“Good morning, Sausage.” Dad gives me a peck on the forehead before he sits down and pours himself a bowl of muesli.
“Daaaaaad!” Unbelievable. No one calls Ziggy Poodle-Pie any more, but fifteen years and nine months later I am still a Sausage.
“What? What’s wrong? You are my little sausage. You’ll always be my little sausage.”
“You promised you’d stop calling me that.”
“No, I promised I wouldn’t call you that in front of your friends, teachers or on public transport.”
“Now, Terence,” Mum has her TV counsellor voice on, “if Freia doesn’t want to be called by her nickname any more, we should respect that.”
I seize the opportunity that’s been presented to me. “In that case, how about you all call me Louise instead?”
“Louise? Loo-ease.” My mother looks genuinely puzzled. “Why on earth would you want to be called that?”
“Let’s start with the fact that people can spell it without me having to repeat it twenty times. And when someone asks me where my name comes from I wouldn’t have to tell them it’s from some stupid, boring German opera that they’ve never even heard of.” I see Mum’s face fall and I know I’m upsetting her, but I just can’t make myself shut up. “Just because you’ve got a stupid name, Eugenia, doesn’t mean you have to lumber me with one, too!”
It’s a low blow to bring up Mum’s full name, which she ditched in favour of Gene before I was even born, but the look on her face tells me it’s had the desired effect.
“The Ring is considered Wagner’s greatest masterpiece, and Freia was the goddess of love,” she says through tight lips.
Dad leans over and whispers conspiratorially, “Be grateful she didn’t call you after her favourite character, or you’d be Brünnhilde!”
Mum shoots him a dirty look.
“Ahem … it, uh, looks like rain, Fray. Better take a brolly.”
I pretend not to hear him as I head for the door.
The rain starts when I’m about two blocks from home, but I know if I turn back, I’ll be just as wet as if I keep walking, plus I’ll be late for class. The morning School Special whizzes past and at that moment I’d give anything to be on that bus, even if it meant having to listen to the Bs make flirty chitchat with the Parkville boys. I curse Mum and Dad for buying a house so close to school I can’t even qualify for a bus pass. The last straw is Ziggy waving at me from the back window.
Mr McLaren is on school gate duty. He’s wearing a raincoat and holding one of those enormous golf umbrellas, looking smugly dry.
“Och, Freia,” he says when he spots me, “ye look like ye got a wee bit damp this morning.”
Mr McLaren (aka McSporran) is the King of the Bleeding Obvious and not half as funny as he thinks. He’s under the mistaken impression that we’re laughing at his jokes rather than at his thick Glaswegian accent. In his mind, he’s the Billy Connelly of Westside. He is also my homeroom teacher and the decider of whether I get a B or a C for Maths this term, so I grit my teeth and force a smile in response.
When I get to the Year Ten locker room Kate and the Bs are gathered around Belinda, who’s moaning that she’d kill for a skinny caramel latte. Stephanie Pearson, whose locker is next to mine, gestures her head towards Belinda and rolls her eyes. I smile before remembering with a guilty pang that these are the closest things to friends I have. I grab my books for my morning classes and join them.
“Hey, Freia,” says Kate. “I was just telling everyone that your parents said you could do the play.”
“Only if Nicky agrees,” I remind her.
“Of course she’ll agree,” says Belinda, gazing at herself in the mirror taped to her locker door. “She’s hired help; she has to do whatever your parents say.”
“She just has to say yes,” says Kate, “otherwise you’ll never meet any cute boys!”
“I wouldn’t get my hopes up too much about that, Freia,” says Bethanee, with a grin. “Everyone knows that only the freaks get stuck backstage … present company excluded, of course.”
The Bs laugh as if this is the funniest thing they’ve heard all week. Kate joins them but stops abruptly when she sees my face. “I’m sure you won’t be the only normal one,” she says, but she looks like she has her doubts.
“So, Bella,” says Bethanee, “do you know who your leading man is?”
“Only the best-looking guy in the school – Luke Parkes!”
“Luke Parkes,” gasps Brianna. “Oh. My. God. Youaresolucky!”
“Who would have thought that such a hunk could be talented as well?” asks Belinda, rhetorically. “We’re going to look great together in the big ball number.”
“There’s a ball number?” I say it more for the sake of joining the conversation than because I care. The Bs stare at me.
“Don’t tell me you haven’t seen My Fair Lady?” says Bethanee. “Gah, Freia! It’s only the best musical of all time.”
“We should have a movie night tomorrow!” says Kate. “We can all watch it together.”
“Uh, thanks, but some of us have a life on the weekends,” Belinda tells her. Bethanee and Brianna nod in agreement.
I don’t actually want to see the movie, but Kate obviously feels like a complete loser for having suggested it. “I’m free,” I say. Kate looks grateful.
“Today we have the last of our Animal Farm talks,” says Ms Reid as we settle in for English Extension after lunch. “Please do Siouxsie the courtesy of paying as much attention as you would like others to pay when it’s your turn.”
Siouxsie Sheldon is the closest thing to a goth you’ll find in our year. She’s into punk (the original 1970s stuff, not the put-a-guy-in-black-eyeliner-and-have-him-sing-out-of-tune kind that the Bs think is so outrageous) and dyes her hair black. Until a few months ago she was just plain Susannah, but she changed her name officially for her sixteenth birthday. Instead of going on about how great the name they gave her was, Siouxsie’s parents had a renaming party for her. I think she’s kind of cool. The Bs call her “Morticia”.
Personally, I’d love it if no one paid attention to my presentations, I think as I watch Siouxsie stride confidently to the front of the class. She’s wearing a “Meat is Murder” T-shirt over her uniform. (Ms Reid gives extra marks if you use props.)
“I’m going to talk about how humans subjugate animals for their own means, specifically, for testing cosmetics so that shallow people can feel better about themselves,” she begins in a voice that exudes self-assurance. Siouxsie’s talk is illustrated by images of rabbits with bleeding eyes and monkeys with sores on their faces. As she describes the experiments, I feel my Vegemite sandwich threatening to come back up. I’ve always known that some cosmetics were tested on animals, but I’d never imagined what it actually entailed. After the presentation Siouxsie hands out pamphlets about choosing cruelty-free products.
“Thank you, Siouxsie. That was very well researched … if a bit graphic,” says Ms Reid. “Next lesson we’ll start the first book in our special study of Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice. You can spend the last ten minutes of class reading, if you haven’t finished it yet.”
Despite sounding as if this is an optional activity, we all know what she really means is that she has nothing else planned for the rest of the lesson and we’d better make ourselves look busy with the book if we want to avoid being given an essay to write over the weekend.
I surreptitiously open Siouxsie’s pamphlet in my lap. Thankfully, the mascara and concealer that make up the sum total of my cosmetic collection are listed under “cruelty-free”, but I see that the current must-have lip gloss (Belinda owns one in every colour) is made by one of the companies on the “worst offenders” list. I’m so engrossed that I’m still reading as I head to my next class.
“I’m pleased someone’s interested,” says Siouxsie, appearing beside me. “You can imagine how many of these I picked up off the floor after class. People at this school are so apathetic.”
“That was a really good presentation.”
“Thanks. I don’t think Reid approved, but that’s what she gets for leaving the topics up to us, eh?”
I’m about to ask Siouxsie what she thinks of Pride and Prejudice when Kate appears and positions herself between us.
“What time do you want to come over tomorrow?” she asks me, completely ignoring Siouxsie. “I’m going to the Bs’ hockey match in the morning, but I’ll be home by lunchtime.”
Siouxsie looks bemused but not surprised by Kate’s behaviour. She gives me a see-you-later smile before heading in the opposite direction.
“Thank God she took the hint,” says Kate, as if she’s just averted a major crisis. “Seriously, Freia, if I hadn’t been here to rescue you, you could’ve been stuck talking to Morticia for ages.”
Now she really sounds like Bethanee. I feel a wave of anger rising within me but remind myself that Kate’s still my best friend and try not to let my feelings show on my face.
I look pointedly at my watch. “I’m late to meet Nicky. I’ll see you around three tomorrow.”