“Freia, is that you? Freia! Freeee-iaaa!!!” Mum’s standing at the bottom of the stairs with her hands on her hips. “You could’ve told me you were home.”
“Your study door was closed. I thought you didn’t want to be interrupted.” This is not entirely untrue. My parents’ studies are sacred spaces where they keep all their books and academic journals and work stuff. Ziggy and I learned at an early age that if Mum and Dad were in their studies, it meant they shouldn’t be disturbed unless one of us was bleeding or unconscious.
“Saying hello isn’t interrupting,” snaps Mum. “I’ve been waiting for you to help me bring in some packages from the car.”
“Why couldn’t Ziggy do it? He was home before me.”
“If I wanted your brother to do it, I would have asked him to. Obviously, there’s a reason I waited for you.”
“Yeah,” I say as I stomp down the stairs. “Because I have to do all the crap chores around here while Ziggy gets to play with his mates.”
You know when Mum’s really annoyed because her voice gets higher and higher. When she speaks again it’s almost a squeak, but there’s nothing mouse-like about her choice of words.
Dad sticks his head out of his study, drawn by our raised voices. “What’s all the bickering about? It sounds like we’ve travelled back in time to life BD.”
BD stands for Before Daniel. It’s Dad’s joke about how much nicer I am to live with these days. I’ve told him if he says it in front of Dan, I can’t be held responsible for committing patricide. It’s true that Mum and I have fought less in the last few months, but I like to think that’s because I’m maturing and not letting her quest to turn me into the perfect teenager bug me so much. Also, since Ziggy turned thirteen he’s become the focus of her maternal meddling.
I give Dad the death stare, so he’ll know that even though I’m not commenting on the BD crack it hasn’t gone unnoticed. “I don’t see why I have to lug stuff in when you have a son built like a Neanderthal to do heavy lifting.”
“Oh.” Dad’s expression suggests that he doesn’t think it’s fair either, but he’s not going to call Mum on it. (Parenting rule #1: Maintain a united front.)
“It’s Ziggy’s present I need help with,” Mum tells him. “I can’t lift it by myself and you’ll be having Christmas lunch with the chiropractor if you try it with your bad back.”
“Ah,” says Dad. “Sorry, Fray, looks like it’s your old man you should be blaming. Tell you what, next time I cook pancakes I’ll make you an extra one to say thank you.”
Before I can protest, he turns and heads back to his study, whistling to himself as if he’s just single-handedly brought about world peace.
Not only do I have to help Mum carry in the barbell set and squeeze it into the cupboard in the laundry with the mop and buckets (somewhere Ziggy’ll never look), but there’s a second bulky package in the boot of the car. It’s wrapped in brown paper with a mummifying layer of packing tape around it and a collage of small-denomination postage stamps. I’m intrigued until I recognise the spidery handwriting on the address label. I take it inside and shove it behind the Christmas tree.
The next morning I wake to the sound of Dad singing along with one of his opera CDs. It’s his way of getting us out of bed if we sleep too late (by parental definition). The deal is that he’ll stop his unmelodic warbling once Zig and I present ourselves in the kitchen for breakfast. I make it downstairs just as Dad’s launching into the Queen of the Night’s aria from The Magic Flute. It’s lucky timing: Dad singing soprano always sets off the neighbourhood dogs.
Ziggy’s already at the table, drowning his plateful of the beige splats that Dad passes off as pancakes in maple syrup. I take my seat, in front of which a similarly misshapen stack awaits me, and grab the bottle from Ziggy’s hand. Without syrup, eating Dad’s pancakes is like chewing on styrofoam.
“Who feels like coming to the supermarket?” asks Mum, pouring herself another cup of coffee.
“Can’t,” says Ziggy through a large mouthful of pancake. “Me and Biggie are going to the beach.”
“Biggie and I,” corrects Mum before turning to me with a hopeful smile.
Usually, I try to get out of grocery shopping during school holidays but today I don’t protest. I figure going with Mum now will score me points to get out of it next time. Plus, there’s a long list of ingredients I need for my Christmas baking, and if I get that done today, I’ll have all day tomorrow to find the perfect present for Dan.
Parkville Metro is even more packed than usual and we have to drive around the car park twice before I spot a space at the far end of the third level. The shopping centre is heaving with groups of girls window-shopping for clothes, and groups of boys window-shopping for girls, and mother-daughter duos setting out on what they think will be a fun day of Christmas-shopping-and-a-bite-to-eat that will end in tears/shouting/bitter silence. (Trust me, I speak from experience.)
We head straight for the supermarket and slip into our well-practised routine of Mum leading the way and me pushing the trolley. When we get to the second-last aisle I pull up and start loading the trolley with white, milk and dark chocolate buds, glacé cherries, flaked almonds and those shiny little silver balls that just taste like sugar but look nice on top of things.
“What’s all that for?” Mum’s voice is loud enough for the guy stacking shelves near me to check that I’m not stuffing ready-made frosting up my jumper, or whatever felonies might be committed in the baking section.
“For the stuff I’m baking for my friends,” I say. “We’re making each other Christmas presents, remember?”
“I remember you telling me about it, but I didn’t realise Dad and I were expected to finance it,” she says, giving the shelf stacker a kids-these-days eyebrow raise. (In fact, Mum thought it was a “delightful” idea when I told her about the present swap. “It reminds me of when I was your age and we used to make each other macramé belts and plaited headbands,” she’d said, brimming with hippie nostalgia.) “I trust you’re paying for those yourself.”
I wasn’t planning to, no. I check the ingredients in the trolley and the prices on the shelves. They easily come to twenty-five dollars, and I haven’t even got the butter or cream yet. “Can I owe it to you?”
For a few seconds I think Mum’s going to say no. Worse, I think she’s going to give me a money-doesn’t-grow-on-trees lecture in the middle of the supermarket. But she must have a flashback to her macramé days or something, because her expression softens.
“Okay, but consider this advance payment for giving your room a thorough spring-clean these holidays,” she says. “Do we have a deal?”
I open my mouth to protest but I know I have no choice. Either I go along with her or I’ll have to use most of the pocket money I’ve saved for Dan’s Christmas present to pay for my ingredients. “Deal,” I mutter.