Head of the River by Pip Harry

Portsea. So big it has stables.
    â€˜Stay over?’
    We’ve never had a sleepover before. It makes me nervous.
    â€˜Yeah. Separate rooms, of course.’
    â€˜I can’t,’ I say, relieved. ‘I promised Dad I’d help him with the boats.’
    I was glad to have an excuse to avoid Adam’s house with its dark media room and endless bedrooms. The cold, beautiful pool that no one ever seemed to swim in.
    Adam seems irritated.
    â€˜More time on the river? We’ve been here all morning. Come over. You won’t regret it.’
    The last part he whispers sexily in my ear and it gives me the shivers, but not in a good way.
    â€˜I can’t. I promised. Sorry.’
    â€˜That’s okay, Leni, go be a grease monkey,’ he tries to make the moment light, but I feel like I wrecked it. ‘I’ve got to go and boat load, I’ll call you,’ he says.
    My body relaxes when he retreats. The weight of sexpectation lifting.
    I love tinkering with the boats and being around Dad when he’s so focused and still. When he stops to explain things to me in a quiet, patient way. Passing on knowledge he’s learnt over decades. Secret rowing business. I love the smell of the sheds – oil and WD-40, mixed with sour possum piss.
    The boats are up on slings after racing, washed and ready for their pit crew.
    â€˜Run your hands over the boats,’ Dad says to Cristian and I.
    I jump up to start, but Cristian lags behind. He hates this as much as I love it.
    We go through the boats carefully, checking for tiny holes, squeaky slides or loose bolts. Most of the team doesn’t know about the fine-tuning that goes on behind the scenes. They get in the boat and expect it will be tweaked to perfection. They have no idea Dad has been adjusting so the equipment matches their legs, arms and body weight, even their rowing style.
    Dad knows these boats. Knows their insides the same way a surgeon knows guts, veins, hearts and weak valves. There’s no boat he can’t make sing. Even the heaviest, waterlogged old tub.
    â€˜Can I go upstairs?’ Cristian says in a whiny voice. ‘I’m knackered. I need to lie down.’
    Dad looks up from his screwdriver. Frowns.
    â€˜Go.’
    Dad and I are used to Cristian bailing on the hard work, playing with his phone and then passing out on a training mat.
    â€˜Good racing,’ says Dad.
    â€˜Beating second crews? Big deal.’
    â€˜It’s still a win,’ says Dad. ‘Lift your head up. Smile.’
    Cristian looks glum. ‘Can I go now?’
    â€˜Yes. Dismissed.’
    We work better without Cristian’s sulky, negative vibes hanging around.
    â€˜I don’t understand. He’s up. He’s down. Happy, angry, sad. I worry, Elena. I want you and Cristian to be happy. Are you happy?’
    I shrug. The honest answer is not really, but I don’t want to worry him.
    â€˜Of course. Cristian’s fine. He misses being out of the firsts. It’s hard for him.’
    â€˜Talk to him. Make sure he’s okay. Sooner he’s back in the firsts, the better,’ says Dad.
    I sit on a sling and watch as Dad measures out the rigging, tinkering with the pitch, height and gearing.
    Dad’s smudgy glasses have slipped down his nose. He takes them off and lets them dangle round his neck on a makeshift string holder. He has a tool belt around his belly, and his shirt is full of holes. Mum tries to make him throw out his old rowing clothes, but he sneaks them out of the ‘For St Vinnies’ bags and back into the closet.
    â€˜Elena, come here,’ he says in Romanian. I can understand, but not speak the language. ‘Hold this.’
    He gives me a fistful of rubber washers. ‘What I’m doing now is rigging the boat higher. This crew does their training in rough water, and this will allow them to sit up higher, their blades to clear the water.’
    I’m reminded again how