Free Freia Lockhart's Summer of Awful by Aimee Said

in the door, calling out that I’m home then heading to my room.
    Boris is sleeping off his dinner. I lay my head next to his on the pillow. “I think I’m officially in love,” I whisper in his ear.
    Boris flicks his tail in response. He’s never been in love, so he can’t possibly understand what I’m talking about, but suddenly it’s very clear to me. When I saw Dan’s present it was as if a switch deep inside me flicked on for the first time and I was flooded by the realisation that this was IT.
    I almost told him, too, right then and there at Our Tree. But then I caught sight of our initials, separated by a +, not a heart or a declaration in words. A + could mean so many things, and not necessarily what I was thinking, and I decided not to risk ruining the moment by saying it out loud. For now, it’s enough for
me
to know.
    Signs that you’re in love
    You can’t stop thinking about him.
    You don’t notice anyone else. (Orlando Bloom could walk past me right now and I wouldn’t even see him.)
    You want to hug him even when he’s sweaty and smells faintly of unwashed socks.
    Your pupils dilate when you think about him. (This is scientific fact, according to both Vickypedia and the mirror I looked at a minute ago.)
    Nothing can wreck your mood, not even your mum having cancer.

10
    â€œFeel like braving the Boxing Day sales with me?” asks Mum the next morning. “I need to get a few things for hospital.”
    A huge wave of guilt washes over, knocking me off my I’m-in-love-for-the-first-time cloud. Of course I should go shopping with Mum; it’s what any decent daughter would do, without hesitation.
    I hesitate. “Um …”
    â€œDo you already have plans?”
    â€œWell, I was going to get started on that big spring-clean,” I say, grabbing the easy out she’s offering me. “But if you’d prefer …”
    Mum shakes her head. “Oh no, we made a deal, and I wouldn’t want to be responsible for you not holding up your end of it. I’ll manage on my own.”
    The wave of guilt turns into a tsunami. Instead of the leisurely toast-and-email breakfast I’d intended, I get a duster and a roll of garbage bags and head straight back to my room.
    The first thing I do is move Boris to the laundry basket so I can change my sheets and put my new quilt on the bed. It really does look good. If I focus on the bed and ignore the stuffed toys and wombats and school junk around it, it looks like the room of someone who’s mature enough to be in love.
    I ball up my old quilt and stuff it into a garbage bag to take to the charity shop. Next, I turn my attention to my bookshelf, which is so packed full of doodads and knick-knacks that I’ve had to start piling my actual books on the floor next to it. I get out a second garbage bag – one destined for the bin – and throw in my exercise books from primary school, the lumpen paperweight I made in Year Seven pottery class, the jar of bath salts Gran gave me for my tenth birthday that were too pretty to use and have now solidified into one big pink chunk, and the candle stubs Kate and I collected with the intention of melting them down into new candles when we went through our crafts phase in Year Nine. Into the charity bag goes my novelty eraser collection, the twenty-four colour pencil set I haven’t used since primary school and every novel I’ve been forced to read for high school English.
    When I get to the wombats that line my windowsill I hesitate. They’re not garbage – aside from a layer of dust they’re in mint condition – but I can’t quite bring myself to throw them in the charity bag, either. I solve the problem by putting them on the shelf at the top of my wardrobe, where they won’t be seen. While I’ve got the wardrobe open, I figure I may as well chuck out the clothes I know I’m never going to