Freia Lockhart's Summer of Awful Page 2

  Turns out, I needn’t have worried. Mum’s tucked away in her study with the door closed, reading or researching, or whatever professors do in their holidays. I go to my room, take off my hideous green-and-brown checked uniform and throw it in the direction of the laundry basket, which, true to my basketball record, it misses. I make a mental note to retrieve it sometime in the next six weeks, before pulling on shorts and a T-shirt and flopping onto my bed next to Dad’s ancient cat, Boris, who pretty much only leaves my room to eat or use his kitty litter these days. Boris opens one eye to give me the feline death stare, sighs and goes back to sleep.

  I pick up the photo I keep on my bedside table. It’s the one Steph took of me and Dan at the cast party for My Fair Lady – our first kind-of-real date. We’re sitting on a bench in Belinda Sinclair’s backyard, twisting to face each other, both laughing, and Dan’s hand is on my knee. Until that night I wasn’t even sure he liked me.

  Now I’ve got much bigger things to think about. Like, how do you know when you’re in love, compared to, say, just really wanting to spend twenty-four hours a day kissing someone’s lips off? And at what point after this profound realisation should you tell them? They should teach you about this stuff in school. Forget learning irregular French verbs and what the green light symbolises in The Great Gatsby. In five years time I bet neither of those things will make any difference to me, whereas I can see myself still questioning whether I’m actually in love or just deluded by hormones.

  I can’t talk to my friends about it because that’d violate the unspoken don’t-go-on-about-your-boyfriend code we have.

  I remember what it was like having to listen to the Bs whinge about how their latest male victim wasn’t paying them enough attention or adoring them enough or whatever. They went on and on about it, knowing how much Kate wanted a boyfriend and how jealous she was of them. I’m not about to do that to my new friends, even if none of them has expressed any sign of envy.

  Possible reactions if I tell Dan I love him

  1. Best-case scenario: agreement, followed by we’re-in-love snogging marathon.

  2. More likely: awkward silence, followed by I-really-like-you-but … speech.

  3. Frighteningly possible: awkward silence, followed by swift change of topic and pretending the L-word was never uttered.

  This is what I hatehatehate about having a boyfriend: the hours wasted dissecting our relationship to attempt to guess where it’s going, trying to keep my inner Hysterical Girlfriend at bay.

  The only way to calm my brain at times like this is to dance until I’m not thinking about anything any more. A year ago I would’ve turned to Kylie Minogue’s Greatest Hits for comfort, but thanks to Dan and Siouxsie, my music collection’s increased tenfold. I put Ramones Mania into my CD player, crank up the volume on the tinny little speakers and press play, but I barely manage a warm-up wiggle before the shouting starts.

  3

  “Freia, is that you? Freia! Freeee-iaaa!!!” Mum’s standing at the bottom of the stairs with her hands on her hips. “You could’ve told me you were home.”

  “Your study door was closed. I thought you didn’t want to be interrupted.” This is not entirely untrue. My parents’ studies are sacred spaces where they keep all their books and academic journals and work stuff. Ziggy and I learned at an early age that if Mum and Dad were in their studies, it meant they shouldn’t be disturbed unless one of us was bleeding or unconscious.

  “Saying hello isn’t interrupting,” snaps Mum. “I’ve been waiting for you to help me bring in some packages from the car.”

  “Why couldn’t Ziggy do it? He was home before me.”

  “If I wanted your brother to do it, I would have asked him to. Obviously, there’s a reason I waited for you.”

  “Yeah,” I say as I stomp down the stairs. “Because I have to do all the crap chores around here while Ziggy gets to play with his mates.”

  You know when Mum’s really annoyed because her voice gets higher and higher. When she speaks again it’s almost a squeak, but there’s nothing mouse-like about her choice of words.

  Dad sticks his head out of his study, drawn by our raised voices. “What’s all the bickering about? It sounds like we’ve travelled back in time to life BD.”

  BD stands for Before Daniel. It’s Dad’s joke about how much nicer I am to live with these days. I’ve told him if he says it in front of Dan, I can’t be held responsible for committing patricide. It’s true that Mum and I have fought less in the last few months, but I like to think that’s because I’m maturing and not letting her quest to turn me into the perfect teenager bug me so much. Also, since Ziggy turned thirteen he’s become the focus of her maternal meddling.

  I give Dad the death stare, so he’ll know that even though I’m not commenting on the BD crack it hasn’t gone unnoticed. “I don’t see why I have to lug stuff in when you have a son built like a Neanderthal to do heavy lifting.”

  “Oh.” Dad’s expression suggests that he doesn’t think it’s fair either, but he’s not going to call Mum on it. (Parenting rule #1: Maintain a united front.)

  “It’s Ziggy’s present I need help with,” Mum tells him. “I can’t lift it by myself and you’ll be having Christmas lunch with the chiropractor if you try it with your bad back.”

  “Ah,” says Dad. “Sorry, Fray, looks like it’s your old man you should be blaming. Tell you what, next time I cook pancakes I’ll make you an extra one to say thank you.”

  Before I can protest, he turns and heads back to his study, whistling to himself as if he’s just single-handedly brought about world peace.

  Not only do I have to help Mum carry in the barbell set and squeeze it into the cupboard in the laundry with the mop and buckets (somewhere Ziggy’ll never look), but there’s a second bulky package in the boot of the car. It’s wrapped in brown paper with a mummifying layer of packing tape around it and a collage of small-denomination postage stamps. I’m intrigued until I recognise the spidery handwriting on the address label. I take it inside and shove it behind the Christmas tree.

  The next morning I wake to the sound of Dad singing along with one of his opera CDs. It’s his way of getting us out of bed if we sleep too late (by parental definition). The deal is that he’ll stop his unmelodic warbling once Zig and I present ourselves in the kitchen for breakfast. I make it downstairs just as Dad’s launching into the Queen of the Night’s aria from The Magic Flute. It’s lucky timing: Dad singing soprano always sets off the neighbourhood dogs.

  Ziggy’s already at the table, drowning his plateful of the beige splats that Dad passes off as pancakes in maple syrup. I take my seat, in front of which a similarly misshapen stack awaits me, and grab the bottle from Ziggy’s hand. Without syrup, eating Dad’s pancakes is like chewing on styrofoam.

  “Who feels like coming to the supermarket?” asks Mum, pouring herself another cup of coffee.

  “Can’t,” says Ziggy through a large mouthful of pancake. “Me and Biggie are going to the beach.”

  “Biggie and I,” corrects Mum before turning to me with a hopeful smile.

  Usually, I try to get out of grocery shopping during school holidays but today I don’t protest. I figure going with Mum now will score me points to get out of it next time. Plus, there’s a long list of ingredients I need for my Christmas baking, and if I get that done today, I’ll have all day tomorrow to find the perfect present for Dan.

  Parkville Metro is even more packed than usual and we have to drive around the car park twice before I spot a space at the far end of the third level. The shopping centre is heaving with groups of girls window-shopping for clothes, and groups of boys window-shopping for girls, and mother-daughter duos setting out on what they think will be a fun day of Christmas-shopping-and-a-bite-to-eat that will end in tears/shouting/bitter silence. (Trust me, I speak from experience.)

  We head straight for the supermarket and slip into our well-practised routine of Mum leading the way and me pushing the trolley. When we
get to the second-last aisle I pull up and start loading the trolley with white, milk and dark chocolate buds, glacé cherries, flaked almonds and those shiny little silver balls that just taste like sugar but look nice on top of things.

  “What’s all that for?” Mum’s voice is loud enough for the guy stacking shelves near me to check that I’m not stuffing ready-made frosting up my jumper, or whatever felonies might be committed in the baking section.

  “For the stuff I’m baking for my friends,” I say. “We’re making each other Christmas presents, remember?”

  “I remember you telling me about it, but I didn’t realise Dad and I were expected to finance it,” she says, giving the shelf stacker a kids-these-days eyebrow raise. (In fact, Mum thought it was a “delightful” idea when I told her about the present swap. “It reminds me of when I was your age and we used to make each other macramé belts and plaited headbands,” she’d said, brimming with hippie nostalgia.) “I trust you’re paying for those yourself.”

  I wasn’t planning to, no. I check the ingredients in the trolley and the prices on the shelves. They easily come to twenty-five dollars, and I haven’t even got the butter or cream yet. “Can I owe it to you?”

  For a few seconds I think Mum’s going to say no. Worse, I think she’s going to give me a money-doesn’t-grow-on-trees lecture in the middle of the supermarket. But she must have a flashback to her macramé days or something, because her expression softens.

  “Okay, but consider this advance payment for giving your room a thorough spring-clean these holidays,” she says. “Do we have a deal?”

  I open my mouth to protest but I know I have no choice. Either I go along with her or I’ll have to use most of the pocket money I’ve saved for Dan’s Christmas present to pay for my ingredients. “Deal,” I mutter.

  4

  When Mum announces that she and Dad are going out for the afternoon I call Dan and ask if he wants to come over and be my sous-chef. He arrives as I’m weighing the chocolate for the brownies.

  “Perfect timing,” he says, grabbing a handful of chocolate buds from the bowl on the scale.

  I try to swat his hand, but he moves too fast for me. “I just finished weighing that!”

  “Sorry. How can I make it up to you?” He grins suggestively.

  “You can make it up to me later. Right now the oven’s preheating and I’m already running behind schedule.”

  “So what should I do? Sift some eggs? Beat some flour?”

  I know he’s joking, but I’m beginning to regret asking Dan to help. We’ve had fun making brownies together in the past, but that was more an excuse to brand each other with floury handprints and lick melted chocolate off each other’s fingers – it had never mattered whether the end product actually turned out well. But these are the first real friends I’ve had since starting high school and I want everything I make for them to be perfect.

  “Just sit down for a minute while I finish getting organised.” I sound like Mum, which I hate on principle, but I’m starting to understand her saying “no” every time I asked if I could help make dinner when I was little. (Now she moans that she practically has to beg me to peel a potato, so I guess I’ve had my revenge.) Dan doesn’t seem to have noticed though; he sits at the kitchen table and flips through a copy of The New Yorker.

  Ziggy gets home a few minutes later. “Good afternoon, Danielle,” he says when he sees Dan. “You look ravishing, as always.”

  “Likewise, Zigolina, dear. Have you done something with your hair?”

  When Dan and Ziggy first came up with nicknames for each other and started talking as if they were two middle-aged women in an Oscar Wilde play, I thought it was funny. Now it just annoys me, especially when it eats into my time with Dan. Dad says it’s their schtick – their act together – and all but applauds if he’s around when they do it. I think Mum’s just relieved that Ziggy talks to an adolescent male other than Biggie, whom she calls “that little hoodlum” when Ziggy’s not around.

  “I’m on my way to the fitness centre,” says Ziggy. “Care to join me?”

  Ziggy’s “fitness centre” is a punching bag suspended in the corner of the garage where he’s taped some posters of boxers and big boofy footballers. It’s a pretty tight squeeze when the Volvo’s parked in there, but that doesn’t seem to bother him.

  Dan pushes back his chair. “Well, one must look after one’s figure.”

  “I thought you were here to help me,” I protest.

  “I am,” says Dan, leaning across the countertop to kiss my cheek on his way past. “Give me a yell when you find something for me to do.”

  The garage door has barely closed behind them when the distinct sound of boxing-gloved hands meeting vinyl punching bag starts. I reset the scales and start weighing out the sugar.

  Ninety minutes later they’re still out there. Last time I went to the garage to remind Dan that he was meant to be helping me, he and Ziggy were doing push-ups. The time before that it was squats. When I asked Dan to come back to the kitchen Ziggy made a whip-cracking motion and Dan told me he’d be with me in five. That was half an hour ago. In between sorties to the garage, I’ve got the brownies baked and set aside to cool, the white Christmas slice is in the fridge, and the candy cane crackles decorated. That I’ve managed to do it all by myself would be quite satisfying if I wasn’t so annoyed with Ziggy for hijacking my boyfriend.

  “It smells fantastic out here,” says Dan when he finally comes in. His cheeks are flushed pink from exercising and his face glistens with a light layer of sweat. Annoyed as I am with him, it’s quite a good look.

  “If you do a top job with the washing up, I’ll let you lick the brownie bowl,” I tell him.

  “I’ve got a better idea,” he says, reaching into his pocket and pulling out his iPod. “I downloaded some new stuff. Why don’t we take a break and listen to it in your room?”

  I weigh the risks. If Mum finds out Dan’s been in my room (or a certain stinky adolescent tells her he was there), I’ll be grounded for the rest of the holidays and my chances of having my curfew extended will be less than zero. But Mum said she and Dad wouldn’t be back before six, and Ziggy wouldn’t want to get on Dan’s bad side, so I figure it’s pretty safe.

  I race up the stairs ahead of Dan and make him wait outside while I check that there are no bras/tampons/pimple creams lying around. Boris lifts his head from my pillow and swishes his tail to show that he doesn’t appreciate having his between-naps nap interrupted. According to Vickypedia (our nickname for Vicky because she knows pretty much everything about everything), cats sleep twelve to sixteen hours a day. I reckon Boris does eighteen to twenty. He’s so sleepy that he doesn’t complain when I lift him off the pillow and into my laundry basket (his second-favourite sleeping spot).

  Dan’s only been in my bedroom twice before. The first time was just after we got together, which even though all he did was marvel at the crappiness of my CD player and mini speakers, resulted in Mum’s no-boys-in-bedrooms rule being spelled out in no uncertain terms. The second was when he had to help put together my new bookcase, after Dad dislocated his thumb using the allen key. This time he takes a long look around, inspecting the spines of my books and the various ornaments and knick-knacks I’ve accumulated over the past sixteen years. He holds up a small glass figurine in one hand and a wooden one in the other.

  “How did I not know you have a thing for wombats?”

  “They’re from Grandma Thelma. When I was six she took me and Ziggy to the wildlife park and apparently I loved the wombats so much that I refused to move from their enclosure until the keeper forced us out at the end of the day. Ever since, every time Gran sees a wombat she gets it for me. I tried to tell her I was past my wombat phase a couple of years ago, but she thought I was joking.”

  Dan nods and moves towards my bed. As he sits, he registers the photo of the two of us on my bedside table. If I’d noticed it, I definitely would have hidden it away. Or at least put it somewher
e less … bed-y. I sit next to him and he hands me an earbud and presses play. The music starts with a strong bass line, followed by some serious guitar. It’s hardly a love song, but that doesn’t stop Dan leaning in to kiss me. Or me kissing him back.

  It’s only when he eases me back onto the bed, somewhere around song four, that I realise Boris has reclaimed his spot on my pillow. He opens one eye and then gives me a slow, disapproving blink as he closes it again and swats his tail against Dan’s back.

  “I think your cat’s jealous,” laughs Dan. “I don’t blame him – I wouldn’t want to share you, either.” He runs his hand down my cheek and pushes the hair away from my neck as he leans in to kiss it.

  And then there’s a knock on the bedroom door.

  “Shit.”

  “Shit.”

  Dan springs up from the bed, dragging my earbud with him and tucking in his T-shirt, despite it being untucked to begin with.

  “Freia,” calls Mum. “Are you in there? The kitchen looks like a bomb’s gone off!”

  I straighten my clothes and open the door.

  Mum is standing with her arms crossed and her lips tightly clamped in a thin, humourless line. It gets even thinner when she sees Dan. “I think it’s time Daniel went home,” she says, not taking her eyes off me. “Freia, your father and I would like to see you downstairs in two minutes. Daniel, we’ll see you soon, I’m sure.”

  “I’m really sorry, Fray,” says Dan when she leaves.