Clearly this is what happens when you spend too much time with one person. We did a whole unit on Stockholm syndrome in Ms Bracken’s class so I know there are historical antecedents. It is a type of lunacy, this distraction. The way her breath seems to linger on my neck. How I can still feel her fingers on the small of my back.
Maybe, like stains on a table, she can be wiped off. I rub at my skin with damp hands. I try to smooth off the memory of her touch with heavy strokes.
It makes things worse. The friction creates an unbearable heat. I need a clean break from Will, that much is certain, but how can I have one when she insists on showing up at my door?
So much for the restorative power of swimming pools. Arthur is right about one thing, though. It is time to right the wheelbarrow and mend the fences. To cleanse my life of its impurities, of all the things that are keeping me from achieving my goals – Will Everhart, for example.
I dissolve some magnesium powder in water and drink it. I blow-dry my hair. I put on my favourite jeans and merino cardigan and give each of my cheeks a hearty pinch.
You are a winner! I whisper to the mirror.
You are a success!
You are heading for abundance!
I practise smiling and leave the house.
I drive to Edie’s with my foot down, red traffic lights glowering in my rearview mirror. Where has all this pent-up energy come from? I go straight across her yard and climb the frangipani tree outside her bedroom window. It is a way to avoid her parents and also win points with Edie for the romantic gesture.
I reach the highest branch and crane my neck to look in.
Edie’s lamp is on. She is sitting on an ergonomic chair in her Wimbledon pyjamas. Above her, our collection of Tawney player profiles stare out from the wall. Her computer screen spills white light across the room. In front of it, Edie is massaging her forehead with her fingers.
I knock on the glass.
She comes over and pushes up the window halfway. ‘What do you want?’
‘You.’ I redden. I haven’t had much practice in this type of talk. Edie and I have never really gone in for it and besides, it is difficult to be suggestive when you’re gripping the slippery trunk of a frangipani tree with both hands to stop yourself from plunging down a three-metre drop.
‘Expand,’ Edie demands.
‘Aren’t you going to let me in?’
She puts her elbows on the sill and her chin in her hands. Her hair flashes auburn in the lamplight. Even on the warpath she is magnificent.
‘Let’s hear what you have to say first.’
I dig into the trunk with my fingernails. Sap oozes. ‘I miss you.’
But Edie is unmoved.
I try again. ‘I swear I had no idea Will Everhart was going to kiss me,’ I say with feeling. ‘She led me into that storeroom on spurious grounds.’
Edie looks unconvinced and even a little hurt. ‘How do you even know her? I hear she’s a total freak.’
‘Eccentric, maybe –’ I say, faltering.
She sticks her hands into her pyjama pants pockets. ‘You’ve got to stop collecting strays, Bubble. They’re a waste of time. You and Arthur are both the same. You know it drives your mother crazy.’
I feel a flash of irritation. I try to stay focused on the reason I am here. ‘You’re the one I want to be with.’
‘Really.’ Edie regards me coolly.
‘We’re perfect for each other.’
‘How so?’
I think about it. ‘Both of us are academically successful. Both of us are superior sportspeople. We are equally ambitious, too, don’t you think? Not only that, we have a very similar world view.’
‘Similar in what sense?’
Apart from the fact I am clinging to a tree, this is beginning to feel very much like a job interview.
I outline our underlying optimism. Our firm belief that we can make a difference in society. Not that we’ve ever talked about sharing such a belief. Not in as many words.
Surely Edie cares about making a difference, though. She puts on functions for refugees. Surely that means she is a good person.
Now she leans a little further out the window. Her ponytail flops forward over her shoulder. ‘Bianca Stein is a killer player, you know.’
I readjust my grip on the trunk and the bark squeaks. ‘What’s her backhand like?’
‘At a rough guess? Twenty-three per cent more effective than yours.’
Ouch. ‘Please believe me when I say I never want to see Will Everhart again.’
Edie rubs her hairline, where I can see the beginnings of a bruise. I remember the massaging she was doing earlier. ‘You were having a bit of trouble, when I knocked on the window?’
She looks uneasy. ‘Just preparing for the National Public Speaking Competition, that’s all.’
This is my chance. ‘You know I could help you with that. I could do notes for you on debate cards like I did for SpeakOut.’
She regards me shrewdly.
‘Bianca Stein might be the best player at Tawney this year,’ I continue. ‘But she can’t win the Doubles if she’s up against you and me, not even if she manages to find another first-tier player to play with. And with me as your public-speaking coach, you have a good chance of winning the National Public Speaking Competition as well.’
Edie gets the look she gets when she’s decided to smash an overhead from the baseline: a risky shot, but when she pulls it off – deadly. ‘Fine. If you agree to help me with this speech, consider it a deal.’
I am back in the game. There is only one more thing to square off. I have to make clear to
