Free Fifteen Love by R. M. Corbet Page B

‘How’s your ankle?’
    â€˜Getting better,’ I say curtly.
    â€˜What’s the difference between a viola and an onion?’
    I don’t answer.
    â€˜Nobody cries when they chop up a viola.’
    â€˜Is that supposed to cheer me up?’
    â€˜Sorry, I just thought . . . ’ ‘You could have told me, you know.’
    â€˜About the tennis game? I tried to tell you.’
    â€˜Why didn’t you tell me before the game?’
    â€˜I wanted to surprise you.’
    â€˜You wanted to impress me, you mean. You’re just like all the other boys, Will Holland. If you want a girlfriend who sits in the crowd and cheers for you, then lets you write your name all over her body, good luck! Girls are like cattle to you, aren’t they, Will? You think if you see your name on them, you must own them. Maybe you should start using a branding iron, to save time!’
    WILL
    Dave loves me taking him to the park. He loves it almost as much as going to the pool. It’s not the grass and the trees that Dave loves. It’s not the playground or the little lake with the children feeding the ducks. It’s not the winding gravel path where he can race ahead of me or the girls jogging past in their skin-tight pants. What Dave really loves about the park are the chin-up bars. And the reason Dave loves them so much is that he can do more chin-ups than me.
    After pushing a wheelchair for four years, Dave’s arms and shoulders have beefed right up. He positions the wheelchair under the lowest bar, pulls himself up off his seat and away he goes: ‘Ten . . . twenty . . . thirty . . . ’
    Dave insists that I stand by and watch him. He has a terrifying look of determination on his face and his tongue sticks out slightly from the side of his mouth.
    â€˜ . . . Fifty-five . . . sixty . . . ’
    As Dave gets closer to one hundred he breaks out in a sweat and slows right down. It’s like watching a champion weightlifter psych himself between lifts.
    â€˜Ninety-two . . . ninety-three . . . ninety-four . . . ’
    Mostly, when Dave gets to a hundred, he quits. More important to Dave than a new personal best is to see me on the chin-up bar, trying to make forty. As anyone will tell you, doing forty chin-ups is no mean effort, but that doesn’t stop Dave from laughing at me.
    â€˜Thirty-four . . . thirty-five . . . thirty-six . . . ’
    â€˜Come on, Will! We haven’t got all day!’
    â€˜Thirty-seven . . . thirty-eight . . . ’ ‘What are you, Will? A weed?’
    â€˜ Thirty-nine! That’s it, Dave! I give up!’
    â€˜That’s hopeless, Will! You didn’t even make forty!’
    I get a drink of water, then sit down on the grass to rest. I don’t know if it’s the endorphins or the testosterone, but after Dave beats me at chin-ups, he always wants to talk about girls.
    â€˜Are you still in love with her, Will?’
    â€˜Who, Dave?’
    â€˜You know who, Will. That girl who doesn’t like horses.’
    â€˜Her name’s Mia. I never said I was in love with her, Dave. I said I liked her.’
    â€˜Isn’t she your girlfriend anymore?’
    â€˜She never was, Dave.’
    â€˜But you still like her, Will, even if you don’t love her?’
    â€˜I dunno, Dave. There are girls you have as girlfriends and girls you have as friends, I guess.’
    â€˜Will you get a new girlfriend, Will?’
    â€˜I dunno, Dave.’
    â€˜Do girls like boys for their muscles, Will?’
    â€˜I don’t know what girls like, Dave.’
    Dave looks up at the trees. ‘What is love anyway, Will?’
    According to The Encyclopedia of Tennis , love is a zero score and a love game is a blitz.
    I sigh. ‘I don’t know, Dave.’
    MIA
    My father is working late, so Mum and I eat dinner without him – fish and chips again. Mum’s always been a pretty good cook, but lately she’s been