Freia Lockhart's Summer of Awful Read Online Free Page A

I’ve managed to do it all by myself would be quite satisfying if I wasn’t so annoyed with Ziggy for hijacking my boyfriend.
    â€œIt smells fantastic out here,” says Dan when he finally comes in. His cheeks are flushed pink from exercising and his face glistens with a light layer of sweat. Annoyed as I am with him, it’s quite a good look.
    â€œIf you do a top job with the washing up, I’ll let you lick the brownie bowl,” I tell him.
    â€œI’ve got a better idea,” he says, reaching into his pocket and pulling out his iPod. “I downloaded some new stuff. Why don’t we take a break and listen to it in your room?”
    I weigh the risks. If Mum finds out Dan’s been in my room (or a certain stinky adolescent tells her he was there), I’ll be grounded for the rest of the holidays and my chances of having my curfew extended will be less than zero. But Mum said she and Dad wouldn’t be back before six, and Ziggy wouldn’t want to get on Dan’s bad side, so I figure it’s pretty safe.
    I race up the stairs ahead of Dan and make him wait outside while I check that there are no bras/tampons/pimple creams lying around. Boris lifts his head from my pillow and swishes his tail to show that he doesn’t appreciate having his between-naps nap interrupted. According to Vickypedia (our nickname for Vicky because she knows pretty much everything about everything), cats sleep twelve to sixteen hours a day. I reckon Boris does eighteen to twenty. He’s so sleepy that he doesn’t complain when I lift him off the pillow and into my laundry basket (his second-favourite sleeping spot).
    Dan’s only been in my bedroom twice before. The first time was just after we got together, which even though all he did was marvel at the crappiness of my CD player and mini speakers, resulted in Mum’s no-boys-in-bedrooms rule being spelled out in no uncertain terms. The second was when he had to help put together my new bookcase, after Dad dislocated his thumb using the allen key. This time he takes a long look around, inspecting the spines of my books and the various ornaments and knick-knacks I’ve accumulated over the past sixteen years. He holds up a small glass figurine in one hand and a wooden one in the other.
    â€œHow did I not know you have a thing for wombats?”
    â€œThey’re from Grandma Thelma. When I was six she took me and Ziggy to the wildlife park and apparently I loved the wombats so much that I refused to move from their enclosure until the keeper forced us out at the end of the day. Ever since, every time Gran sees a wombat she gets it for me. I tried to tell her I was past my wombat phase a couple of years ago, but she thought I was joking.”
    Dan nods and moves towards my bed. As he sits, he registers the photo of the two of us on my bedside table. If I’d noticed it, I definitely would have hidden it away. Or at least put it somewhere less … bed-y. I sit next to him and he hands me an earbud and presses play. The music starts with a strong bass line, followed by some serious guitar. It’s hardly a love song, but that doesn’t stop Dan leaning in to kiss me. Or me kissing him back.
    It’s only when he eases me back onto the bed, somewhere around song four, that I realise Boris has reclaimed his spot on my pillow. He opens one eye and then gives me a slow, disapproving blink as he closes it again and swats his tail against Dan’s back.
    â€œI think your cat’s jealous,” laughs Dan. “I don’t blame him – I wouldn’t want to share you, either.” He runs his hand down my cheek and pushes the hair away from my neck as he leans in to kiss it.
    And then there’s a knock on the bedroom door.
    â€œShit.”
    â€œShit.”
    Dan springs up from the bed, dragging my earbud with him and tucking in his T-shirt, despite it being untucked to begin with.
    â€œFreia,” calls