Freia Lockhart's Summer of Awful (25 page)

“I thought it was familiar – it's her ganache, right? I used to beg her to ice my birthday cakes with it every year.” Mum takes a bite and “mmms”.

“How are things with you?” she asks once she's swallowed.

“Okay. Fine, really.”

“No news? Nothing happened while I was in hospital?”

Let's see, one of my best friends' parents have split up, Dad's on the verge of some kind of meltdown and I haven't spoken to Dan since New Year's Day. “Nope, nothing except the Ziggy thing.”

She nods. “Dad told me. He and Mrs Biggins are taking the boys to meet with the ranger this afternoon and decide on their punishment. Poor Zig.”

I press my lips together to stop myself saying anything.

When I get to Switch Jay looks more miserable than ever.

“I just miss Nicky so much,” he says, dunking a corner of brownie into his espresso. “The worst part is not hearing her voice.”

I scoop a spoonful of whipped cream off the top of my iced chocolate and nod. I know that, technically, it's my turn to play beagle, but I can't help joining Jay's pity party. “At least Nicky's got the excuse of being in a different time zone,” I say. “Dan's only a hundred kilometres away and I barely hear from him.”

“At least you
do
hear from him. I know Nicky's completely immersed in her research, but surely she could find a payphone occasionally.”

“At least you're not waiting by the phone for her to call when she finally has nothing better to do.”

“At least you know there are times when he has nothing better to do!”

We continue arguing about who's got it worse until customers start arriving for lunch.

“I'd better get back to work,” says Jay. “Thanks for listening to my moaning, Freia. It sucks how being in love can be the greatest high and ultimate low at the same time, eh?”

If a psychic had told me that I'd spend my summer having heart-to-hearts with Jay, I'd have laughed them out of Parkville. Mind you, if anyone had predicted any of what's happened over the last few weeks, I wouldn't have dreamed it could come true.

“There you are!”

I look up from scraping the last dregs of chocolate syrup out of my glass to see Siouxsie, Steph and Vicky.

“Your mum said you'd be here,” says Steph before I can ask what they're doing here. “She also told us you have a killer new brownie recipe.”

“You went to my house?”

Siouxsie nods. “We were going to do an intervention, to force you to get over your addiction to being miserable.”

The three of them look so serious that I can't help laughing.

“That's a good start,” says Steph, “but we'll need at least three more of those before we can let you go home.”

We move to the couches in the back room. Steph and Siouxsie sit together, leaving me to sit next to Vicky. I suspect it's no coincidence, especially since the two of them immediately start talking about some obscure band that's touring. Vicky and I pretend to be interested in their conversation until Steph pointedly raises an eyebrow in Vicky's direction and she turns to me.

“So … happy new year!” she says with awkward enthusiasm.

“Thanks, same to you.”

“Thanks, but our new year isn't for another week or so. Buddhists follow the lunar calendar.”

“Oh,” I say and we fall silent again.

After another couple of minutes (and probably another cue from Steph) Vicky clears her throat.

“Uh, I think I might have said some things at the zoo that upset you, and if I did, then I'm sorry,” she blurts. “I really, really didn't mean to be insensitive. I was just trying to be a good friend.”

When she finishes speaking she waits for my reaction with wide, worried eyes. Suddenly, staying upset with her makes no sense at all.

“I know, Vix. I'm sorry I overreacted. I think I just needed someone to take my anger out on and you were an easy target. It was a shitty thing to do.”

Vicky shrugs. “I guess that's what friends are for.”

“Yeah,” says Siouxsie, who's obviously heard every word we've said. “What's that saying about always hurting the ones you love?”

“Don't,” I groan. “You sound like my gran.”

Steph laughs. “We met her when we went to your place. She answered the door with her knitting in one hand and a parrot on her shoulder, like some sort of pirate craft maven.”

“I hope you didn't tell her that. She'd take it as a compliment and get her and Rocky matching eye patches.”

“She wasn't so bad,” says Vicky. “My nanna wouldn't have let us leave without making us a full meal. She thinks every teenage girl has an eating disorder and that only she can cure them.”

Soon it feels like old times, the four of us in our usual corner, trying not to choke on our brownies when we laugh. It feels like the perfect school holiday Wednesday until I notice the empty table where Dan usually sits.

“Oi, no moping!” says Steph, throwing a cushion at me.

“I'm not moping.”

“You are,” says Siouxsie. “What's up?”

“Nothing.”

Souxsie's eyebrows narrow. “You're not doing this again, are you?”

“Doing what?” I ask.

“Pretending everything's fine and retreating into your burrow,” says Steph.

Vicky looks alarmed. “I thought we weren't going to mention wombats.”

“We weren't,” says Steph, “but now I can see that the intervention's needed after all. Freia, we're your friends and, as Vix and I have already explained to Siouxsie, it's our duty to care if you're upset or angry or feeling crap. We want to help, even if all we can do is listen to you whinge and keep up a steady supply of chocolate.”

Siouxsie and Vicky nod in earnest agreement.

“It's stupid,” I tell them. “It's just stupid insecure girlfriend stuff and I know no guy's worth feeling so bad over and I should be capable of enjoying myself without Dan around and if he is doing any of the things I'm going crazy thinking about him doing then I'm better off without him …”

“But you miss him,” says Vicky.

I nod and try to blink away my tears.

Steph comes over and sits on the arm of the couch next to me and Siouxsie crouches at my feet, the three of them forming a sort of friend force field around me.

“Dan's a good guy,” says Siouxsie. “Whatever's going on with him, I'm sure he doesn't realise he's being such a tool.”

“He's probably got stuff of his own going on,” agrees Steph. “I'd be pretty preoccupied too if I was forced to spend my summer holidays in the middle of nowhere with my estranged mother.”

“Plus, verbal communication isn't most guys' strong point,” adds Vicky.

We stay for another hour, catching up on Siouxsie's dad's progress as a bachelor (not much, but at least he's bought some cutlery), Steph's tales from the dark side of Parkville Metro and Vicky's adventures with the twins. By the time we leave it almost feels like things have never been weird between us.

I instantly recognise the silver BMW parked across our driveway when I get home. It takes all my willpower not to “accidentally” scrape my bike along the passenger door as I wheel it into the garage.

When I walk into the kitchen Rocky starts bouncing on his perch, flapping his wings with excitement. “Hellohellohello,” he screeches.

“Shut up,” I tell him, after checking to make sure Gran's not lurking in the shadows.

“Freia, is that you?” calls Mum. “Come and say hello to Dr Fairchild.”

I shoot Rocky the death stare as I head for the living room. “Thanks a lot, stupid bird.”

Mum and Dr Phil are sitting on the couch. There's a teapot and three cups on the coffee table, and Gran's knitting is plunked on top of her tote bag, as if she left the room in a hurry – probably to send Archie a text message.

“Hello, Dr Fairchild,” I say in a monotone from the doorway.

Dr Phil turns his head but doesn't bother shifting in his seat to face me. He looks even more tanned than usual, as if he's been to Fake'n'Bake at Parkville Metro and asked them to dial the spray gun all the way up to Oompa Loompa.

“Hello, Freia,” he says smarmily. “How are you? Enjoying the holidays? Keeping busy? That's the way.”

He turns back to Mum before I can answer, which is just as well since if he'd waited for a response, I probably would've said something along the lines of, “I'd be much better and enjoying myself a lot more if you hadn't forced my boyfriend to go away for an indefinite period,” which may have been satisfying but would also have made Mum's face turn purple, something I'm trying to avoid until she's made a complete recovery.

As it is, Mum smiles at me for being polite and then says, “Make us another pot of tea, will you? Your gran said she was going to do it but I think she may have gone for a nap instead.”

While I wait for the kettle to boil, I recall a movie I watched on TV when I was home “sick” one day, about this woman who killed her whole family by putting rat poison in their tea. I remember that she looked like a nice motherly type, with an apron and her hair in a bun on top of her head, but when her victims got sick, she laughed and laughed. I didn't drink tea for a month after that.

The refilled pot is very hot and too heavy to carry easily in one hand. I wish I'd brought in the tray as well, but I can't be bothered making another trip to the living room to get it. Halfway down the hall, I stop and rest the teapot on the hallstand while I shake out my wrist. I'm about to pick it up again when Mum says, “How's Daniel getting on at his mother's?”

“Well, you know he doesn't tell me anything,” says Dr Phil, “but it's a positive sign that he's still in Little Ridge. I must admit, I was shocked when he asked if he could visit Anne-Marie, especially after what happened last time, but he was determined to go. Is it too optimistic to think that he might be growing up at last?”

The two of them are still chuckling when I put the teapot on the coffee table.

“Thanks, Fray,” says Mum. “Would you like a cup?”

I shake my head and leave without saying a word.

I don't know why Dr Phil would lie to Mum about Dan, but it just doesn't make any sense. After everything Dan said about his mum – and all the things he left unsaid – I can't believe he actually wanted to spend time with her. And if he did, why would he lie to me about it? Was there some other reason he wanted to go? Or someone other than his mum that he wanted to see?

I close the front door behind me as quietly as I can and bolt down the driveway before Dr Phil or Mum can come after me. Not that they would – they're now deep in conversation about Ziggy's “issues” – but the last thing I need right now is to be subjected to any of Dr Phil's kiddie shrink questioning.

It's dog-walking hour in the park. The owners stand around in groups with their backs to the Dogs Must Be Leashed sign while they keep a weary eye out for the ranger. I can see the wounded tree from ten metres away. It has a sort of bandage around the middle of its trunk, like a gunshot victim who's taken a bullet in the stomach, and there's a low fence around it, made out of wooden stakes and orange-and-white striped hazard tape. I know it's only a tree, but it looks like it's in pain. (Note to self: ask Vickypedia if trees have feelings.)

The bandage is about ten centimetres wide and smells strongly of something natural and chemical at the same time. It covers Jim loves Elsie and Sara loves Ty and, of course, DTF + FL. It's as if all traces of me and Dan have been obliterated. I reach across the hazard tape to touch the trunk, running my fingers over the smooth bark, then the ridges of someone's initials and up to the bandage. A trickle of sap has escaped it, making a dark, sticky, bloodlike streak. The tears come so quickly this time that I couldn't stop them even if I wanted to.