Fifteen Love by R. M. Corbet Page A

the trees, embarrassed.
    â€˜No more viola jokes,’ I say.
    Harriet walks in front of us, her lead back on, towing Dave like his chair is a Roman chariot while Mia and I follow behind. In this strange procession we walk around the park together without talking. It’s not that uncomfortable silence that comes from not knowing what to say. It’s a silence that comes from not wanting to be nosy. I want to ask Mia about her father, but I get the feeling she’s not ready to tell me yet.
    â€˜How’s the orchestra?’ I ask finally.
    Mia smiles grimly. ‘What do you throw a drowning violist?’ she says. ‘Her viola.’
    MIA
    At the lockers, Vanessa smiles at me and I smile back. Her smile says, My life is perfect.
    And my smile says, Well, my life is perfect, too.
    Her smile says, My life is MORE perfect than your life.
    And my smile says, If your life is so perfect, then why do you need to smile like that?
    Her smile says, Actually, I’m smiling out of pity because you are so pathetic.
    And my smile says, I’m not scared of you, Vanessa. There is nothing you can say to upset me.
    â€˜Did you know?’ says Vanessa. ‘Renata’s gone to Europe.’
    My face drops and my brave smile slips sadly away.
    To avoid another smile-off with Vanessa, I sneak into the orchestra room and sit there in the half-darkness, surrounded by empty chairs and music stands. My eyes closed, I sit perfectly still with my hands in my lap, while my head spins with unhappy questions. How could Renata have left without saying goodbye? What did Vanessa tell her about me? And why did Renata believe it? Who else might Vanessa talk to and what might she say? That my bedroom looks like a doll’s house? That my dad’s an adulterous cradle-snatcher?
    What might she say to Will? And would he believe her?
    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.
    â€˜Mia!’ She looks surprised.
    I stand up, embarrassed. ‘Sorry. I was just—’ ‘How are you finding the Vivaldi?’ asks Ms S.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜Don’t worry. I’m sure we can borrow one.’
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜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.
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