In some households Saturday is a day to sleep in, perhaps go out for breakfast at a cafe or indulge in a spot of window-shopping. At our place it’s the busiest day of the week. Chores are shared in our family, with a rotating roster of tasks to ensure that we all have to do the gross stuff like emptying Boris’s kitty litter (unless Mum catches you slacking off, in which case you get stuck on toilet cleaning for the next two weeks).
Mum insists we all have breakfast together first, even though Ziggy and I have begged to be allowed to sleep for an extra half hour instead. Dad always makes pancakes to try to cheer us up. Dad’s pancakes taste like sawdust and have the texture of Spakfilla, complete with lumpy bits. It’s hard to tell whether he keeps making them because he actually likes them or if that’s just as good as it gets for Dad in the kitchen.
Once we’ve dusted, polished, vacuumed and sanitised the house, we move on to the next part of our routine. For Ziggy this means playing whatever sport he’s captaining the A-grade team of that season, which Mum and Dad take turns to accompany him to. For me this means going to the supermarket with whichever parent is left. They pretend they need me to help them decide which toilet paper’s better value or whether we should have organic chops or free-range chicken for dinner, but we all know that it’s part of Mum’s regime of Family Bonding.
“Don’t forget my Milo,” calls Ziggy as Mum’s car pulls out of the driveway. I make a mental note to steer Dad clear of the beverages aisle.
“Ready, Saus … er, Fray?” asks Dad from the doorway, laden down by a million green shopping bags.
It’s hard to say which is worse: shopping with Dad and watching him squirm as he makes awkward small talk, or going with Mum and having her talk at me the whole time about what I should be doing and wearing and saying if I want to be a Successful Teen.
Dad heads down the pasta aisle. “So, when do rehearsals start for the play?”
“It’s a musical, Dad,” I remind him for the sake of watching him wince, “and they start on Monday.”
“Every Monday?”
“Monday, Wednesday and Saturday afternoons.”
“Well, I guess we won’t be doing this together for a while then.” It takes me a second to get what he means, and then it hits me: if rehearsals are every Saturday from twelve till four there’s no way I’m going to be able to fit in a trip to the supermarket beforehand! It’s hard to say at this point whether rehearsals will actually be less painful than Family Bonding, but a change is as good as a holiday, as they say (whoever “they” are).
We make it as far as toiletries without incident and I’m just thinking that Dad’s doing pretty well for once, even if he has come out in his clogs and cardigan. I pause to look at the hair dyes (dream on, Mum thinks dyeing your hair gives you cancer of the head; it’s her excuse for letting hers go grey) when I hear Dad’s voice booming: “Do you need more tampons, Freia?”
I feel my face turn five shades of red as I march past him, pretending that he is a crazy man who chats to himself about women’s sanitary products and not someone whose genetic material I carry. I duck into the cleaning products aisle and see Bethanee with a well-dressed woman with long, blond (dyed) hair. They’re giggling about something near the washing powders. I turn back before they spot me and find Dad trying to decide between the three-ply or extra large tissues, apparently oblivious that he is the Worst Parent in the World (or at least in Parkville Metro).
“What do you think, Fray? Would bigger or thicker hold more snot?” I throw the three-ply into the trolley and head for the check-out.
We unpack the groceries in silence, after a silent ride home.
“I’m sorry, Fray. I didn’t realise how loudly I was speaking. It was thoughtless.”
I slam the cupboard doors closed to indicate my agreement and grab my bag from the hallway. “I’m going to Kate’s to study,” I tell him, careful not to mention that we’re studying My Fair Lady.
Kate is speechless when I tell her the supermarket story, capable only of slowly shaking her head from side to side. One thing in Kate’s favour, she knows how to appreciate bad parental behaviour.
“That’s possibly the most embarrassing thing I’ve ever heard,” she says finally. “I don’t think my dad even knows what a tampon is, let alone that I use them.”
The Smiths are like a proper family from the TV. They live in a nice new house with pale carpeting and a spa in the ensuite bathroom. Kate’s mum works part-time and always comes to pick her up from school if it’s raining or if we get back late from an excursion. Mr Smith works in an office in the city and wears a suit every day and plays golf on the weekend. Plus, they have a cleaner, so Kate and her sister Emily never have to do any chores except keep their rooms tidy. Mum says the Smiths are bland, but I wouldn’t mind swapping once in a while.
We watch the DVD in the family room on the enormous widescreen TV with surround sound. With the lights down, it’s almost like being in an actual cinema. The movie’s okay, I guess. Some of the songs are pretty lame, but perhaps I’ve inherited Dad’s bias there. During the ball scene, when Audrey Hepburn’s all dressed up and looking amazing, Kate says, “Just think, that’ll be Belinda soon”, which pretty much ruins the rest of the film because all I can think about is how big Belinda’s head’s going to be after this play.
As soon as the credits roll, Emily kicks us out of the living room so that she and her new boyfriend, Damian, can pash (even in the Smith household there’s a no-boys-in-bedrooms rule). We go to Kate’s room and she reads out highlights from her latest magazine. I think she’s addicted to them. She gets a new one every week and doesn’t seem to realise that they all say pretty much the same thing. I pretend to listen as she waffles on about whether you can get away with sequins during the day and how often you should reapply your fake tan. There are a couple of little kids on their bikes outside and I’m jealous of them. I miss the days when Kate and I actually used to do stuff instead of just sitting around talking about the importance of accessories or whether the letters in DOLLY Doctor are real.
Finally, she puts the magazine down. “Are you getting excited?”
“About what?”
“About rehearsals starting on Monday, stupid! I was talking to Belinda and Bethanee after their match this morning and they think it’s going to be the best fun. It’ll be so cool us all hanging out together so much, don’t you think?”
“I guess so. I mean, I’ll be wherever the lighting stuff is …”
“I’m so nervous! I’ve never even spoken to a guy who wasn’t related by blood to one of my friends or going out with Emily. Are you nervous?”
“Well, I wasn’t till you mentioned it, but–” I’m interrupted by the phone ringing.
“Sorry, Fray, that’ll be Brianna,” Kate says, jumping off the bed to grab the extension in the hallway outside her room. I take the hint that the phone call is my cue to leave.
Mum’s sitting on the couch reading a book when I get home. She seems pretty engrossed in it, so I think I might be in with a chance to sneak by, but she calls me as I tiptoe up the hall.
“Freia, I’d like to talk to you, please.” Ah good, she’s using the Lecture Voice. I go into the lounge and sit on the couch facing her. “I hear you and your father had a little scene in the supermarket this morning.”
“If by ‘scene’ you mean that he embarrassed the crap out of me, then yes.”
“Language, Freia! Anyway, you know he didn’t mean it. Your dad’s not the most subtle person in the world, but he means well. He’s really upset.”
“I was really upset, too. There was a girl from my school there; she probably heard everything. Why can’t he just be a normal dad who wears polo shirts and boat shoes and cleans the car on weekends?”
Mum sighs. “That’s not normal, Freia. That’s just boring.”
“Well, maybe I like boring.”
I stomp to my room, well aware that I’ve been a bitch to Dad. I know I should say sorry to him, but that would be like admitting Mum’s right and I’m not prepared to do that. Even if she is.
To make my mood even worse, since Kate put the idea of being nervous about rehearsals into my head, my palms have started to sweat every time I think about Monday afternoon.
1. Otters
2. Orlando Bloom
3. Double-fudge chocolate brownies
4. Long, stripy socks
5. Boris (except in hair ball season)
6. Christmas morning
7. Summer holidays
8. Riding my bike down steep hills
9. Charlotte’s Web
10. Dancing alone in my room