Freia Lockhart's Summer of Awful (3 page)

“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.

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 somewhere 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.