall.'

WILL

Thank you for calling Men Who Can't Speak. We have placed
you in a very long queue. Do you really have anything to say to
us? Shouldn't you just hang up right now?

As I look to where Mia is pointing, a man steps into the street and opens a car door.

‘It's my dad!' she says. ‘Quick! I don't want him to see us.'

Mia and I retreat into a driveway. As the car goes past I see a middle-aged man and a younger woman with blonde hair and red lipstick. The man smiles at the girl and she smiles back at him. She flicks back her hair, then they're gone.

When I look back at Mia, her face has gone pale.

‘Is that your sister?'

‘I don't have a sister,' she says.

MIA

Instead of letting Harriet in, I go to my bedroom and close the door. I take out my viola and start practising, but it's hard to concentrate. The notes seem to be moving around on the page and my fingers won't go where I want them to. No matter what I do, my viola still sounds out of tune. The open strings sound fine in pairs, but the top A string is out with the bottom C.

If only my bedroom was more adult-looking. It's impossible to think like an adult in a room that keeps on insisting you're ten years old. What I need is a new set of posters. Scenes from a rainforest, maybe, to help clear my head and calm my thoughts. Harriet is scratching the back door down.
There is no need to panic
,
Harriet!
Do not jump to conclusions! There is a simple explanation for everything.

And by far the simplest explanation is that my father is having an affair with a woman half his age!

My mum and dad aren't exactly the most romantic couple in the world, but then they
have
been married for sixteen-odd years. Dad often works late and takes patients after hours. The girl in his car was a nurse. Dad works in a hospital. He borrowed a nurse and then came home to pick up his stethoscope. There's always a simple explanation.

Then why was she wearing red lipstick?

I close my viola book to practise my scales, while Harriet continues to whine and bark:
do re mi
. . .
do re mi
. . .

The simpler the melody, the more it sounds out of tune.

WILL

The next day, after school, Mia is waiting at the gate for me.

‘We need to talk,' she says, urgently. ‘It's about what happened yesterday.'

‘If you want to borrow
The Encyclopedia of Tennis
, you'll have to wait.'

Mia frowns. ‘What you saw – my father and that girl – it's not what you think.'