Freia Lockhart's Summer of Awful Page 4

  “Oh,” says Dr Phil when he opens the door, looking over my shoulder in case there’s someone more interesting standing behind me. “Daniel’s in his room, as usual. Go on up.”

  Despite Dr Phil’s book giving Mum the idea in the first place, there are no rules about having people of the opposite sex in your bedroom at Dan’s house. He also has a TV, a games console and a computer in there. If Mum knew what a hypocrite Dr Phil is, she’d probably throw his book out the window. I’ve been tempted to tell her, but the fleeting satisfaction of informing her that her idol is a sham isn’t worth her banning me from ever coming here again.

  Dan is lying on his bed, playing a shoot-’em-up zombie game. “I’ll be done in five,” he says without looking away from the screen. “Make yourself comfortable.”

  There are only three places to sit in Dan’s room: the floor; the chair at his desk, which is always piled with laundry; or his bed. I perch on the edge of the bed. Unlike my room, Dan has no sentimental knick-knacks or photos on display. Aside from the teetering stack of CDs next to his stereo, a couple of books on his bedside table and the overflowing laundry basket, there’s not much to see at all. I stare out the window at next door’s roof, where a pigeon with his chest puffed up like one of the body builders in Zig’s posters is cooing to his would-be mate. I try to imagine a scenario where I can just work Mum’s news into the conversation casually. I come up blank.

  “That showed those undead suckers,” Dan says ten minutes later, when I’m no closer to finding the right words and the pigeon is no closer to his goal either. (At least Dr Phil is making some progress; his date arrived just after me and they left straightaway. From what I could hear, I’ve deduced that she is a giggler and wears clickety high heels.)

  Dan tosses the controller onto the floor with one hand and pulls me back towards him with the other. He shifts so we’re side by side and pushes his fringe back from his face. I still get a little buzz when I see those intensely blue eyes.

  “What shall we do now that Dr Phil’s out of the way?” he asks, kissing me before I can answer. “Watch a DVD?” Kiss. “Listen to music?” Kiss. “Go for a ride?” Kiss. “Or we could just stay here and do this.”

  He kisses me again and runs his fingertips lightly down my spine. The dull ache that’s been nagging at my stomach all day dissolves at his touch, but I know it’ll return the instant I tell him about Mum. I murmur my agreement with his suggestion.

  I lose myself in the feeling of Dan’s lips against mine, the warmth of his back when I slide my hand under his T-shirt, the way my skin tingles where he’s touched it. A couple of times my mind wanders and I get mental flashes of Mum lying in a hospital bed, hooked up to tubes and monitors, like Pop was at the end. I try to concentrate on Dan to block it out, but after a while that stops working. It takes him a minute to realise I’m crying.

  “Fray, what’s wrong?”

  “Nothing,” I whisper, turning my face towards the quilt.

  He lifts my chin, forcing me to look at him. “It’s not nothing. Did I do something wrong? Did you not want to–”

  “It’s not that.” I take a couple of deep breaths, preparing myself to blurt it out, but as soon as I open my mouth to speak the tears start again. I bury my face in his chest, inhaling the comforting Dan-and-laundry-powder smell of his T-shirt. He wraps his arms around me and kisses the top of my head.

  After a few minutes, my breathing returns to normal and my eyes are dry.

  “Are you sure you’re okay?” he asks.

  I nod into his chest.

  “Can you tell me what’s making you cry?”

  “Mum,” I whisper.

  “Did you two have a fight? About me being in your room?”

  “No. It’s … she’s … she has … it’s cancer. In her breast.”

  Dan tightens his embrace. “Oh, Fray.”

  We lie in silence. Dan’s chest rises and falls with each breath he takes. The predictable repetition soothes me until my heart rate slows and my breathing matches his.

  After a while he asks, “Is she going to be okay?”

  “I don’t know. She’s having an operation just after Christmas. She says the odds are good, but …”

  More silence. I try to fall back into the rhythm of our breathing, but no matter how hard I try, I can’t. Then Dan says, “Why don’t we go downstairs and watch a movie on the big screen?”

  I go to the guest bathroom and splash cold water on my puffy eyes and red cheeks. When I come out I spot Dan in the courtyard, furtively dragging on a cigarette. I pretend I haven’t seen him. It’s not the right time to give him another lecture on the evils of smoking, and anyway, he says he only smokes when he’s stressed, and we both know whose fault that is today.

  Dan comes into the living room a minute later, crunching a mouthful of breath mints and looking guilty. He tells me to choose a DVD while he makes popcorn in the microwave (which doesn’t taste as good as popcorn made on the stove, but for someone whose mum won’t even have a microwave in the house it’s such a novelty that I love it, especially the fakey-butter flavoured one). Even if you didn’t know that Dan’s house is a woman-free zone, you could guess from the DVD collection: science fiction, war movies and action flicks. I choose a kung-fu movie that claims to be “a hilarious martial arts western”. Half an hour into it, I realise that this means a lot of bad jokes about villains getting kicked in the balls, impaling themselves on spiky cacti and being hit in the face with things. I don’t care. I’m stretched out on the grey suede couch, lying with my head on Dan’s lap. If he wasn’t laughing so hard, I’d fall asleep.

  “I should get going,” I say when the movie ends.

  “Do you want me to come with you?”

  I reluctantly pull myself off the couch. “Thanks, but I’ll be okay.”

  “Well, do you want to do something tomorrow? We can ride to the beach, if you like.”

  “I have to finish my Christmas shopping,” I say, not mentioning that his is the only gift I still have to buy. “And get stuff ready for Steph’s tomorrow night. I’ll see you on Christmas Day though, right?”

  “Yeah, we should be back from Auntie Bev’s by five. I’ve already told Dad that if they try to make me sit at the kids’ table with the six year olds again, we’re leaving immediately, so it could be way earlier.”

  I make a silent wish for Auntie Bev to stuff up big-time.

  7

  When I get home there’s a postcard from Nicky on the dresser in the hallway.

  Dear Freia

  Bulgaria is beautiful, but freezing – they’re predicting a white Christmas. SO glad your mum lent me those thermals! Thankfully, the library (which is beautiful and amazing beyond words) is heated. I wish I could say the same for my hotel. Hope you’re having the summer of your dreams. I can’t wait to hear all about it when I get back.

  xxx Nicky

  PS Please give Jay a hug for me next time you see him. I expect he’ll need one by now.

  Jay’s not the only one, I think. But of course Nicky doesn’t know that. I asked Mum last night if she was going to tell Nicky about the operation, because I think she’d want to know. Mum looked at me like I’d suggested she go skinny-dipping in the university fountain and said she wouldn’t dream of interrupting Nicky’s research for “something so trivial”. I think she’s in denial.

  Speaking of avoiding scary thoughts, it’s two days before Christmas and I still don’t have a present for Dan. I got my family’s gifts weeks ago, but they were no-brainers. Dan’s a different kettle of fish, as Gran would say. I’ve never bought anything for a guy my own age, let alone one I was somewhat intimately involved with. The whole thing’s fraught with danger. I mean, what if I make some grand romantic gesture and he gets me a joke gift? I’ll come off looking like Tragic McLovestruck.

  I turn to the internet for help. A search for “gifts for newish boyfriends” only returns advice on what not to buy. It’s all very well, but it doesn’t actually bring me any c
loser to deciding what to get Dan.

  Inappropriate gifts for newish boyfriends

  Anything covered in hearts or teddies or bearing the slogan “I wuv you”.

  Socks, underwear or nose hair trimmers.

  Pets, pot plants or anything that requires daily attention to stay alive.

  Nothing that suggests his room smells less than fresh, e.g. scented candles, aromatherapy oil burners, incense …

  “Are you insane?” Siouxsie sounds incredulous when I call her the next morning to see if she’ll come shopping with me. “I’d rather listen to Barry Manilow on repeat than go to the Metro on Christmas Eve.”

  “Please,” I beg. “Your taste’s way closer to Dan’s than mine is.”

  “Sorry, Fray, but no amount of flattery will get me to set foot in that place today, and if you’re wise, you won’t, either. Why don’t you just make something for Dan the Man?”

  It’s easy for Siouxsie to suggest, she’s constantly sewing stuff or refashioning daggy op shop finds into something amazing, plus she’s got her silkscreen set up in her mum’s studio. All I can do is bake, and I reckon Dan’s eaten enough brownies since we met to last him a lifetime. Besides, I want to get him something special for our first Christmas together. Not that I can tell Siouxsie that – she’s got this thing about how girls feel, like they can’t be themselves when guys are around, and I don’t want to prove her right.

  I resign myself to facing the mall alone after Steph’s mum tells me that she’s working all day at the camera shop, and Vicky says she’s babysitting her twin brother and sister. I’ve made a short list of things I think Dan will like that meet the appropriate-gifts-for-newish-boyfriends criteria. In fact, it’s a very short list – the Star Wars DVD box set or a new game for his console – so, if everything goes perfectly, I should be home by lunchtime.

  Remembering Nicky’s postcard, I box up a few left over Christmas treats to drop off to Jay on my way home.

  The Metro is even worse than Siouxsie imagined. Unlike when I was here with Mum a couple of days ago, no one seems like they’re having fun shopping; we all wear the same grim expression of determination. In the forecourt, a giant digital display is counting down to Christmas: thirteen hours and sixteen minutes. It’s a glowing reminder of how late we’ve all left our Christmas shopping.

  Movies’n’More looks like a tornado’s hit it. The $20 and Under table out the front is almost bare and there are big gaps on the shelves. My heart leaps when I see the Star Wars box set on the top shelf of the sci-fi section, and then sinks when I pull it down and see the price. It’s more than three times my budget.

  “Are you buying that?” A guy wearing a handwritten badge that claims his name is Voldemort points to the metal box in my hand. “Because there’s a customer at the counter who wants it.”

  I take one more look at the price and hand it over. “Do you have anything more … affordable in the Star Wars range?”

  Voldemort swivels his head in a quick scan of the shelves. “These are sixteen ninety-nine.” He reaches past me to a display of action figures and other novelties and picks up a mug with Darth Vader dressed as Santa that says, “Luke, I sense your presents”.

  For a second I’m tempted, if only because buying the stupid mug would mean getting out of the Metro, pronto, but there has to be something better in my price range.

  “It’s not quite what I had in mind,” I say, trying to be tactful.

  “Suit yourself, but I can’t guarantee there’ll be any left if you change your mind.”

  I tell him I’ll take my chances and make my way to the games store on the basement level. It’s packed full of people, too, but most of them are waiting to play the demo games. When I see how much the games cost I understand why.

  My short list exhausted, I wander from shop to shop in the desperate hope that the perfect gift will magically appear, but nothing does. I consider admitting defeat and going back to Voldemort, but the thought of Dan’s expression when he opens his gift to find a festive-themed joke mug is too awful. If he gave me something like that, I’d think he didn’t care enough to bother finding a gift I’d like. By midday it’s obvious I need help.

  It takes half an hour to reach the front of the queue at Marinelli’s Casa di Cameras, but it’s the only way I can get to Steph because the line to pick up Santa photos is huge. It’s sheer luck that Steph’s just about to go on her lunchbreak when I get there.

  “Why’ve you left it so late to get Dan’s present anyway?” she asks, dunking a piece of sushi in wasabi-laden soy sauce.

  I shrug. The Metro food court is not the place to make an announcement about my mum’s health. “I didn’t mean to. I’ve just been really busy.”

  “Why don’t you get him a voucher? Then he can get something he really wants.”

  “No, it has to be a real something-you-can-rip-the-wrapping-paper-off present. A voucher screams ‘I don’t know you well enough to choose a present’.”

  Steph raises an eyebrow. “Isn’t that kind of the truth?”

  “No. Well, yes. But it’s not that I don’t know him well enough, it’s just that I can’t afford any of the things I know for certain he’d like.”

  It’s more than I’d ever admit to Siouxsie, but Steph’s not quite as hardcore on the don’t-lose-yourself-in-your-boyfriend front. She pops a piece of sushi in her mouth and chews it with a thoughtful expression. “How about a book?” she says after she swallows. “An autobiography of a musician, or something by a music critic?”

  The instant she says it, I know it’s the perfect idea. “Want to come and help me choose?” I ask hopefully.

  Steph checks her watch. “Sorry, I have to get back to work, but you can tell me all about it tonight. Just get something by an ageing rocker who’s been to rehab – I bet there are loads.”

  There’s only one bookstore left in the Metro, on the third floor. I cross my fingers that it’s got a decent music section and head for the escalator. The post-lunch crowd upstairs looks weary, and it’s growing larger. For every person clutching bulging shopping bags, there’s another with empty hands and a desperate expression. I imagine it’s the one I wore myself an hour ago, but not any more. I stride confidently towards the bookstore, knowing that my salvation lies inside.

  I’m only a couple of metres away from the Music and Musicians section when I hear something in the aisle ahead that stops me in my tracks. A quick glance to my left is all I need to confirm my worst fears. I turn and walk as quickly as I can from the store, not pausing or looking back until I reach the forecourt and realise I still don’t have Dan’s present. It’s so stupid, I know, but I can’t go back there, not even for him.

  “They were right there. Both of them.”

  “I got that bit,” says Jay, setting an iced chocolate in front of me. “It’s the running away I don’t understand.”

  It doesn’t matter how many times I explain, Jay will never get why I couldn’t just walk past Belinda and Bethanee and get the book I’d gone in for. How can I make him understand that without Siouxsie to back me up, being around the Bs makes me feel like I did when I was hanging out with them – like a rabbit caught in the middle of a four-lane highway with trucks speeding towards me on both sides? There was no way I could risk Belinda and Bethanee spotting me and making some loud bitchy remark.

  “I got a postcard from Nicky yesterday,” I say, giving up on trying to explain girls’ school politics to a man in his thirties.

  Jay sighs and plunks down in the chair across the table. “Me too. It sounds like she’s having a great time.”

  I try to think of something I can say to cheer him up. “She says it’s freezing though. And I bet she’s too busy researching to have any fun.”

  Another big sigh. “Yeah, she seems busy.”

  “I’m sure she’s missing you. She said to give you …” Jay’s shoulders unslump a fraction and he looks at me hopefully. I like Jay, but I just can’t imagine hugging him. Maybe it’s because I d
on’t know him that well. Maybe it’s because he’s Nicky’s boyfriend. Maybe it’s all the tattoos. For whatever reason, I can’t finish the sentence truthfully. “… this.”

  Jay takes the box I’ve pulled out of my bag and just about rips it open. His face falls when he sees it’s not from Nicky, but only for a second. When he looks at me again he attempts a smile. “Are these some of the Freia-made goodies Nicky’s always telling me are so delicious?” He sticks his nose deep inside the box and inhales deeply. “They smell amazing. In fact, I have to have one immediately.” He reaches in and pulls out a bite-size brownie, putting the whole thing in his mouth at once. As he chews, his eyes widen with pleasure. “Tell Nicky giving me these was probably her best idea ever,” he says once he’s swallowed.

  I can’t help smiling; I love seeing people enjoy what I’ve made.

  Jay takes another brownie from the box and holds it up to the light, as if he’s studying a gemstone. “Seriously, I’ve eaten a lot of brownies in my time and these are the best I’ve ever tasted. Would you consider making them for the cafe?” When I’m too dumbstruck to answer for a few seconds, he adds, “I’d pay you, of course. Say, twenty dollars a dozen?”

  Even with my woeful maths skills I know that’s a pretty good profit on the cost of ingredients. In just a few weeks I could save enough to get Dan that Star Wars set. I nod, still too shocked at the offer of being paid to do something I really enjoy to speak.

  By the time Jay’s eaten another brownie bite and a candy cane crackle, his mood’s improved considerably. It might just be a sugar high, but I prefer to think it’s the curative powers of my baking. He tells me that he’s closing Switch and going to his dad’s place in the country for Christmas, so I arrange to drop off the first batch when he reopens on the twenty-eighth.

  On the ride home, I start a mental list of brownie variations I’d like to try. For the first time since Mum’s news, I feel like these holidays could be saved.