Freia Lockhart's Summer of Awful by Aimee Said

me to Steph’s for our Christmas Eve extravaganza. I grab my beribboned boxes and make for the door before she can suggest coming out to say hello.
    â€œHi, Mrs Sheldon,” I say as I climb into the back seat, putting my boxes next to Siouxsie’s pile of identically wrapped presents.
    â€œPam,” she corrects me for the hundredth time. “Mrs Sheldon is my mother-in-law.”
    She and I laugh at her joke, also for the hundredth time.
    â€œNow, Mummy dearest,” says Siouxsie, “you know we’ve talked about you letting go of your misspent youth and growing old gracefully.”
    Pam takes her left hand off the steering wheel and pokes Siouxsie in feigned offence. “Hey, I may be old but I’ve still got it.”
    â€œIf by
it
, you mean your own teeth, then yes.”
    â€œWatch it, kiddo. It’s never too late for your first grounding,” says Pam, but her smile shows that her threat’s not serious.
    Not for the first time, I envy Siouxsie and her mum’s easygoing banter. And then I remember Mum at home with her cancer book and feel bad for even thinking it.
    As further proof of how different Pam is from my mum, she drops us off outside Steph’s place and drives away with no more than a wave. No last-minute lectures about thanking Mrs Pearson for having us over or not making ourselves sick on mince pies.
    â€œYou’re so lucky having a cool mum,” I tell Siouxsie as we watch her drive away.
    â€œGrass is always greener, Fray,” she says, ringing the bell.

    Steph shows us through to the living room, half of which is occupied by a massive Christmas tree. It takes me a moment to realise that the reason it looks so different to our tree at home is because it’s real. (Also because it’s decorated with a minimalist smattering of tasteful silver ornaments – our tree’s style is what Dad calls “Christmas vomit”, i.e. smothered in every Christmas decoration we own, including the macaroni angel I made in Year Two and the faded lengths of paper chain my parents made for their first Christmas together, more than thirty years ago.)
    Vicky’s already there, going through a pile of CDs. “It’s between
Christmas Disco
and Dolly Parton’s
Home for Christmas
,” she says, holding up two equally cheesy covers.
    Steph’s face lights up. “Dolly, for sure! Her version of ‘Jingle bells’ is the best. I’ll be back in a tick.”
    She returns carrying a jug of creamy, frothy eggnog and a plate piled high with mince pies. We clink our cups in a toast to Christmas, and then in a toast to the school holidays, and then in a toast to making toasts. Then Steph snaps photos of us posing by the Christmas tree and we do some spontaneous karaoke with Dolly before collapsing on the couch to eat more mince pies while Vicky changes the CD.
    When a disco version of “Santa Claus is coming to town” comes on Siouxsie yells “Christmas boogie!” and pulls us all up to dance. Drawn by our laughter, Steph’s six-year-old sister comes in, already dressed in her pyjamas, and attempts to copy our festive go-go dancing. We take turns dancing with Phoebe until Mrs Pearson says she has to go to bed.
    â€œAww,” she moans. “I want to stay up.”
    â€œDon’t you want Santa to come?” asks Steph.
    Phoebe nods frantically.
    â€œWell, you have to go to sleep then. You know how strict he is about not being seen.”
    Phoebe considers this for a moment before quickly saying her goodnights and racing down the hall to her room.
    â€œDo you remember how excited you used to get about Santa when you were little?” asks Steph when she’s sure her sister is safely out of earshot. “My dad would make reindeer hoofprints by dipping his fingers in flour and tracking them all the way from the front drive to my bedroom. I was so blown away by the thought of Rudolph delivering my