I’m thirteen and I want my name back.

Everyone is used to calling me Freddie. It’s hard for people to change a habit. Boo runs into my arms and calls me Freya. No one notices because he’s too little and they think he doesn’t know how to say Freddie.

Boo looks cute with his red bow tie and navy jacket. He’s dressed for his birthday party. Boo helped me decorate his train cake, although he ate as many of the chocolate buttons as he put on the icing.

My older brother Noah ran around the backyard with him on his shoulders as Boo tooted a train horn. We didn’t have a birthday party for Boo when he was one. We didn’t have a birthday party when he was two. But Boo is three now.

Mum’s eyes shimmer with tears. ‘It’s time for a birthday party for Boo.’

Boo’s sturdy build and strong legs make him look like a great bear when he runs. His dark brown eyes are always smiling and his three-year-old arms are like chubby chocolate. Fat, creamy brown, and deli cious. I know that they are delicious because Mum always kisses them. Once, when Boo was sitting on her lap, I saw her gently bite his chocolate arms. My arms are white, with horrible scabby blobs on my elbows from when I fell off the swing. That really hurt. Noah was pushing the swing as high as he could and I was screaming for him to stop. But no. He just pushed higher and higher. ‘Freddie fly, Freddie fly.’

Boo saved me. He kicked Noah so hard that he had to stop. But I still fell off. Right into the dirt. There was blood etched on my funny bone. Blood and dirt. I hate Noah sometimes. He said he was sorry, but he still flicks me under the table at dinner, saying under his breath, ‘Freddie, Freddie Krueger.’ He thinks it’s funny.

I never cry in front of Noah, but I pinch him hard under the table. He just laughs and rubs his leg. It’d upset Mum if I complained. I haven’t complained about anything for three years. Noah doesn’t complain either.

Mum always has afternoon tea ready for us after school, even when she’s tired from work. She helps Noah and me with our homework, reads books to Boo and tries to be happy. She is happy sometimes, but at night I hear her cry in her bedroom. I cry too. Noah doesn’t cry. Boo sleeps quietly in his bed nestled in the corner of my bedroom.

Mum is going out with a man. She was nervous when she brought him home for dinner. ‘He’s not replacing your father,’ she whispered anxiously. ‘No one can.’ He brought Mum daffodils and sweet plums for us to share. Daffodils are Mum’s favourite flowers. How did he know that? How did he know that we like sweet plums? I didn’t like him. Noah didn’t like him. When the teacher phoned, Noah let him hang on the other end of the line for ages before he called Mum. The teacher said we could call him Jim. Boo held his hand.

He works with Mum at school. He teaches science.

Mum teaches history. It’s the first time she’s dated in three years.

I remember that day in the hospice. I trusted that Dad would never die because he was my father and fathers don’t die. His head was shaven so you could see the crooked cut across his skull. That’s where they’d cut into his brain and made him into a different person. His brown eyes were too dark. I didn’t want to look at them because I could see he was afraid. He didn’t know where he was. He didn’t know who I was. ‘It’s me, Daddy. It’s me.’

I ran as fast as I could out of that ward, down the pathway, running, panting until I was gasping and sobbing, until I crashed into a huge old tree. I hung on, pressing my face against the rough bark. Mum was panting after me with her yellow daffodil dress flapping. She put her arms around me. They were cold. ‘Daddy loves you, Freddie. Don’t cry, Freddie. Don’t cry.’

Daddy died that night.

Boo was born six months afterwards. Noah and I waited at home until Mum arrived with him from the hospital. She said he was born with his lips puckered in surprise, gurgling, ‘Boo’.

I love the name Boo. It means precious. I hate the name Freddie, my baby nickname. But Mum can’t call me anything else now. And I can’t tell her not to. My real name is Freya. Mum and Dad told me that they called me Freya because when I was born I was beautiful and they fell in love with me. Freya is the goddess of love and beauty.

Dad had always been sturdy and strong, fixing everything in the house. He made me a wooden bowl to keep my necklaces and bangles in. My brother fixes everything in the house now, but he’s never made me anything. Mum and Dad named my brother Noah because his birth was long and dif ficult - ‘like weathering a storm’ - but in the end it was safe, a resting place. Dad and Noah were great mates. They’d been working for months on their camping trip. Mum teased them that they were a double take of Indiana Jones. They had organised their two-man tent, sleeping bags, compasses and all the supplies they needed for a one-month trek into the mountains. They’d worked out depot spots to collect new supplies.

That was before. Mterwards, Noah sold all the campmg gear. He doesn’t talk about Dad much. Neither do I.

Now Noah hangs out with other sixteen-year-olds at the beach, checking out girls and watching the surf.

It’s the Easter holidays and there’s no school today.

Mum’s organised a picnic on the hill overlooking the beach. I don’t go to the beach much anymore, but Mum wants me there. Noah’s brought his board, so he can join his mates in the surf afterwards. Jim’s carrying the rugs, the football and the picnic basket. Mum’s wearing her yellow dress. My stomach twists. She’s hasn’t worn it since that day in the hospice.

Boo and I are running up the hill when we see tiny blue flowers hidden in the grass. Their yellow centres sparkle like golden treasure. We peer over the flowers and pick the forget-me-nots. I put them in my bag, then tickle Boo’s tummy and he giggles. He puts his baby soft arms around me and I hold him so long that he starts to squirm away.

Noah checks out the surf, grunts at Jim. Mum’s eyes cloud over. She wants us to like him. I say hello. Noah grabs the football and throws it to Boo who runs after it with his strong brown legs. I run, too, with my pasty white legs. Jim joins in and so does Mum. Her daffodil dress flutters in the wind and we’re chasing the ball in the long green grass under the yellow sun.

Boo tumbles and cries and Jim races to pick him up. ‘You’re safe,’ he says quietly. Tears come to my eyes. I brush them away.

The picnic rug overflows with food- roast chicken, potato salad, tomatoes and olives, bananas and blueberries. Mum’s made my favourite strawberry sponge cake. It’s a feast and we all eat too much. I lie on my back with the sun warming me and I can feel the rays colouring the tops of my legs.

Jim tells us about camping.

‘My dad liked camping in the mountains,’ I tell him.

Noah waits to see his response.

‘I like the mountains, but I prefer the coast. The waves crashing on the sand, stars at night, sleeping in a tent, boiling water for billy tea, watching the wildlife at dusk. Do you like the coast, Noah?’

I see Noah struggle. He then nods. ‘I like the ocean as well.’

I stare at my blotchy legs. Boo wants to go home.

Jim takes Mum out for dinner. He comes over to help

Noah repair the ding in his surfboard.

‘Do you likeJim?’ Mum asks us.

I miss Dad, that’s all. I want him back.

Boo sneaks into my bed. I put my arms around him. He looks up at me with his dark brown eyes. I gasp. I’d never seen it before. His eyes. Suddenly, I feel the rough tree bark under my face and hear my mother’s heartbeat.

I play with the dried petals of the forget-me-nots in the wooden bowl next to my bed.

‘Boo,’ I whisper. ‘Precious,’ I whisper.

‘Freya.’ He puts his hand into mine. Suddenly I feel my father’s hand. I feel him here with me.

I am going to ask my mother and my brother to call me Freya.

I want to be Freya.