Freia Lockhart's Summer of Awful Read Online Free PDF Page B

close to me to die. I was ten when he got sick. I remember him complaining about a stomach-ache when he came over for dinner one night, and then the next time I saw him was in the hospice two weeks later. It turned out he had cancer of the stomach and bowel, but by the time he told anyone about the pain in his belly, it was too advanced to treat.
    It was around that time that I began to notice how much older my parents were than everybody else’s. Before that it had been something I’d only registered when I saw them standing next to my friends’ parents. I’d often thought of their greying hair and outdated clothes as an embarrassment, but it hadn’t occurred to me until then that if they were born earlier than other people’s parents, they would probably die earlier, too. I started having macabre daydreams about what would happen if they both died while I was still at school, about having to bring up Ziggy on my own or, worse, being sent to an orphanage where they would feed us nothing but gruel and make us work in a factory all day. (My class saw a production of
Oliver!
that year, so I considered myself a bit of an authority on orphanages.) Of course, once high school started I had much bigger things to worry about than death – like exams and blackheads and the fear of getting my period during a swimming lesson.

6
    The morning sky is pure, cloudless blue. My first thought is that it’s a perfect day for a bike ride with Dan, followed by gelato and snogging, not necessarily in that order. My second thought is that Mum has cancer.
    I don’t know what time I eventually got to sleep but it was long after the rest of my family came to bed. I lay awake for hours trying to untangle the jumble of thoughts in my head: whether we’ll cancel Christmas this year, and how long Mum will be in hospital, and if she’ll be better by the time school goes back. I tried not to think about my plans for these school holidays being ruined, because it’s wrong to be upset about missed bike rides with your boyfriend or not getting to hang out with your friends when your mum has a life-threatening illness. I block out those thoughts again as I drag myself out of bed and to the kitchen.
    â€œGood morning,” says Mum, who’s already showered and dressed. “Sleep well?”
    I nod automatically. I wonder if I should ask how she’s feeling or something. I mean, we can’t just pretend everything’s fine, can we? I look to Dad for a cue, but he’s busy spreading a thick layer of marmalade over a crumpet and most of the plate it’s on while he studies the crossword. Judging by the way my parents are acting, pretending normality is exactly what we’re going to do.
    After breakfast, Mum consults the cleaning roster on the fridge and doles out the chores for the week. I scrub the kitchen counters, vacuum the stairs and tidy my room (i.e. kick everything that’s on the floor under the bed) before tackling my most dreaded task: Boris’s kitty litter.
    I hold the heavy-duty plastic bag containing the contents of the litter tray out in front of me, as far from my nose as possible. Before I even open the door that leads to the garage where our wheelie bin is kept, I can tell by the
oomph
-thwack noises that Ziggy’s practising his punches. The oomph comes from Ziggy; the thwack is the sound of his gloved left fist making contact with the bag. The knuckles of his right hand are wrapped in a gauze bandage, fastened with an old nappy pin. He holds his injured hand close to his chest and throws all his strength behind the other one.
    â€œHi,” I say after I’ve disposed of my fetid cargo.
    Ziggy glances in my direction but doesn’t reply, landing another punch directly in the middle of the heavy bag as if it’s his worst enemy.
    â€œPretty crazy news about Mum, eh?”
    Oomph
-thwack.
    â€œWant to talk about it?”
    Oomph
-thwack.
    â€œZig,