Freia Lockhart's Summer of Awful (7 page)

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.

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 front 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.

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.