Free Freia Lockhart's Summer of Awful by Aimee Said Page B

insisted.”
    â€œRoast chicken, mashed potatoes and salad,” says Dad, wincing as he slides two fingers under the chicken’s skin. All of Mum’s favourites. It’s like a condemned man’s last meal. (Vickypedia fact: the most popular last meal on death row is a cheeseburger and fries.)
    â€œBe careful not to rip the skin or it’ll dry out,” says Mum, who looks a lot more stressed than she does when she has to cook herself.
    I turn on our prehistoric computer and listen to it chug slowly to life. At least I don’t have to wait for the modem to dial up any more (thank you internet service provider for forcing my parents into the twenty-first century). The phone rings in the hallway and I jump from my chair to answer it, but Mum beats me to it.
    I stand by the kitchen table, willing her to say, “Hello, Daniel. I’ll just get Freia for you.” Instead she says, “Hi, Mum.”
    â€œIt’s the third time she’s called today,” whispers Dad. “I think your mum’s going to take the phone off the hook soon.”
    We both cock our heads towards the hallway, not that it takes any effort to hear what Mum’s saying, since her voice is always louder when she’s annoyed.
    â€œYes, I trust Dr Bynes – she’s one of the leading breast surgeons in the country … I’m sure my GP wouldn’t have sent me to her if she’d ever been sued for malpractice … Mum, listen to me … listen to me! I understand that you’re worried, but telling me all this isn’t helping. In fact, it’s exactly what I don’t need right now. Terence will call you tomorrow when I get out of surgery … Yes, I know. I know, Mum … I love you, too.”
    Dad shoots me a raised eyebrow before opening the oven door to put the roasting pan in.
    â€œHonestly, that woman,” says Mum, switching on the kettle. “I know she means well, but calling to tell me about her friend Maisy going into hospital for a hip replacement and waking up without her gall bladder is not helpful.” She turns to Dad. “You’ll make sure they operate on the right bit of me, won’t you?”
    â€œOf course I will, love. It’s your left foot, isn’t it?”
    â€œThis is no time for jokes, Terence,” she says, looking genuinely worried.
    â€œDon’t let Thelma’s overactive imagination get to you, Genie. If Dr Chandarama reckons Bynes is the best, then she’s the best. Your mum thrives on drama, that’s all.”
    â€œI know,” sighs Mum. “Poor old duck, I guess it’s hard for her to contemplate the possibility that she’ll outlive me.”
    The three of us stand frozen for a second before making the unanimous decision to pretend she hasn’t said it. Dad gets the potatoes from the pantry. Mum makes her tea. I sit at the desk in the corner of the kitchen and log in to my email.
    Despite making the leap to broadband, email is still the only way I can communicate with anyone online, since Mum’s blocked Facebook and all forms of instant messaging. My friends know that our computer is in the kitchen, with the screen facing towards the middle of the room, so they’re pretty careful about what they send me.
    At the top of my inbox is an email from Siouxsie with the subject line
Operation Op-Shop
, sent to me, Vicky and Steph early this morning.
    Attention Parkville Agents
    I propose an urgent mission to go op-shopping for killer outfits to wear on New Year’s Eve. Report to Switch at 11-hundred hours tomorrow for further instructions.
    xx Captain Sooz
    My heart sinks. Tomorrow’s out of the question, obviously, but how do I say that? I can hardly send a casual one-liner saying Mum’s having surgery. Aside from the WTF factor, I’d have to explain what’s going on and why I didn’t mention it when we were all together on Christmas Eve. I don’t want to