Freia Lockhart's Summer of Awful Read online

  8

  Mum’s sitting on the couch reading a book called Tumour Humour: How to laugh your way through cancer when Siouxsie’s mum’s car pulls up to take me to Steph’s for our Christmas Eve extravaganza. I grab my beribboned boxes and make for the door before she can suggest coming out to say hello.

  “Hi, Mrs Sheldon,” I say as I climb into the back seat, putting my boxes next to Siouxsie’s pile of identically wrapped presents.

  “Pam,” she corrects me for the hundredth time. “Mrs Sheldon is my mother-in-law.”

  She and I laugh at her joke, also for the hundredth time.

  “Now, Mummy dearest,” says Siouxsie, “you know we’ve talked about you letting go of your misspent youth and growing old gracefully.”

  Pam takes her left hand off the steering wheel and pokes Siouxsie in feigned offence. “Hey, I may be old but I’ve still got it.”

  “If by it, you mean your own teeth, then yes.”

  “Watch it, kiddo. It’s never too late for your first grounding,” says Pam, but her smile shows that her threat’s not serious.

  Not for the first time, I envy Siouxsie and her mum’s easygoing banter. And then I remember Mum at home with her cancer book and feel bad for even thinking it.

  As further proof of how different Pam is from my mum, she drops us off outside Steph’s place and drives away with no more than a wave. No last-minute lectures about thanking Mrs Pearson for having us over or not making ourselves sick on mince pies.

  “You’re so lucky having a cool mum,” I tell Siouxsie as we watch her drive away.

  “Grass is always greener, Fray,” she says, ringing the bell.

  Steph shows us through to the living room, half of which is occupied by a massive Christmas tree. It takes me a moment to realise that the reason it looks so different to our tree at home is because it’s real. (Also because it’s decorated with a minimalist smattering of tasteful silver ornaments – our tree’s style is what Dad calls “Christmas vomit”, i.e. smothered in every Christmas decoration we own, including the macaroni angel I made in Year Two and the faded lengths of paper chain my parents made for their first Christmas together, more than thirty years ago.)

  Vicky’s already there, going through a pile of CDs. “It’s between Christmas Disco and Dolly Parton’s Home for Christmas,” she says, holding up two equally cheesy covers.

  Steph’s face lights up. “Dolly, for sure! Her version of ‘Jingle bells’ is the best. I’ll be back in a tick.”

  She returns carrying a jug of creamy, frothy eggnog and a plate piled high with mince pies. We clink our cups in a toast to Christmas, and then in a toast to the school holidays, and then in a toast to making toasts. Then Steph snaps photos of us posing by the Christmas tree and we do some spontaneous karaoke with Dolly before collapsing on the couch to eat more mince pies while Vicky changes the CD.

  When a disco version of “Santa Claus is coming to town” comes on Siouxsie yells “Christmas boogie!” and pulls us all up to dance. Drawn by our laughter, Steph’s six-year-old sister comes in, already dressed in her pyjamas, and attempts to copy our festive go-go dancing. We take turns dancing with Phoebe until Mrs Pearson says she has to go to bed.

  “Aww,” she moans. “I want to stay up.”

  “Don’t you want Santa to come?” asks Steph.

  Phoebe nods frantically.

  “Well, you have to go to sleep then. You know how strict he is about not being seen.”

  Phoebe considers this for a moment before quickly saying her goodnights and racing down the hall to her room.

  “Do you remember how excited you used to get about Santa when you were little?” asks Steph when she’s sure her sister is safely out of earshot. “My dad would make reindeer hoofprints by dipping his fingers in flour and tracking them all the way from the front drive to my bedroom. I was so blown away by the thought of Rudolph delivering my presents personally that it never occurred to me to wonder why he always had flour on his feet. Now I help make them for Pheebs.”

  “Mum used to leave half-eaten carrots on the floor next to the fridge and claim she’d disturbed the reindeer having a snack while they waited for Santa to leave our presents,” I say, remembering how awestruck I was to think that magic reindeer had been in my very own kitchen.

  “That’s so sweet,” says Siouxsie. “Pam and Mike never went in for the whole Santa thing much. I just left my stocking downstairs when I went to bed and when I got up in the morning there were presents in it.”

  “Speaking of presents,” says Vicky. “Can we open ours now? I’m dying to see what everyone’s made.”

  Siouxsie goes first, handing each of us a parcel with our name on it. Inside is a black T-shirt, screen-printed in white. We hold them up in front of us.

  Steph’s has her prized camera on the front, complete with a strap printed around the neckline. “So that’s why you wanted to know what model it is,” she says, comparing the image to the real camera in her other hand. “Sneaky.”

  Vicky gasps when she sees that hers is printed with a set of chunky books that say “Vickypedia” on the spines.

  Mine has a brownie with a crown on top. Underneath, it says “Brownie Queen”. It’s the perfect logo for my new business venture.

  “I hope you like them,” says Siouxsie.

  “They’re brilliant,” says Vicky. Steph and I show our agreement by piling on top of Siouxsie to hug her.

  “Fray, can we open yours next?” asks Siouxsie once she’s managed to shake us off. “I can smell them from here and it’s driving me crazy!”

  I’m worried that my effort is a bit lame, especially after Siouxsie’s works of art, but the way everyone oohs and aahs as they sample their presents reassures me.

  “Thish ish fantashtic,” says Steph through a mouthful of white Christmas.

  Vicky nods. “Best ever.”

  I blush with pride and pleasure.

  “My turn,” says Vicky, passing out three thin rectangular packages.

  Inside mine is a fabric bookmark, with a meticulously cross-stitched pink flower in each corner. At first it reminds me of the sort of thing Gran would give me, but then I read the slogan stitched in neat cursive script down its middle: Jane Austen can bite me.

  “I thought you could use it for your English Extension novels next year,” Vicky says when I thank her. “Ms Reid’ll hate it.”

  After we’ve compared our bookmarks, Steph gives us each a square box. “They’re exactly the same so you should open them together.”

  We count to three before lifting the lids. Inside is a framed photo of our time capsule. It’s not exactly a great historical document of a moment in time: my book and Vicky’s medals are barely in shot, and Siouxsie’s T-shirt has bunched in the middle so it says “Meater”, and the four of us are laughing so hard that instead of demure smiles we all have big “ha!” grins, but the photo sums up the best parts of the year perfectly. Seeing it takes me back to that moment, five minutes into my perfect summer holiday. I wish I could jump into that photo and stay with those laughing, happy girls forever.

  “Fray, are you okay?” asks Vicky.

  I glance up to find the three of them studying me with concern. This is the moment I’ve been waiting for; it’s almost an invitation to tell them about Mum. But if I tell them now, it’ll ruin the mood, and I want just one perfect night in this vastly imperfect summer. I deserve that much, don’t I? In any case, no one likes a whinger. It’s best if I keep it to myself just a little longer.

  “I’m fine. I was just thinking how enormous the spot on my chin looks in that photo, and now it’s immortalised for all eternity.”

  Everyone laughs. Siouxsie throws a pillow at me and tells me not to be so hard on myself. Vicky puts on another Christmas CD. The night is saved.

  Dad picks me and Siouxsie up a couple of hours later. Seeing his glum expression through the windscreen as we approach the car brings me crashing from my festive high. What if he says something about Mum in fr
ont of Siouxsie? Sooz adores Mum. I know she’ll be upset when she finds out. Should I just do it quickly, here in Vicky’s driveway, so that at least she hears it from me instead of my father?

  I’m about to say something when Dad jumps out of the car, opening the back door for us like a chauffeur. “Lockhart Limousines, at your service,” he says as he ushers us in. “I’m afraid the minibar’s off being serviced and the sunroof’s out of order, but I’m sure you’ll find everything else to your satisfaction.”

  He keeps up his driver-for-hire banter all the way to Siouxsie’s. After we drop her off, I get in the front seat and he goes back to being Dad. I feel like I should ask if he’s all right or if there’s anything he wants to talk about while Mum’s not around but, before I can, he fires a barrage of questions about my night. Obviously, we’re still pretending everything’s normal.

  9

  My first Christmas present comes while I’m still in bed.

  “Wake up, Fraymond! Your girlfriend’s on the phone,” yells Ziggy, banging on my door.

  I drag the extension into my bedroom before even rubbing the sleep from my eyes.

  “Season’s greetings,” says Dan when I mumble hello. “Did I wake you?”

  “Technically, Ziggy did, but if you mean was I asleep thirty seconds ago, then yes.”

  “Sorry, I’ve been awake for hours. Dr Phil made a big deal of giving me my presents before going to his girlfriend’s for a romantic Christmas breakfast. He’s ordered me to stay here so that we can leave for Aunty Bev’s the moment he gets back.”

  “Did he give you something decent, at least?”

  “Not bad. I got two of the games I asked for and a portable hard drive to back up my music files.”

  “Sounds like Dr Phil’s trying to win you over.”

  “Yeah, but the pay-off for getting the things I asked for was a polo shirt with a logo on it and matching knee-length shorts, which I’ve been ordered to wear today so that I don’t show him up in front of his family. He tried to get me to put on a pair of his designer thongs, too, but I said if I couldn’t keep my high-tops, I wasn’t going at all. I look like the love child of Tommy Hilfiger and Iggy Pop.”

  I laugh. “Now that I have to see. Will you wear it when you come over later?”

  “I don’t know, Fray; it’s a pretty heinous look, even for Parkville.”

  “But you are still coming over, aren’t you?” There’s a note of desperation in my voice that I hope Dan can’t detect over the phone.

  “Of course,” he says. “After a whole day with Dr Phil I’ll need a sanity break. And I can’t wait to give you your present.”

  Great, so Dan’s got me something amazing and I’m giving him the Lamest Gift Ever. Just remembering Voldemort’s smug expression as he handed me my change makes me wince. My only hope now is that one of the presents waiting for me under the Christmas tree is something gender-neutral that I can re-gift to Dan without my family finding out. I’ve got more hope of meeting Santa himself.

  “There’s my sugarplum fairy!” It’s already twenty-five degrees outside and thirty-two in the kitchen, but Dad’s wearing his traditional Santa hat and beard.

  “And about time,” says Mum, her candy cane earrings shaking as she stirs a pot on the stove. “I need you to iron the Christmas tablecloth and napkins, please.”

  For non-religious people, my parents really love Christmas. Not the presents side of things so much (which has really fallen by the wayside since Ziggy stupidly announced he was too old for Santa to come any more) but the family traditions, like using the tablecloth they bought for their first Christmas together, and listening to the carol service from St Andrew’s on the radio, and wearing the wonky paper hats from the bonbons the whole way through lunch. Every year we have the same meal, too: turkey with bacon and chestnut stuffing, roast veg and salads, followed by Christmas pudding and custard. And every year we all stagger to the living room, groaning from overeating, to finally open our gifts.

  It used to drive me mental having to wait till after lunch for my presents, but either I’m becoming more mature or years of disappointing gifts have taken their toll because this year Ziggy’s the only one nagging to get on with it. He races from the table as soon as the last bowl’s been cleared and begins rifling through the packages under the tree.

  We take it in turns to open our gifts. Mum loves the new detective novel I got her, and Dad is excited by the Bach CD, even though I just bought the one he asked for. Even Ziggy seems to like his present, a graphic novel recommended by the cute guy in Mags & Zines (where Vicky makes me go every time we’re in the city because she’s got a thing for him).

  My hopes of getting something suitable to re-gift to Dan quickly disappear. My main present from Mum and Dad is a new quilt for my bed. It’s actually pretty cool by their standards, made out of blocks of Japanese fabrics in various shades of blue and green and infinitely better than the pink floral number I’ve had on my bed since I was eight, but not something I can pass on without it being missed. Ziggy’s gift – a cheap rip-off of a designer perfume that smells suspiciously similar to the air freshener they pump into the loos at the Metro – is out of the question.

  The gift pile is even smaller than usual this year because Mum and Dad have decided to take each other away for a weekend when Mum’s better, so pretty soon there are just three packages left. Ziggy tosses me a small wrapped box and picks up an identical one with his name on it. Mum and Dad watch intently as I untie the ribbon and carefully peel back the sticky tape. I get the distinct feeling that they really want me to like whatever is inside this box, so I prepare myself to smile no matter how lame its contents turn out to be. When I finally get the wrapping paper off I’m speechless.

  “It’s your locket,” I say to Mum, turning over the filigreed silver oval in my hand.

  She nods. “I know you’ve always wanted it and I hardly wear it these days, so I thought …”

  I’ve always loved this locket. Mum got it from her parents for her twenty-first birthday. When I was little she still wore it on a long chain around her neck almost every day; one of the first memories I have is of the locket swinging towards me when she leaned over my cot to kiss me goodnight. She’s occasionally let me borrow it for special occasions, but whenever I’ve hinted that I might like to take permanent possession of it, she always says, “It’ll come to you one day.” I’d assumed that might be on my own twenty-first, at the earliest.

  Before I can speak (or rather, while I’m trying to work out how to speak without wailing), Ziggy rips the paper off his box, opens it and exclaims, “Sweet!” before pulling out a medal hanging from a green-and-orange striped ribbon.

  “It’s my dad’s medal from World War Two,” says Mum, smiling as she watches Ziggy pin it onto his T-shirt. Then, as if she can read my mind, she adds, “I don’t want you two to get the wrong idea. I’m not giving you these things now because I think this will be my last chance. It’s just that I’ve been cleaning out my drawers this week and I think you’re both mature enough to look after them.”

  I nod but I don’t believe her. If there’s one lesson I’ve learned from made-for-TV movies, it’s that people giving their most precious possessions away can only mean one thing.

  “Only one present left,” says Dad, eyeing the large brown-papered package still sitting where I dumped it the other day. “Who’s feeling brave?”

  “I’ll do it,” sighs Mum. “She is my mother, after all.”

  It takes Mum five minutes of wrestling with the tightly wound packing tape to get the parcel open.

  “Dear Genie, Terence, Bloss and Poss,” she reads from the card inside the box. “I hope you’ll enjoy these over the coming festive season. In case you can’t guess, this year’s theme is Bush Christmas. Lots of love, Mum/Thelma/Grandma.”

  “Bush Christmas?” says Dad. “Perhaps it’s native flowers.”

  “No such luck,” says Mum. She holds up an enormous yellow jumper with a kangaroo dressed
as Santa on it. “I think this one’s yours.” While Dad studies his gift with horror, Mum unpacks the rest.

  “I assume this is for you,” she says, passing me a cardigan with a red-nosed wombat on it. “Which means the parakeet in a Christmas tree is mine, and the possum in the holly bush is Ziggy’s.”

  “Oh no. Nonononono!” says Ziggy. He crosses his arms to avoid even touching the jumper that Mum’s holding out to him.

  Dad pulls his jumper over his head. “Come on, Zig. You only have to put it on for the photo and then we’ll stick it in the attic with last year’s.”

  Ziggy makes a big show of struggling to get his jumper on, which is more understandable when I see that the sleeves end five centimetres above his wrists and the possum’s tail looks like it’s tickling his bellybutton.

  “I guess I forgot to tell Mum about your growth spurt,” says Mum. “Never mind, you can stand behind Freia for the photo. Your gran’ll never know the difference.”

  “Let’s just get this over with,” he says, tugging at the jumper’s neck as if it’s constricting his breathing.

  Dad’s still trying to remember how to use the camera’s autotimer function when the doorbell rings.

  “I’ll get it,” I say, which is Ziggy’s cue to race to the front door.

  He mustn’t have managed to take his jumper off on his way because the first thing Dan says is, “Nice look, Zig. Kind of sensitive-metrosexual-meets-the-Hulk.”

  “They made me wear it,” says Ziggy, defensively.

  “You don’t need to make excuses for–” Dan cuts himself off when he enters the living room and sees the three of us. “Oh, wow. Fray said there’d be knitted goods, but I didn’t realise they’d be so …”

  “Seasonal?” suggests Mum.

  “Hideous,” I correct her.

  “Ah, just the fellow we need,” says Dad, holding out the camera to Dan. “Can you take a quick family portrait?”

  We line up and plaster suitably cheesy grins on our faces. Usually, if family photos are being taken, I demand to see them and delete any in which I have my eyes closed, my mouth open or look like I’ve just smelled one of Ziggy’s burger-fuelled farts. Right now I just want to get it over with so I can spend some time with Dan. No one’ll see it except Gran, anyway.