Read Online Freia Lockhart's Summer of Awful by Aimee Said - Free Book Online

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.
    â€œIt’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.
    â€œIt’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