Zac and Mia Read Online Free PDF Page A

Mum’s phone. Mum sent it to my sister, Bec, who posted it to my Facebook wall, causing a bombardment of two hundred compliments, including private messages from Clare Hill and Sienna Chapman.Sienna wrote she wants to ‘catch up’ when I’m home, and Sienna wouldn’t use those words lightly. Was she actually impressed, or was she blinded by charity? It happened in
Beauty and the Beast
, didn’t it?
    In my opinion, the only accurate comment came from Evan.
Nice pic, scrotum-face. Suits you
. Prick.
    According to the ensuite mirror, I have no neck. Is it possible my German donor was, in fact, Augustus Gloop? Or has all the ice-cream I’ve been eating gone straight to my chins?
    The doctors say that it’s good to put on fat after a transplant, that it helps the fight, or something like that. Well, it certainly doesn’t help the ego, especially when the new girl keeps peeking through my window.
    How is it fair that she gets to wander the ward freely, flaunting her glossy hair, perfect cheekbones and single chin as she stares into other patients’ rooms to judge them and their pasty, bloated heads, while I’m stuck in here being force-fed ice-cream and lies, making a total fat fool of myself?
    Which would explain why she hasn’t replied to my handwritten note. Why would someone like her bother communicating with a bald Jabba the Hutt like me? Especially now she’s caught me playing Cluedo with my mother.
    I know I shouldn’t care what she thinks—this is temporary, after all—but what if she thinks this is me, the
real
me?
    ‘Mum!’
    ‘What?’
    I point to my face and raise my eyebrows. At least, I think that’s what I’m doing. ‘What breakfast cereal do I remind you of?’
    ‘Stop ogling yourself and get back to bed. You have to guess if it was the candlestick or the rope.’
    ‘No.’
    ‘It was the candlestick.’ Mum snaps the board shut and stretches. ‘Is it afternoon tea time yet?’
    We notice it at the same time: a folded piece of paper on the floor. I look at it, then at the door, which hasn’t been opened in hours.
    Mum walks over, picks it up and sniffs it, as if her nose is trained to detect traces of contamination.
    ‘Is it from Nina? I hope it’s clean.’ She unfolds the paper and shows me the CD inside.
    I launch myself to snatch it from her. The rush dizzies me; the surprise panics me. The page is blank. Why didn’t she write something?
    I flip the CD to read
Lady Gaga for Rm 1
scrawled in blue marker. The realisation is sickening: the newbie not only pities me as a steroidal puffball, she also believes I like girly pop music. Next she’ll be sending me CDs by Justin Bieber.
    Oh fuck, does she think I’m gay? Not that there’s anything wrong with that …
    ‘Pop it in the laptop.’ Mum levers the lid from the ice-cream. ‘Let’s listen.’
    Is my pasty face capable of blushing with humiliation? Would my red blood count be high enough to enable such a luxury?
    I consider banging on our wall to set the girl straight:
I’m a 100-per-cent hetero, quad-biking, half-forward flank!
    But that would take a whole lot of knocking and I don’t want her to risk confusing it with:
Thanks! Thanks heaps! I love Gaga more than life itself! Snaps for Gaga!
    Could she really believe she’s indulging my audio and emotional needs? Or is there the slightest chance she’s taking the piss out of me?
    Mum’s delight at seeing me pick up my diary is quickly destroyed by my violent tearing out of a page. She tries to appease me with a spoonful of pink ice-cream.
    ‘Go on. It’s your favourite.’
    It’s not, really.
    I scribble:
    Dear patient in Room 2
.
    Thank you for your thoughtful present
.
    Note: I am being sarcastic ! You can’t hear my
voice, but believe me, there is much sarcasm.
Try reading this aloud with the voice of Homer
Simpson and you will hear …
    But when I read this back, it’s not sarcastic at all. It’s childish. And a bit crazed. So I scrunch this page and try