long, I promise.â
âI donât care what excuse youâve got. I donât want to hear it. This is not a love scene, okay? This is not Romeo and Juliet and you are not Leonardo DiCaprio. I donât even like Leonardo DiCaprio! Iâm sure youâre sorry. Iâm sure youâve got a good excuse. But that doesnât mean I want to elope with you, okay?â
âIâm sorry about today. I was there. In fact, I waved at you. If youâd worn your glasses you would have seen me.â
âI donât need my glasses to see someone sitting next to me,â Mia hissed.
âI was there on the court, right in front of you.â
âWhat? Were you chasing tennis balls?â
âKind of . . . I was . . . â
âLook, Iâve had a miserable day. I donât know why you invited me to the tennis âI hate tennis! I donât know why I bothered . . . All I want to do now is forget it. So could you please leave me alone!â
Before I get another chance to speak, Mia closes her window and draws her curtains. The last thing I hear from inside is the sound of her falling onto her bed.
A double-fault: two wrongs donât make a right.
Three
MIA
On Monday morning we have assembly outside in the courtyard. All the students are lined up â Year 7s at the front and Year 12s at the back. That is, everyone except me. Because of my swollen ankle, Iâm allowed to sit with my foot up, watching from the side. Being on crutches is a real cow, but it does have some advantages.
We sing the national anthem, happily filling in all the blanks: âAustralians all drink orange juice, for we are young and free.â There are the usual news items from the usual teachers; then something unusual happens. The principal steps up to make an important announcement.
âI would like to congratulate one of our students on a marvellous achievement. On the weekend he played at the State Tennis Centre and won the Under 16 Schoolboy Championship. Congratulations, Will Holland!â
Everyone claps as Will makes his way to the front. Kids are patting him on the back. Teachers are shaking his hand. With a crutch under one arm, I ease myself up for a better view. As Will shakes the principalâs hand, I reach for my second crutch, lose my balance and fall to the ground. I lie there in a heap, helpless and invisible, as the principal presents Will with his trophy.
âOn behalf of the school,â she says, âIâd like to say, Well done , Will , and best of luck for the future!â
When I look up at the sky, I expect it to rain down tennis balls.
WILL
The sports teacher wants to know all the details, the teacher on yard duty asks how to improve her backhand, the basketballers want me to make up a team and the arm-wrestlers invite me to stand at the head of the queue. Even Yorick gives me an approving nod.
Thank you for calling Superstars Incorporated. Please hold the line while we transfer you to another universe . . .
When the Year 7 girls come and ask for my autograph, Iâm sure they must be joking. One of them gives me a felt-tipped pen but no paper to write on. Instead, she holds out her arm, so I sign it Will Hollâ , doing it fast and messy like a celebrity. The next girl turns up the hem of her dress, and a third rolls down her sock.
âIt tickles!â she laughs, as I initial her ankle: W.H.
The last Year 7 girl wants me to sign her knickers, but I refuse.
âIt would look pretty sus,â I say. âYou bending over while I write my name on your bum.â
âI could take them off,â she suggests.
Before I have time to object, she takes off her pants and holds them out.
According to The Encyclopedia of Tennis , a sitter is an easy opportunity â a softly hit ball, close to the net and well within reach.
âSorry,â I say. âI donât do underpants.â
MIA
âOhmigod!â screams
âI donât care what excuse youâve got. I donât want to hear it. This is not a love scene, okay? This is not Romeo and Juliet and you are not Leonardo DiCaprio. I donât even like Leonardo DiCaprio! Iâm sure youâre sorry. Iâm sure youâve got a good excuse. But that doesnât mean I want to elope with you, okay?â
âIâm sorry about today. I was there. In fact, I waved at you. If youâd worn your glasses you would have seen me.â
âI donât need my glasses to see someone sitting next to me,â Mia hissed.
âI was there on the court, right in front of you.â
âWhat? Were you chasing tennis balls?â
âKind of . . . I was . . . â
âLook, Iâve had a miserable day. I donât know why you invited me to the tennis âI hate tennis! I donât know why I bothered . . . All I want to do now is forget it. So could you please leave me alone!â
Before I get another chance to speak, Mia closes her window and draws her curtains. The last thing I hear from inside is the sound of her falling onto her bed.
A double-fault: two wrongs donât make a right.
Three
MIA
On Monday morning we have assembly outside in the courtyard. All the students are lined up â Year 7s at the front and Year 12s at the back. That is, everyone except me. Because of my swollen ankle, Iâm allowed to sit with my foot up, watching from the side. Being on crutches is a real cow, but it does have some advantages.
We sing the national anthem, happily filling in all the blanks: âAustralians all drink orange juice, for we are young and free.â There are the usual news items from the usual teachers; then something unusual happens. The principal steps up to make an important announcement.
âI would like to congratulate one of our students on a marvellous achievement. On the weekend he played at the State Tennis Centre and won the Under 16 Schoolboy Championship. Congratulations, Will Holland!â
Everyone claps as Will makes his way to the front. Kids are patting him on the back. Teachers are shaking his hand. With a crutch under one arm, I ease myself up for a better view. As Will shakes the principalâs hand, I reach for my second crutch, lose my balance and fall to the ground. I lie there in a heap, helpless and invisible, as the principal presents Will with his trophy.
âOn behalf of the school,â she says, âIâd like to say, Well done , Will , and best of luck for the future!â
When I look up at the sky, I expect it to rain down tennis balls.
WILL
The sports teacher wants to know all the details, the teacher on yard duty asks how to improve her backhand, the basketballers want me to make up a team and the arm-wrestlers invite me to stand at the head of the queue. Even Yorick gives me an approving nod.
Thank you for calling Superstars Incorporated. Please hold the line while we transfer you to another universe . . .
When the Year 7 girls come and ask for my autograph, Iâm sure they must be joking. One of them gives me a felt-tipped pen but no paper to write on. Instead, she holds out her arm, so I sign it Will Hollâ , doing it fast and messy like a celebrity. The next girl turns up the hem of her dress, and a third rolls down her sock.
âIt tickles!â she laughs, as I initial her ankle: W.H.
The last Year 7 girl wants me to sign her knickers, but I refuse.
âIt would look pretty sus,â I say. âYou bending over while I write my name on your bum.â
âI could take them off,â she suggests.
Before I have time to object, she takes off her pants and holds them out.
According to The Encyclopedia of Tennis , a sitter is an easy opportunity â a softly hit ball, close to the net and well within reach.
âSorry,â I say. âI donât do underpants.â
MIA
âOhmigod!â screams
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