Freia Lockhart's Summer of Awful (5 page)

It was around that time that I began to notice how much older my parents were than everybody else's. Before that it had been something I'd only registered when I saw them standing next to my friends' parents. I'd often thought of their greying hair and outdated clothes as an embarrassment, but it hadn't occurred to me until then that if they were born earlier than other people's parents, they would probably die earlier, too. I started having macabre daydreams about what would happen if they both died while I was still at school, about having to bring up Ziggy on my own or, worse, being sent to an orphanage where they would feed us nothing but gruel and make us work in a factory all day. (My class saw a production of
Oliver!
that year, so I considered myself a bit of an authority on orphanages.) Of course, once high school started I had much bigger things to worry about than death – like exams and blackheads and the fear of getting my period during a swimming lesson.

The morning sky is pure, cloudless blue. My first thought is that it's a perfect day for a bike ride with Dan, followed by gelato and snogging, not necessarily in that order. My second thought is that Mum has cancer.

I don't know what time I eventually got to sleep but it was long after the rest of my family came to bed. I lay awake for hours trying to untangle the jumble of thoughts in my head: whether we'll cancel Christmas this year, and how long Mum will be in hospital, and if she'll be better by the time school goes back. I tried not to think about my plans for these school holidays being ruined, because it's wrong to be upset about missed bike rides with your boyfriend or not getting to hang out with your friends when your mum has a life-threatening illness. I block out those thoughts again as I drag myself out of bed and to the kitchen.

“Good morning,” says Mum, who's already showered and dressed. “Sleep well?”

I nod automatically. I wonder if I should ask how she's feeling or something. I mean, we can't just pretend everything's fine, can we? I look to Dad for a cue, but he's busy spreading a thick layer of marmalade over a crumpet and most of the plate it's on while he studies the crossword. Judging by the way my parents are acting, pretending normality is exactly what we're going to do.

After breakfast, Mum consults the cleaning roster on the fridge and doles out the chores for the week. I scrub the kitchen counters, vacuum the stairs and tidy my room (i.e. kick everything that's on the floor under the bed) before tackling my most dreaded task: Boris's kitty litter.

I hold the heavy-duty plastic bag containing the contents of the litter tray out in front of me, as far from my nose as possible. Before I even open the door that leads to the garage where our wheelie bin is kept, I can tell by the
oomph
-thwack noises that Ziggy's practising his punches. The oomph comes from Ziggy; the thwack is the sound of his gloved left fist making contact with the bag. The knuckles of his right hand are wrapped in a gauze bandage, fastened with an old nappy pin. He holds his injured hand close to his chest and throws all his strength behind the other one.

“Hi,” I say after I've disposed of my fetid cargo.

Ziggy glances in my direction but doesn't reply, landing another punch directly in the middle of the heavy bag as if it's his worst enemy.

“Pretty crazy news about Mum, eh?”

Oomph
-thwack.

“Want to talk about it?”

Oomph
-thwack.

“Zig, can you stop that for a minute and talk to me?”

Oomph
-thwack.

I step behind the bag and grab it in both hands to hold it still. Ziggy raises his fist as if he's going to hit it – or me – anyway, and then lowers it again.

“What is there to talk about?” he asks, lifting his T-shirt to wipe the sweat from his eyes. “Mum's got cancer. She's having an operation. End of story.”

This is going to be harder than I thought, but after all my forced conversations with Mum, I've picked up a few tips on how to make people talk about stuff they don't want to.

“Well, how do you feel about it? You seemed pretty upset last night. I mean …” I nod towards his bandaged hand. “It's better to talk about it than keep your feelings to yourself.”

Ziggy rolls his eyes. “I'll tell you how I feel, Fray: I feel like it's shit luck for Mum, but there's nothing I can do about it. Now let go of the bag and get out of the way.”

I do as he says, partly because I suspect he'd get on with his training whether I let go or not. I don't know what else I'd expected from Ziggy; it's not as if the two of us make a habit of heart-to-heart chats. But we're in this together, Zig and me, and right now he's the only person who might know exactly how I feel.

When he calls my name as I reach for the doorhandle, I think he must have realised the same thing, but all he says is, “Close the door on your way out.”

Then the
oomph
-thwacking resumes, and it might be my imagination but it sounds more ferocious than ever.

“Daniel phoned,” calls Mum from the living room as I pass by the open door. “Which reminds me, we haven't talked about what happened yesterday.” She pats the cushion next to her on the couch. I'm definitely in for a lecture if she thinks I'll be there long enough to need a seat.

“We weren't doing anything wrong,” I say before she can start. “It's not as if we were torturing puppies or making pipe bombs or something evil.”

Mum smirks for a millisecond before remembering why she's called me in here, putting on her stern face. “You still broke the rules of our house, Freia. Dad and I like Daniel very much, but there are certain things that we don't feel comfortable with, and the two of you being in a bedroom behind a closed door is one of them. If you want to be treated more like an adult, you need to prove that we can trust you to keep your word.

“You know the consequence we set for breaking that rule is not being allowed to see Daniel for a week. Under the circumstances, I'm not going to enforce it this time, but if it happens again …”

I nod, relieved and slightly disbelieving at getting off so lightly. Perhaps there's a part of Mum that still remembers what it's like to be young and in something-like-love?

“I'm in the middle of something,” says Dan when I call and ask if he feels like going for a ride. (Which is Dan-speak for “I'm playing a video game”.) “But judging by the stench of aftershave wafting from the bathroom, Dr Phil's getting ready for a date with his new girlfriend. Why don't you come over?” (Which is Dan-speak for “we'll have the house to ourselves”.)

I'd been looking forward to a ride, not least because it would buy me more time to think about how to tell Dan about Mum, but I figure I don't have to say anything about it straightaway. Anyway, if kissing is as good for the nervous system as Vicky claims, a little Dr Phil-free time with Dan might actually help me to talk about it.

Dan's house is something out of an interior decorating magazine. It's enormous by Parkville standards – twice the size of our terrace – with all-modern furniture in neutral tones that match the walls, and brushed stainless steel fittings. Dan reckons it's a house for looking at, not living in, but I've never heard him complain about the plasma TV that takes up most of the wall in the living room.

“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?”