Finding Freia Lockhart

by Aimee Said

  “What have you got to be narky about?” I ask him. “The only things you have to be responsible for are keeping your bum clean and cute-ing it up occasionally for extra treats.”

  I put on the Ramones and go nuts to “Sheena is a Punk Rocker”. Boris swishes his big fluffy tail in irritation, but I refuse to let his disdain get me down. For two minutes and forty-seven seconds I don’t care what anyone thinks of me. I don’t care that the Bs think I’m tragic; that Daniel thinks I’m like the Bs; that Mum thinks I’m a huge disappointment; or that Boris thinks I dance like a freak. When the song ends I have to sit down to get my breath back. There’s a knock on the door. Mum comes in without waiting for me to say it’s okay.

  “I didn’t even know you were home till I heard that terrible noise. It’d be nice if you came and said hi to us.”

  “Sorry,” I say, even though I’m not.

  “Is everything okay? You look a little flushed.” She reaches out her hand as if she’s going to check my temperature, but I intercept and push it away.

  “I’m fine, just … tired.”

  “I missed you at the supermarket today. I got that terrible check-out boy who always puts the tofu in with the washing powder. I swear he does it on purpose.” (I think he does, too, ever since Mum told him off for letting someone have double plastic bags instead of making them buy a daggy green bag.)

  “Fraaaaaay-arrrrrrrrrrrrr,” yells Ziggy from downstairs, “Kate’s on the phone.”

  “I’d better take it.” Mum nods, always pleased that I’ve at least got one friend in the world.

  “You left without saying goodbye,” Kate says accusingly.

  “Sorry. I couldn’t see you. I thought you must’ve already left with the Bs.” This is only half a lie. I really didn’t see Kate, but I did spot Bethanee and Belinda fawning over Luke Parkes so I knew the rest of the group must still be there. (There’s an unspoken rule that no one leaves anywhere until Belinda does.)

  “I was going to ask if you want to stay over. Emily’s making Damian a romantic dinner and I don’t want to spend the night sitting alone in my room while they do it on the couch.”

  “Ew. Sorry, I can’t. Mum and Dad are going out so I’m stuck here with the Zigmeister.”

  “Zigmeister? Where did that come from?”

  I think for a moment and realise I must’ve picked it up from Daniel. “I don’t know. I must’ve heard it on some American sitcom or something.”

  “How about I stay at yours instead? I could pick up the ingredients for double-fudge brownies on the way.”

  I don’t even have to ask Mum if Kate can stay. When she was in her Raising Successful Teens phase she became obsessed with me having Firm Friends and told Kate that she was welcome any time. Kate has used this to her advantage more than once, although she hasn’t been over since her weekends became filled with watching the Bs play hockey and hanging out at the mall.

  Last year I wouldn’t even have bothered to pick the dirty clothes off the floor before Kate came over, but now I don’t feel so comfortable about her scrutinising my room. I chuck as much of the clutter into the wardrobe as I can and stuff my old teddy bear under the doona. Something also makes me put the Ramones CD in my desk drawer – I have a feeling they’re not on the Bs approved playlist Kate listens to these days.

  11

  Kate arrives just as Mum and Dad are leaving.

  “Hello, Katie darling,” says Mum, in a bright tone that she never uses with me any more.

  “Hi, Mrs Lockhart. You look nice.”

  “Thank you!” Mum looks pointedly at her Bad Daughter who never pays her compliments. “We haven’t seen you in ages.”

  “I’ve been pretty busy with the play, I guess.”

  “Of course. How are rehearsals going? Freia won’t tell us a thing about it. Have you met any nice young men?”

  “Oh yeah, heaps! I mean – they all seem very nice.”

  Mum eyes us both with suspicion, as if she knows we’re hiding something.

  “Sorry if I dropped you in it there about the guys in the play,” says Kate as we make brownies. “I forget how weird your parents are about that stuff.”

  “It’s okay, Mum needs something else to worry about.”

  “Is she still reading that teen psychology book?”

  “I don’t know. She’s being suspiciously easygoing for her at the moment. She even knocked before coming into my room this afternoon.”

  “Perhaps she’s realised it’s time to let you grow up?”

  Over dinner Kate quizzes Ziggy about the boys in the chorus. He seems to know all of them, even though he’s only in Year Seven.

  “Most of them play footy or cricket or basketball.”

  “So they’re sporty and arty,” says Kate, as if this is a remarkable combination.

  “No, they just want to get laid,” says Ziggy, matter-of-factly. “It’s a pity for Skeletor that he scored Frigid Freia for an assistant. I hear he was hoping for some action up on that dark balcony.”

  “What?” I look up from my brownie, which I’ve been studiously spreading with double cream to avoid the conversation. “Where did you hear that?”

  “Ben Harrigan’s brother told him,” Ziggy says.

  “You mean Michael Harrigan?” asks Kate. Ziggy nods. “He’s quite cute, Freia.”

  “Kate, the guy’s spreading nasty rumours about me and Daniel!”

  “Relax, Fray, your reputation is safe.” Ziggy smirks. “I told him you were too straight-edge to do anything.”

  “You little creep! Just wait till I tell Mu–”

  Ziggy laughs. “Oh, I don’t think you want to tell her that, Fray.”

  He’s right. It would only provoke a motherly chat about how it’s okay to not be as “experienced” or “worldly” as other girls. Mum would take me being called frigid as a compliment that she’d brought me up right.

  Mum and Dad get home at 9.30. Dad invites us to listen to a new Bach CD with him and Boris, but we politely decline and head up to my room where Kate spends an hour painting our toenails (mental note to self: keep socks on at all times till it wears off) and giving me fashion advice. I’m so bored that I can’t help yawning loudly. Eventually, I plead exhaustion and take my pink toes to bed.

  Five minutes after turning the lights out, Kate prods me in the leg.

  “Are you asleep?”

  “Ow. Not any more.”

  “Can I ask you a question?” She doesn’t wait for me to answer. “Hypothetically speaking, would you have sex with a boy you met now?”

  “What?” Where has this come from?

  “Just say you met a guy and you really, really liked him and you wanted to do it, would you?”

  I haven’t liked any of the boys I’ve met enough to even want to hold hands with them. “Why? Are you planning to have sex with someone?”

  “No! I haven’t met anyone I really, really like yet. But if I did, I think I probably would.”

  “You would?”

  “Yeah. I mean, if we loved each other and stuff.” What “stuff”? I wonder. “You wouldn’t?”

  “I dunno, I guess I’ve never thought about it.”

  “You’ve never thought about sex? You’ve NEVER thought about sex? Are you serious?”

  “Sh, keep your voice down. Of course I’ve thought about sex. I’ve just never thought about doing it with anyone in particular, that’s all.”

  “But aren’t you curious? Don’t you want to know what it feels like?”

  I’m spared from answering by the door opening.

  “Time to go to sleep,” Mum whispers. The light from the hall shines on her face and I can see she’s looking me straight in the eye. I dread to think how much she overheard.

  “’Night, Mrs Lockhart,” says Kate casually, as if she hadn’t been chatting about her sexual urges five seconds ago. A few minutes later she pokes my leg again. “You never answered my question.”

  I pretend I’m asleep.

  “I was th
inking we should go on a family outing today,” says Mum at breakfast the next morning. “The museum’s got a new archaeology exhibit. Maybe lunch at Il Gusto afterwards?”

  She’s sucking up now; she knows Il Gusto is my favourite restaurant.

  I refuse to give her the satisfaction. “Can’t. Got too much homework to get through, what with rehearsals.”

  “Don’t worry, Fray, I’ll eat your share of gelato,” says Ziggy.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to come with us, Freia?” asks Dad. “It’s been ages since you had Tortellini Il Gusto.”

  Tortellini Il Gusto is just about the best tasting thing on earth (well, a close second to double-fudge chocolate brownies). My mouth waters just thinking about it, but I won’t be coerced.

  “Do you want me to fail my exams?”

  “Of course not, Fray, but I’m sure taking one day off won’t hurt.”

  “You have no idea how much I have to do. It’s not like when you were at school and you just handed in your slate and piece of chalk at the end of the day. We have continuous assessment now AND exams.”

  Mum interrupts me. “Fine, Freia, you’ve made your point. There’s no need to be so rude.”

  “Yeah,” says Ziggy. “Stay home and suffer, we’ll have a better time without you anyway.”

  Kate looks intently at her bowl of organic wholegrain muesli, as if she hasn’t noticed the family feud taking place around her. Her family would never behave like this if I was staying over. Mrs Smith would have made us all heart-shaped waffles in her Belgian waffle machine and Mr Smith would be showing us how his golf swing’s coming along. I can’t bear to stay at the table any longer.

  “May I be excused to go and start my work?” I ask, standing up and making for the hallway without waiting for an answer.

  “See you tomorrow,” calls Kate.

  “Sorry about that, Katie,” I hear Mum say. “Can we drop you home on our way to the museum?”

  The moment they leave I put on the Ramones and let my body do whatever it wants to get the bad feeling out. I punch and kick the air and head bang until my brain hurts and I’m out of breath. When I stop I feel more in control.

  I sit down at my desk and trawl through the pile of homework that’s waiting for me. There’s Mme Duclos’s test on French countryside vocabulary to study for; a pile of probability questions from Mr McLaren; and, of course, bloody P&P.

  I’m determined to make it through at least five chapters today if it kills me. Nicky’s been pretty nice about it, but I know she’ll crack it big-time if I don’t finish reading it soon. I tidy everything off my desk so that I can’t be distracted and tell myself that when I get to the end of five chapters I can have a brownie as a reward. I read three pages and realise that I need the extra energy from that brownie now. I eat my brownie and wash my plate. I put on Kylie as peppy background music to my reading. I have to have a little boogie to “Spinning Around”. Boris has to have a little boogie to “Spinning Around”. After all that boogieing Boris is exhausted and goes to sleep on my pillow. I lie down next to him for a moment – we don’t get enough quality time together.

  The sound of our crappy Volvo’s crappy engine wakes me up. It’s almost dark. I position myself at my desk, book in one hand, highlighter in the other. As expected, Mum knocks on my door less than thirty seconds later. (What is with this sudden knocking, I wonder? And if Kate’s right and she really is ready to let me grow up, where will it lead? No curfew? Boys staying the night? I’m not sure that I can live up to these new pressures.)

  “Still studying?” she asks with a note of disbelief.

  “I told you I’ve got a lot to do, didn’t I?”

  “Well, at least you’re up to the fun bit now,” she says, gesturing towards P&P. I momentarily consider telling her how much “fun” I think it is, but it would only end up in a big “discussion” about why Jane Austen is a literary goddess and how can I not appreciate her, blah blah blah. Too hard.

  “We missed you today. Dad got you takeaway Tortellini Il Gusto for dinner.” I crack an involuntary smile. “I thought that might cheer you up. We’ll eat in about an hour. Perhaps you should take a break before dinner?”

  “It’s okay, I think I can manage a little more reading first.”

  “Good girl, Fray. I’m sure all your hard work is going to pay off this year.”

  I have a major attack of the guilts and force myself to read two chapters as punishment.

  Nine things I’m good at

  1. Baking double-fudge chocolate brownies (from scratch, not from a packet mix like Cheaty McCheater).

  2. Blending into the background.

  3. Giving Boris his worming tablets. (The trick is to jam them down the back of his throat and then hold his mouth closed till he swallows.)

  4. Kylie impersonations (strictly within the privacy of my bedroom).

  5. Making excuses for why I can’t do stuff.

  6. Eating double-fudge chocolate brownies.

  7. Not telling people what I really think of them.

  8. Procrastinating, especially where EE is involved.

  9. Pretending I don’t care that I have no life.

  12

  “Sorry about yesterday,” I say to Kate as we trail behind Brianna and Bethanee on our way to Maths.

  “That’s okay. Your mum apologised to me a million times in the car. I think she’s worried about you, Fray. She was asking me about the play and whether I thought you were enjoying it. I didn’t want to mention anything that might get you into trouble, boy-wise or anything, so I just said you were stressed about school.”

  “Welcome to another week of learning,” McSporran says after making the usual announcements about this week’s fundraising event (Year Eight’s sausage sizzle, I’m so not there) and Ms Mooney’s latest obsession (all hair ribbons to be 2.5 cm wide and regulation brown). “I know in all probability” – pause for laughter – “you’ve done your homework, so I’ll be coming round to check on how you’re doing. In the meantime, start on exercise four on page 110.”

  Kate passes me a folded piece of paper under the desk. I open it in my lap and see a list of boys’ names. I guess they must all be in the play because Kate, Bethanee and Brianna have given them each marks out of ten, with columns left for me and Belinda to fill in. I recognise a couple of names from having heard the Bs talk about them, but, aside from Daniel, who I assume is there as a joke (Bethanee has given him minus five, and Brianna and Kate have written zero), I wouldn’t be able to pick a single one out of a line-up.

  I don’t know any of them, I write on the bottom and pass it back to Kate with a shrug.

  You will after Saturday night!!!

  ?

  Belinda’s having a party!!!

  Before I can respond, McSporran’s by my side. “Och girrrrls, could ye not just do your work for once?”

  I shove the note back at Kate and turn to page 110.

  “Did you hear about the party?” asks Bethanee at recess.

  I nod. “Kate told me.”

  “I had to do something, Freia,” says Belinda, “or you’d never get to meet any of the cool guys stuck way up there with Semaphore.”

  “Skeletor,” I correct her.

  “What?”

  “Skele– never mind.”

  “You will come, won’t you, Freia?” says Kate.

  “I don’t think my parents’ll let me. You know – the whole boy thing.”

  “Trust me,” says Belinda, as if she’s had a lifetime of experience with these things, “they won’t dare say no this time. They wouldn’t want you to be the only person in the entire play not going.”

  “I don’t think that matters to my mum. She’ll be all, will Belinda’s parents be there and will there be alcohol and will boys and girls be allowed to sit together unchaperoned …”

  “My mum’s already agreed to tell parents that she and Dad’ll be there the whole time. What she’s not telling them is that they’ll be in the home theatre ro
om. With the door closed!”

  “Your olds are so cool,” says Kate.

  To be honest, I don’t think it’s cool that Mr and Mrs Sinclair are happy to lie to people’s parents. It seems kind of tragic to me, like they can’t bear to admit they’re old fogeys now. Or worse, like they want to be friends with their kids. Ugh.

  “Just tell your mum to call after seven,” Belinda instructs. “Mum gets in a filthy mood if the phone rings during Neighbours.”

  “Saturday night’s going to be the best,” says Kate for about the fiftieth time on our way to English. “I’m so excited you can come. We’ll introduce you to all the cool guys in the chorus. They’ll love you!”

  “Mum hasn’t said yes yet,” I remind her. And frankly, I’m not entirely sure that I want her to. I know I’ve been complaining since Year Eight about not being allowed to go to parties with boys and dancing and pashing in dark corners, but now that the opportunity’s presented itself, I don’t know if I’m ready.

  I spend the next two periods listing the pros and cons of going to Belinda’s party to try to decide whether it’s better to go, and risk total public humiliation, or not go, and risk social isolation for the rest of the play because everyone else bonded at the party.

  Reasons to go to Belinda’s party

  I’ll probably be the only one who doesn’t.

  Opportunity to improve boy–girl speaking skills.

  Will be able to join in Monday morning debrief for once.

  Will at least know what a teenage party is like.

  Possibility of being kissed.

  Reasons not to go to Belinda’s party

  I’ll have to convince Mum and Dad about it or lie.

  Distinct possibility no boy will want to speak to me.