Being Martina Navratilova
A Short Story by Liz Meyer
I swing my racket high, pretending I’m Martina Navratilova, as I wait at the front door. Mandy always takes ages getting ready these days. I smash it down.
“Ace,” I imagine the umpire shouting, and hear the crowd’s cheer. Martina’s in the final at Wimbledon this afternoon. I hope Mandy will still want to watch. She’s gone off tennis recently. A year ago we would have been on the courts already. Or at the swimming pool. But now, all she wants to do is listen to boring pop songs. Eventually her Mum lets me in, calling upstairs to her irritably. I run up. Opening her bedroom door my heart sinks. Mandy is leaning out of the window with a cigarette and the room stinks of the ‘impulse’ she has sprayed all over herself to mask the smoke. She’s wearing her puffball skirt and DMs and an armful of silver bangles jangle as she lifts her arm to take a drag of the cigarette. She offers it to me, but I shake my head. I coughed so hard I was nearly sick last time I tried one, and everyone laughed. There’s another new Smash Hits poster of Bros on the wall and I pretend to admire it. Secretly I don’t like most pop music. I’d rather listen to Dad’s old country and western records.
“Aren’t we going to play tennis?” I ask and she wrinkles her nose.
“We’re meeting Natasha and Debbie,” she tells me.
“What?” I’m horrified. Mandy has started hanging around with Natasha a lot since we’ve been in the third year, but I try to keep out of her way. She’s always making little snide comments about my hair being too straight and greasy, or the fact my shoes aren’t proper DMs. My stomach knots in apprehension, but I want to stay friends with Mandy, so I trail after her into town, still carrying my tennis racquet. The sun is warm on my bare arms and kids are playing football in the park. I can see the tennis courts are full now. Everybody has got Wimbledon fever. I want to go running over there to join them instead of traipsing round the boring shops but my friendship with Mandy is too delicate. If I go off now, she won’t want to know me anymore.
I’ve been following Martina Navratilova’s progress the whole fortnight. She’s smashed her way through to the final again. Mum wrinkles up her nose when she sees her on the TV.
“So masculine,” she sniffs. “Look at those arms. Tennis used to be a genteel game in my day.” I know she doesn’t like Martina because she’s a lesbian. I read all about it in Mum’s ‘Daily Mail’. Martina is the only lesbian I know, unless you count the two old ladies with the Siamese cats who live together up the road. Mum says they’re just companions, whenever Dad makes a joke about them being a couple, tutting under her breath at him.
We pass Electric Parade which sounds exciting but is just an alleyway leading down to the canal.
“We had a right laugh down there last night. Fuzzy was there and he pushed Helen’s little brother in the canal. It was so funny.” Mandy says. Natasha’s gang hang around Electric parade. Mandy hadn’t told me she was going, hadn’t asked me to go with her. She talks about Fuzzy a lot, I’ve noticed. I wonder if he’s her boyfriend and I feel a funny squeeze in my chest, like a pain almost, because she’s going off doing stuff without me. It’s not stuff that I want to do though, so why do I feel so upset? Six months ago, we spent every Friday night together, either at her house or mine, eating pizza and watching videos. We haven’t stayed over at each other’s houses for ages now.
We meet Debbie and Natasha outside Wimpy. They are identical in baggy ripped jeans and white t-shirts. Natasha has Grolsch bottle tops in her DMs and her hair falls in tight curls down her back, while Debbie has a sharp blonde bob. My mum won’t let me have my hair permed and it’s pulled into its usual stringy ponytail. I feel childish compared to them.
“Maz!” Natasha high fives Mandy. Since when has she been called Maz?
I concentrate on whether to have chocolate or strawberry milkshake. Experience has taught me to never catch the eye of a girl like Natasha. She is too unpredictable. Today though, she sweeps her icy cool gaze over me. Then she grins and ruffles my hair, like I’m a dog.
“Alright Kellz? Cool trainers.” I managed to persuade Mum to get me some new Nike trainers for my fourteenth birthday last month, which I now live in. They’re probably the only fashionable thing I possess.
“Off to Wimbledon are you, Martina?” asks Debbie, looking at my tennis racquet. I shake my head, wary now she’s called me Martina. I keep quiet about Martina being my idol.
“Leave her. She’s alright.” Natasha puts a matey arm around my shoulder. “Kellz is getting this,” she says to the boy at the counter, “Ta very much, Kellz.” They walk away with their chips leaving me to pay.
“They haven’t paid.” I say to Mandy.
Well,” she says dismissively. “You’ve got that money your Gran gave you.
“That’s meant for tennis camp,” I say, feeling betrayed. She’s obviously told them.
“Don’t make a big thing of it.” Mandy scowls at me and walks off to join them. The chocolate milkshake suddenly tastes sickly sweet, thick, and cloying in my mouth as I follow her.
Everyone’s names end with ‘Z’, Maz, Debz, Natz. I have been gained an uneasy admittance to the group with the addition of a z on my name and by paying for chips. Natasha continues to treat me as a bit of a pet dog, a younger sister who can be forgiven her naivety. When she makes jokes at my expense Mandy is quick to laugh, agreeing with her every word.
We mill along the High Street which is dusty with heat and stinks of traffic and chips. Natasha and Debbie call out to people.
“Alright Shazza,” and, “Look at the state of you Elaine, can your mother not afford to buy you clothes?” It feels strange to be accepted into this group. I’ve always managed to keep out of their way, an on-looker to their bullying. I am aware of my precarious state, that they could turn on me at any time. Natasha reminds me of the snake a man brought for us to see in Biology, the way it watched you, eyes glinting, before its tongue shot out and mouth opened, showing sharp teeth ready to bite. So I agree with her that the puff-ball skirt she picks up in Chelsea Girl would really suit her, even though I think she’d look like Mavis Cruet, the fat fairy in Willo-the-wisp. But as we wait for her at the till, she’s patting my back saying “Kellz is getting this.”
“I’m not getting it,” I hiss at Mandy who looks anxious.
“Just buy it,” she orders.
I don’t want to buy it, but I don’t want Natasha to turn on me and I don’t want to lose Mandy. I reluctantly pull out my last ten-pound note and pay for the stupid skirt. I hand it wordlessly to Natasha and she ruffles my hair, like I’m their pet dog again. “Come on,” she announces, “We’re going round Deb’s.”
As we make our way out of town we pass Joanne McAllister, waiting at the bus stop.
“It’s the brainbox. Are you not staying in doing your homework? I thought that’s all you did at the weekend? Look at these glasses, she looks like a mole without them, doesn’t she?” Debbie hooks the glasses off Joanne’s face and throws them to Mandy who throws them to me. I silently hand them back to Joanne, embarrassed, because I like her. I’ve been sitting next to her in science. She is brainy, she wants to be a doctor. She’s one of the only girls in our year to have short hair and I think it really suits her. I like how the fair hairs catch the light and how it curves down close into the back of her neck where the soft little baby hairs create whorls. It makes me want to touch her neck, just to feel how smooth her skin is there, in that little indentation at the bottom of her skull.
Joanne puts her glasses back on. Her lip curls slightly in annoyance but she doesn’t seem at all scared, like I would be.
“I would have thought you’d be watching the tennis,” she says to me, ignoring the others. “I’m going home to watch the final. D’you want to come?” She somehow seems older than them. Does she not care what they think? I imagine getting on the bus with her, away from this lot, watching the final together. I bet she wants Martina to win too. Then I think that Mandy probably won’t ever talk to me again, she’s in a huff with me already, and Natasha and Debbie will pick on me even more if I’m friends with Joanne.
“She doesn’t want to come home with you, lezza,” shoots Natasha, linking her arm uncomfortably around mine. “She was staring at you in the showers on Friday, Kellz did you know that?”
Joanne’s bus pulls up and she glances at me before shrugging and getting on. I want more than anything to follow her, but my feet won’t seem to move, and Natasha has her arm tightly through mine.
We go into the video shop, where they argue about whether to rent ‘Nightmare on Elm Street’ or ‘Halloween’.
“You got the money Kellz?” asks Natasha, picking them both up.
“I don’t really like horror films,” I mumble.
“Aww, is she an ‘ickle bit scared?” mocks Debbie. I mutely hand over my last couple of pounds, knowing I’d never get away with renting an 18, but the dopey lad at the counter doesn’t bat an eye at Natasha and hands them both over.
Debbie’s house is a fug of smoke and the smell of ammonia from the home perm that her mum is doing. She’s skinny in a pink nylon dressing gown and fluffy mules and tells us we’ll have to watch videos upstairs as Dad’s watching the racing. Debbie has a TV and video recorder in her room. I catch sight of Martina and Chris Evert just walking onto centre court as the TV is switched on. I wish I had gone home with Joanne to watch it. I sit, shutting my eyes every time Freddie Krueger comes onscreen, mostly ignored now, as they watch the TV with half an eye and put on neon nail varnish and do their hair and read magazines. I wonder if Joanne was looking at me in the showers. It’s an ordeal I try to get over as quickly as possible, not looking at anyone, not wanting to be looked at, avoiding the eye of girls like Natasha and Debbie. But weirdly, I don’t think I’d mind if it was Joanne looking at me, because she’s different. As I think about this, I suddenly become aware of everyone’s eyes on me. Natasha is reading aloud from the problem page in ‘Just Seventeen’.
“Dear Melanie, I’m in love with my best friend. I think about her all the time and I long to kiss her.” Her eyes dart over towards me malevolently. “She has a boyfriend but I’m jealous of her having a relationship. I don’t really want a boyfriend. I wish I could tell her how much I care. I think I may be a lesbian. What should I do?”
Natasha is clearly aiming this at me. I feel as though she can read into me, sense this difference in me of which I’m only slightly aware. Something that makes me not quite like them. She’s smelt it out, knows I don’t fit. I try not to show any react, staring desperately at a photo story in ‘Jackie’ magazine.
“Let’s see what Melanie has to say about her dirty little secret shall we?” she looks directly at me and her smile has a hint of malice. I feel my tell-tale face growing hot. I want to be anywhere but here right now. Mandy ignores me, concentrating on her nails.
“It’s quite normal to have a teenage crush on a friend,” reads Natasha. “Try not to worry too much about it as it’s probably something you’ll grow out of. It would likely risk a good friendship to say anything to her, so try mixing more with other people of both sexes and you’ll soon find a boyfriend of your own.”
But she says she doesn’t want a boyfriend, I think. And what if she doesn’t grow out of it? This trite answer doesn’t solve any of the half formed questions which I realise are floating uneasily around in my mind.
“So, it’s normal,” says Natasha. “Maybe I fancy you Debz.”
“Fuck off,” fires back Debbie.
“See, she doesn’t think it’s normal. What about you Maz, you’ve been best friends with Kellz here for years. D’you fancy her? Or maybe she fancies you? What about it Kellz?” I grow cold. Surely Mandy hasn’t told her about the time we kissed? We just touched tongues to see what was like and then jumped away from each other in mock disgust. Mandy still isn’t looking at me. Suddenly the door bursts open and Debbie’s mum is standing there.
“You got a girl called Kelly in here? Her mum’s not too happy on the phone. Moaning at me ‘cause I don’t know who Debbie’s got round here. Bloody cheek I call it.” I dart past her, for once thankful for Mum’s interference. Downstairs the TV is blaring out the sports section of the evening news, recapping the Wimbledon final. Debbie’s Dad is watching, wearing a string vest, smoke spiralling upwards from his cigarette.
“Where on earth are you?” Mum demands. “I thought you’d be home by now, Mandy’s mum gave me this number, it’s almost dinner time.”
Out of the corner of my eye I watch the TV as Martina lifts her racquet. It’s forty love.
“I’m with Mandy at her friend Debbie’s house.” I say.
“Debbie? Do I know a Debbie?”
“No,” I say, twirling the phone cord round my finger. Please Mum, tell me to come home.
Martina smashes her serve over the net. Chris Evert reaches it, returns but it’s out. Martina’s won!
“Dinner’s nearly ready” Mum replies firmly. I feel a big bubble of relief explode in my chest, for both me and Martina. “I’ve never met this Debbie. And I don’t want you out late.”
“No,” I reply, smiling. Martina kisses her racquet reverently and then she runs up into the stand, through the crowd, all the way to the players box where she hugs her coach, and then kisses the woman standing next to her. Tall, blond, Judy Nelson, the woman who is unashamed to be her lover. I’m transfixed.
“Bloody lesbians,” I hear Debbie’s dad mutter from where he’s peering over ‘The Racing Post’.
“I’m sorry love but I want you back home now.”
I replace the receiver and try to look sad.
“I’ve got to go.”
Natasha is watching me.
“I see that lezza Martina has won again.” She says. “You like her, don’t you?”
“She’s alright,” I mutter.
“You want to be like her, don’t you? You better watch it playing tennis. You might get caught by one. But then, You’d probably like that.” Natasha says smoothly. “Our little lezza Kelly. She kicks my tennis racquet, which I’m holding by my leg, as though she’d like to kick me. I’d like to hit her over the head with it, but I don’t. I’m getting out of here.
I run to the bus stop feeling free. I thought that there was safety in being part of the gang, but I know that I am unable to play by their rules. In my head I can see the moment Martina wins, and I jump ecstatically, swiping my racquet, imitating her, cheering for both of us. Martina would have stood up for Joanne, I think. And she would have got on that bus with her, she wouldn’t have cared what the others thought.
On Monday morning I walk nervously into our form room. It’s a haze of hairspray laced with undertones of smoke and BO. Mandy is sitting on a desk next to Natasha and Debbie. Joanne is at the back of the room on her own, buried behind a book as usual. Natasha looks me up and down with her pale blue eyes.
“We saved you a seat away from the lezza,” she says, casting a glance towards Joanne, patting the wooden chair next to her, a challenge in her eyes. I take a breath. What would Martina do?
“No thanks,” I say, and sweep past her, feeling exhilaration as if I am Martina, running up to the player’s box. I walk towards Joanne and sit down next to her.
“What are you reading?” I ask.
Joanne looks up at me and smiles.
Author: Liz started writing in 2018 when she joined a local writing group and rediscovered a childhood love. She has since had a number of stories published in women's magazines, been highly commended and shortlisted in various competitions and last year won the short story section of the Yeovil literary prize.
This one reminds me of school so much it gives me The Fear. Great story