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

this will be my last chance. It’s just that I’ve been cleaning out my drawers this week and I think you’re both mature enough to look after them.”
    I nod but I don’t believe her. If there’s one lesson I’ve learned from made-for-TV movies, it’s that people giving their most precious possessions away can only mean one thing.
    â€œOnly one present left,” says Dad, eyeing the large brown-papered package still sitting where I dumped it the other day. “Who’s feeling brave?”
    â€œI’ll do it,” sighs Mum. “She is my mother, after all.”
    It takes Mum five minutes of wrestling with the tightly wound packing tape to get the parcel open.
    â€œDear Genie, Terence, Bloss and Poss,” she reads from the card inside the box. “I hope you’ll enjoy these over the coming festive season. In case you can’t guess, this year’s theme is Bush Christmas. Lots of love, Mum/Thelma/Grandma.”
    â€œBush Christmas?” says Dad. “Perhaps it’s native flowers.”
    â€œNo such luck,” says Mum. She holds up an enormous yellow jumper with a kangaroo dressed as Santa on it. “I think this one’s yours.” While Dad studies his gift with horror, Mum unpacks the rest.
    â€œI assume this is for you,” she says, passing me a cardigan with a red-nosed wombat on it. “Which means the parakeet in a Christmas tree is mine, and the possum in the holly bush is Ziggy’s.”
    â€œOh no. Nonononono!” says Ziggy. He crosses his arms to avoid even touching the jumper that Mum’s holding out to him.
    Dad pulls his jumper over his head. “Come on, Zig. You only have to put it on for the photo and then we’ll stick it in the attic with last year’s.”
    Ziggy makes a big show of struggling to get his jumper on, which is more understandable when I see that the sleeves end five centimetres above his wrists and the possum’s tail looks like it’s tickling his bellybutton.
    â€œI guess I forgot to tell Mum about your growth spurt,” says Mum. “Never mind, you can stand behind Freia for the photo. Your gran’ll never know the difference.”
    â€œLet’s just get this over with,” he says, tugging at the jumper’s neck as if it’s constricting his breathing.
    Dad’s still trying to remember how to use the camera’s autotimer function when the doorbell rings.
    â€œI’ll get it,” I say, which is Ziggy’s cue to race to the front door.
    He mustn’t have managed to take his jumper off on his way because the first thing Dan says is, “Nice look, Zig. Kind of sensitive-metrosexual-meets-the-Hulk.”
    â€œThey made me wear it,” says Ziggy, defensively.
    â€œYou don’t need to make excuses for–” Dan cuts himself off when he enters the living room and sees the three of us. “Oh, wow. Fray said there’d be knitted goods, but I didn’t realise they’d be so …”
    â€œSeasonal?” suggests Mum.
    â€œHideous,” I correct her.
    â€œAh, just the fellow we need,” says Dad, holding out the camera to Dan. “Can you take a quick family portrait?”
    We line up and plaster suitably cheesy grins on our faces. Usually, if family photos are being taken, I demand to see them and delete any in which I have my eyes closed, my mouth open or look like I’ve just smelled one of Ziggy’s burger-fuelled farts. Right now I just want to get it over with so I can spend some time with Dan. No one’ll see it except Gran, anyway.

    â€œDo you want to go to the park?” asks Dan once Mum and Dad have tactfully left the room, dragging Ziggy with them.
    After what he said on the phone, I’d assumed we’d exchange presents straightaway, but Dan doesn’t seem to be in any hurry and I’m keen to put off giving him the mug for as long as possible, even though I know