Finding Freia Lockhart Read online

  “Maths, English reading, irregular French verbs to memorise.”

  “Well then, I guess you’d better get on with it, eh?” I pretend not to hear her sigh as she closes the door behind her.

  What I wouldn’t give to be allowed to put a lock on my door. I asked for one last Christmas, but Dad said over his dead body. Then Mum consulted one of the two million how-to-raise-teenagers books in her library and spent the rest of the day trying to force me to tell her what terrible things I was up to in my room that required me to lock myself away from the rest of the family.

  I guess it must be hard for Mum having such a disappointment for a daughter. I started out promisingly, so the story goes. When I was two, Mum let the School of Early Childhood Studies use me as a guinea pig for research. Dad says she only did it to get free childcare one afternoon a week; Mum insists it was for purely altruistic reasons; and some PhD student got it into her head that just because I could sit quietly looking at a book for a while, I must be some kind of genius. And of course, it only takes one mention of the G-word to get a couple of university lecturers’ hopes up that the power of their combined genes has created Super Baby.

  From that day on it was all flashcards and audio books, so by the time I actually went to school I probably did seem pretty advanced compared to the kids who’d spent a couple of years at kindy sticking Play-Doh up their noses. My success continued in primary school. The work was pretty easy and we never had any actual tests, but I aced every class. By the end of Year Six, I was beginning to believe my own publicity.

  Until I got to Westside, that is. Westside has a “proud academic history”, as they say in the school prospectus. It’s selective, which means we all had to sit an IQ test to get in. But being good at IQ tests doesn’t necessarily make you good at schoolwork. Year Seven was okay. I’d already read half the books we were studying in English and, thanks to my parents’ obsession with Trivial Pursuit and TV documentaries, I had a pretty good grasp of history and geography. I managed to stay in the top ten for most subjects, but I was working my bum off trying to keep up. By the end of Year Eight I was ready to go to the principal and turn myself in as a fraud. At least I might have done, if my parents hadn’t got to her first and had a long chat about my disappointing marks and what could be done to improve them.

  Don’t get me wrong, I’m not the dumbest girl in the year. (That honour goes to Natalie Baker, but she’s a junior tennis champion so no one cares.) In fact, I’m still sitting somewhere in the top twenty for everything except Maths, but when everyone’s used to you coming first, that may as well be last.

  After the half-yearly exams last year Mum decided drastic action was needed and hired one of her English Literature students to tutor me so she wouldn’t have to face the humiliation of having a semi-literate daughter any more. Turns out, having Nicky as my tutor is pretty much the best thing that’s happened to me since starting at Westside, so at least some good’s come out of being such a disappointment.

  By dinnertime I’ve managed to do five of the fifteen trigonometry questions due tomorrow. It’s taken me almost forty-five minutes. Admittedly, about twenty-five of those have been spent rehearsing what I’m going to say to Kate when I tell her Mum and Dad have vetoed My Fair Lady.

  3

  “How was everyone’s day?” asks Dad, spearing an organic sausage and waving it in the air.

  I don’t answer. I’m busy peeling the skin off my sausage. (Ever since I found out sausage skin is made from intestines I can’t stomach it. No pun intended.)

  “Zig?”

  “Mr Roberts made me captain of the junior firsts.”

  “Excellent! And that would be junior firsts in …”

  “Football!” Sometimes Dad’s complete lack of sporting knowledge really gets to Zig.

  “And how about you, Fray? Any good news today?”

  “Nope.”

  “Yes, there is,” says Ziggy, smarmily, and I give him my best death stare. “She got into the school play.”

  “Really, Freia? I didn’t even know you were auditioning for the play.” Mum looks hurt.

  “That’s because I knew I wouldn’t get a part. And I didn’t. Ms Burns gave all the tone-deaf girls production roles.” My parents exchange familiar glances. I don’t wait to hear what they’ve got to say. “It’s okay. I know I can’t do it because of studying and Nicky and everything. I pretty much already told Ms Burns I can’t.”

  “Hang on a second,” says Dad. “Let’s at least discuss it.”

  What? Since when have my parents ever “discussed” anything with me?

  “Yes,” agrees Mum. “It might be of educational value. What’s the play?”

  This is my trump card and I play it with glee, pretending I’ve forgotten how much Dad hates musicals. “My Fair Lady.”

  Dad is outraged. “My Fair Lady! Did you hear that, Boris?” Dad reckons he and the cat are the only ones with any taste in music; they like to spend their evenings in Dad’s study listening to Bach. “Can’t they come up with anything better than that? It’s ridiculous! Whatever happened to Shakespeare … or Shaw, for that matter? Why does it have to be all singing and dancing?”

  “Calm down, Terence, it’s only a school play,” says Mum in her let’s-be-reasonable voice. “It may not be Mozart, but I think it would be good for Freia to take part.”

  Dad, Ziggy and I look at each other, dumbfounded. I don’t believe it.

  “Well, there’s no need to act as if I’ve just suggested she join a nudist colony. The Book says it’s important for young people to have opportunities to socialise safely with their peers.”

  Dad doesn’t look entirely convinced, but we all know it’s not worth arguing with Mum when she’s quoting from her parental self-help bible, so I’m not surprised when he nods in agreement.

  “The Book” is called Raising Them Right: How to handle teenagers and I reckon the guy who wrote it mustn’t have any kids of his own because it’s full of really crappy ideas that people like Mum who don’t know any better actually inflict on their children. Since she bought The Book we’ve tried Family Meetings, Family Outings and, worst of all, Mother–Daughter Special Time. The fact that none of these things has brought us any closer to each other is yet to deter Mum from referring to it daily.

  Mum’s first self-help book appeared in the house the week before my twelfth birthday. It was called Coping with Adolescents and was written by some American tough-love guru whose answer to any sign of conflict was to make the adolescent in question write an apology note and clean all the windows in the house. (I know because I misread the title as Coping with Adolescence and read it from cover to cover.) Thankfully, I was still happily in the realm of overachievers then and spent all my spare time riding my bike or reading Asterix and didn’t care what I wore as long as I didn’t have to go shopping with Mum to buy it.

  The day I turned thirteen (which was coincidentally the day after I failed my first Maths test), she came home with a bag full of books that she whisked off to her study. Having grown up in a house where books are treated like precious jewels that must be shown off and admired by the entire family, I thought it must be some special surprise present for me.

  I waited patiently all through dinner, wondering when the tada! moment would come, but even after cutting the birthday cake, no one said a word about any extra pressies. Intrigued, I snuck into Mum’s study and looked in the bag. It was full of books with names like Different for Girls: Why your teenage daughter hates you, Surviving Puberty: A guide for parents, and the truly gagworthy How to Be a Successful Teen (later given to me by Mum with a casual, “I thought you might find this useful”). Until then, I’d never actually considered myself to be a difficult child, but obviously Mum was seeing signs of things to come. As if by prophecy, we had our first all-out screaming, go-to-your-room-young-lady fight that weekend.

  I don’t understand why Mum needs all these books when everyone else’s parents seem to just know what to do. I have a
theory that it’s because she and Dad are so much older than everyone else with kids my age (hence Ziggy nicknaming them “the crumblies”, on account of them looking like ancient relics next to everyone else’s parents). When their friends had teenagers Mum and Dad were busy getting their PhDs and by the time they got around to thinking they might actually want kids, all their mates were celebrating their children graduating from uni and moving out of home, so I guess Mum’s never had anyone to compare us with. Still, it’s a bit insulting that Mum finds me so hard to deal with that she thinks she needs help from every know-it-all child psychologist in the world.

  Kate is over the moon when I call to tell her that my parents have agreed to let me do the play.

  “Ohmygod, Freia, that’s fantastic! What did you have to say to get them to agree to it?”

  “Well, it’s all subject to Nicky’s approval of course,” I say, carefully not mentioning Mum’s enthusiasm for the idea.

  “But Nicky’s cool, isn’t she? Just tell her that your entire social life depends on being in the play.” Kate says, her voice rising melodramatically. I wait a few seconds for her to laugh at the joke, then realise with horror she’s being serious.

  “I don’t know that Nicky’ll go for that,” I say, crossing my fingers that I’m right. “After the Animal Farm debacle, I really need to ace Jane Austen or I’ll fail English Extension.”

  “Well, you’ll just have to convince Nicky or you’ll be the only one left out.”

  There she goes again with the have-tos. I grit my teeth and promise her I’ll do my best, but that Nicky takes tutoring very seriously. By the time we get off the phone I’ve almost convinced myself that Nicky may well say no.

  4

  “Good morning, Sausage.” Dad gives me a peck on the forehead before he sits down and pours himself a bowl of muesli.

  “Daaaaaad!” Unbelievable. No one calls Ziggy Poodle-Pie any more, but fifteen years and nine months later I am still a Sausage.

  “What? What’s wrong? You are my little sausage. You’ll always be my little sausage.”

  “You promised you’d stop calling me that.”

  “No, I promised I wouldn’t call you that in front of your friends, teachers or on public transport.”

  “Now, Terence,” Mum has her TV counsellor voice on, “if Freia doesn’t want to be called by her nickname any more, we should respect that.”

  I seize the opportunity that’s been presented to me. “In that case, how about you all call me Louise instead?”

  “Louise? Loo-ease.” My mother looks genuinely puzzled. “Why on earth would you want to be called that?”

  “Let’s start with the fact that people can spell it without me having to repeat it twenty times. And when someone asks me where my name comes from I wouldn’t have to tell them it’s from some stupid, boring German opera that they’ve never even heard of.” I see Mum’s face fall and I know I’m upsetting her, but I just can’t make myself shut up. “Just because you’ve got a stupid name, Eugenia, doesn’t mean you have to lumber me with one, too!”

  It’s a low blow to bring up Mum’s full name, which she ditched in favour of Gene before I was even born, but the look on her face tells me it’s had the desired effect.

  “The Ring is considered Wagner’s greatest masterpiece, and Freia was the goddess of love,” she says through tight lips.

  Dad leans over and whispers conspiratorially, “Be grateful she didn’t call you after her favourite character, or you’d be Brünnhilde!”

  Mum shoots him a dirty look.

  “Ahem … it, uh, looks like rain, Fray. Better take a brolly.”

  I pretend not to hear him as I head for the door.

  The rain starts when I’m about two blocks from home, but I know if I turn back, I’ll be just as wet as if I keep walking, plus I’ll be late for class. The morning School Special whizzes past and at that moment I’d give anything to be on that bus, even if it meant having to listen to the Bs make flirty chitchat with the Parkville boys. I curse Mum and Dad for buying a house so close to school I can’t even qualify for a bus pass. The last straw is Ziggy waving at me from the back window.

  Mr McLaren is on school gate duty. He’s wearing a raincoat and holding one of those enormous golf umbrellas, looking smugly dry.

  “Och, Freia,” he says when he spots me, “ye look like ye got a wee bit damp this morning.”

  Mr McLaren (aka McSporran) is the King of the Bleeding Obvious and not half as funny as he thinks. He’s under the mistaken impression that we’re laughing at his jokes rather than at his thick Glaswegian accent. In his mind, he’s the Billy Connelly of Westside. He is also my homeroom teacher and the decider of whether I get a B or a C for Maths this term, so I grit my teeth and force a smile in response.

  When I get to the Year Ten locker room Kate and the Bs are gathered around Belinda, who’s moaning that she’d kill for a skinny caramel latte. Stephanie Pearson, whose locker is next to mine, gestures her head towards Belinda and rolls her eyes. I smile before remembering with a guilty pang that these are the closest things to friends I have. I grab my books for my morning classes and join them.

  “Hey, Freia,” says Kate. “I was just telling everyone that your parents said you could do the play.”

  “Only if Nicky agrees,” I remind her.

  “Of course she’ll agree,” says Belinda, gazing at herself in the mirror taped to her locker door. “She’s hired help; she has to do whatever your parents say.”

  “She just has to say yes,” says Kate, “otherwise you’ll never meet any cute boys!”

  “I wouldn’t get my hopes up too much about that, Freia,” says Bethanee, with a grin. “Everyone knows that only the freaks get stuck backstage … present company excluded, of course.”

  The Bs laugh as if this is the funniest thing they’ve heard all week. Kate joins them but stops abruptly when she sees my face. “I’m sure you won’t be the only normal one,” she says, but she looks like she has her doubts.

  “So, Bella,” says Bethanee, “do you know who your leading man is?”

  “Only the best-looking guy in the school – Luke Parkes!”

  “Luke Parkes,” gasps Brianna. “Oh. My. God. Youaresolucky!”

  “Who would have thought that such a hunk could be talented as well?” asks Belinda, rhetorically. “We’re going to look great together in the big ball number.”

  “There’s a ball number?” I say it more for the sake of joining the conversation than because I care. The Bs stare at me.

  “Don’t tell me you haven’t seen My Fair Lady?” says Bethanee. “Gah, Freia! It’s only the best musical of all time.”

  “We should have a movie night tomorrow!” says Kate. “We can all watch it together.”

  “Uh, thanks, but some of us have a life on the weekends,” Belinda tells her. Bethanee and Brianna nod in agreement.

  I don’t actually want to see the movie, but Kate obviously feels like a complete loser for having suggested it. “I’m free,” I say. Kate looks grateful.

  “Today we have the last of our Animal Farm talks,” says Ms Reid as we settle in for English Extension after lunch. “Please do Siouxsie the courtesy of paying as much attention as you would like others to pay when it’s your turn.”

  Siouxsie Sheldon is the closest thing to a goth you’ll find in our year. She’s into punk (the original 1970s stuff, not the put-a-guy-in-black-eyeliner-and-have-him-sing-out-of-tune kind that the Bs think is so outrageous) and dyes her hair black. Until a few months ago she was just plain Susannah, but she changed her name officially for her sixteenth birthday. Instead of going on about how great the name they gave her was, Siouxsie’s parents had a renaming party for her. I think she’s kind of cool. The Bs call her “Morticia”.

  Personally, I’d love it if no one paid attention to my presentations, I think as I watch Siouxsie stride confidently to the front of the class. She’s wearing a “Meat is Murder” T-shirt over her uniform. (Ms Reid gives extra mark
s if you use props.)

  “I’m going to talk about how humans subjugate animals for their own means, specifically, for testing cosmetics so that shallow people can feel better about themselves,” she begins in a voice that exudes self-assurance. Siouxsie’s talk is illustrated by images of rabbits with bleeding eyes and monkeys with sores on their faces. As she describes the experiments, I feel my Vegemite sandwich threatening to come back up. I’ve always known that some cosmetics were tested on animals, but I’d never imagined what it actually entailed. After the presentation Siouxsie hands out pamphlets about choosing cruelty-free products.

  “Thank you, Siouxsie. That was very well researched … if a bit graphic,” says Ms Reid. “Next lesson we’ll start the first book in our special study of Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice. You can spend the last ten minutes of class reading, if you haven’t finished it yet.”

  Despite sounding as if this is an optional activity, we all know what she really means is that she has nothing else planned for the rest of the lesson and we’d better make ourselves look busy with the book if we want to avoid being given an essay to write over the weekend.

  I surreptitiously open Siouxsie’s pamphlet in my lap. Thankfully, the mascara and concealer that make up the sum total of my cosmetic collection are listed under “cruelty-free”, but I see that the current must-have lip gloss (Belinda owns one in every colour) is made by one of the companies on the “worst offenders” list. I’m so engrossed that I’m still reading as I head to my next class.

  “I’m pleased someone’s interested,” says Siouxsie, appearing beside me. “You can imagine how many of these I picked up off the floor after class. People at this school are so apathetic.”

  “That was a really good presentation.”

  “Thanks. I don’t think Reid approved, but that’s what she gets for leaving the topics up to us, eh?”

  I’m about to ask Siouxsie what she thinks of Pride and Prejudice when Kate appears and positions herself between us.