Freia Lockhart's Summer of Awful by Aimee Said

on the table, written in Dad’s barely legible scrawl.
    Hope you slept well. Zig and I have gone to see Mum. Will pick up something for dinner on the way home.
    Dad

13
    The creaking garage door and the wheeze of the Volvo’s engine alert me to Ziggy and Dad’s arrival.
    Ziggy comes into the kitchen with two bulging bags. “Dinner is served,” he says. His wicked grin tells me they’ve chosen something from Mum’s list of banned foods, even before I smell the deliciously greasy scent of fried chicken. He plonks the bags in the middle of the kitchen table and rips open a box of chips, shoving a handful into his mouth.
    â€œDo you have to be such a pig?” I ask, grabbing plates and cutlery from the dishwasher, which is still waiting to be unpacked from last night.
    Ziggy makes a happy porcine snort and reaches for more chips while Dad unpacks the rest of the food.
    I survey the spread of fried chicken, nuggets, chips and mashed potatoes. “Where are the vegetables?”
    â€œPotato is a vegetable,” says Ziggy through a mouthful of nugget. “Right, Dad?”
    Dad half-nods.
    I give him an inscrutable death stare. “You could at least have got corn. Or coleslaw. What’s Mum going to say?”
    Dad looks like a dog that’s been caught going through a garbage bin. “It’s just one meal, Fray. We’ll have lots of vegies tomorrow to make up for it.”
    â€œStop whingeing and have a nugget,” says Ziggy, thrusting the box in my face.
    Ever since Siouxsie told me about how nuggets are made, they’re up there with sausage skins on my list of Foods I Won’t Eat. I select the crispiest looking drumstick instead and devour it in four bites before reaching for another and a tub of mash.
    â€œMum seemed a bit more herself this afternoon,” says Dad. “She lectured the dinner lady about overcooking the broccoli and the lack of wholegrains on the breakfast menu. I promised we’d take some of her homemade muesli tomorrow.”
    â€œI’m not coming,” says Ziggy through a half-chewed mouthful of chips and nuggets. “Me and Biggie have stuff to do.”
    â€œWell, you can come and see Mum first,” I say. “She’s more important than Biggie.”
    Ziggy rolls his eyes. “Rack off, Fraymond. Just because you have no life, doesn’t mean the rest of us can’t enjoy ourselves.” He pushes his seat back from the table with a deliberate scrape, making the noise that he knows sets my teeth on edge, grabs the last of the chips and heads for the garage.
    â€œGo easy on your brother, Sausage,” says Dad when the
oomph
-thwacking starts. “Seeing Mum like that gave him quite a shock.”
    â€œHe’s not a baby any more. And don’t call me Sausage.” I pick up my plate and scrape the bones and gristle into the bin on my way out of the kitchen, leaving Dad sitting alone at the table.
    By the time I get to my room I wish I could rewind the last five minutes and just give Ziggy the death stare for being such a brat and let it go. Or at least not walk out on Dad like some whiny little kid. If Ziggy hadn’t made that snide comment, I would’ve been okay, but it’s just about the last thing I need to hear right now. Make that second last. The last thing I need to hear is Dad stacking the dishwasher when it’s my week to do it.
    â€œI’ll do that,” I say, taking the dirty plate from Dad’s hand. “You go and relax.”
    â€œAre you sure?”
    â€œPositive. You should check on Boris, anyway. I think he’s got a furball.”
    Dad gives me a small, grateful smile. It disappears when the phone starts ringing. “Do me a favour and get that will you, Fray? I can’t face another conversation with your grandmother today.”
    He walks past the ringing phone to his study, shutting the door softly behind him. I take a deep breath and answer,