The Year Nick McGowan Came to Stay (6 page)

At the bus stop after school, I mentally rehearse how I could casually bring up in conversation with Nick McGowan the fact that I have some brochures he might like to look at. I decide to lead in with the idea that I was in the library looking for myself – or Zoë. Yes, he'd believe that I was looking for Zoë, since she comes across as directionless. I practise the conversation over and over like a newly recruited Avon Lady preparing for her first doorknock. I go over the scenario. Nick and I will be on the bus together, I'll say something witty to make him laugh. Then I'll casually mention that Zoë and I were in the Careers Room at lunchtime. And how I'd picked up some brochures that made me think of him. But not in a romantic way – in a flatmate kind of way. And he'll realise that I'm not uptight. And he'll be incredibly grateful. So grateful that he'll ask me to go roller-blading with him this weekend.

By the time the 303 bus rolls up, I'm feeling confident. Problem is that Nick McGowan is nowhere to be seen. So I find myself getting on the bus alone.

And doing my homework alone.

And setting the table for dinner alone.

I wonder where he is – I don't remember him saying that he had something on after school today.

‘Maybe he's done a runner?' I say to my parents, as I put the salt and pepper on the table. ‘It was probably the whole “It's a Knockout” thing last night – pushed him over the edge. If he wasn't suicidal before he came to live with us, a few evenings of people running around dressed in gorilla costumes should do the trick.'

But my parents aren't listening. My mum is now folding laundry and my dad is engrossed in the news. Then Mum walks into the lounge and asks Dad, ‘Is it really necessary to have the TV on so loud or are you hoping to make us all dea
f
?'

She's in one of her moods where she sighs a lot and asks a lot of rhetorical questions. (Is she the only one capable of making the gravy in this house? Do the rest of us have broken hands?) These moods don't happen very often, but when Mum's had a particularly stressful day at work I've learnt to make myself scarce.

Once when she was folding the laundry and asking no one in particular, ‘What does it take to get a little help around here?' Caitlin made the mistake of thinking she wanted an answer and said, ‘I dunno. Maybe more pocket money?'

This was not the right answer.

On many, many levels this was not the right answer. Not in the least because Mum doubled our after-school chores for that week and halved our pocket money. Needless to say, Caitlin and I have since learnt the meaning of the term ‘rhetorical question'.

At six-thirty p.m., just as Mum starts ferreting around in the drawer for a serving spoon, Nick McGowan walks in the front door.

‘Nick!'

My parents greet him the way the regular barflies greet Norm on ‘Cheers' – like a long-lost friend, not like a houseguest who is late, hasn't called, has had us all worried that he might have been avoiding coming home because he hates living here already.

‘Sorry I'm, um, late.' He pauses, bites the inside of his lip and looks from Mum to Dad to me.

‘It's fine, Nick,' says my mum. ‘You've got just enough time to have a quick shower if you'd like. I can keep this warm for another few minutes.'

Then my mother winks at him. My mother, the woman I have been known to call Attila the Mum, is now winking at Nick McGowan like she's some hip, easygoing type of mum.
This is false advertising
, I want to say.
She's not usually a winker
.
There's no winking in this house
.
Ten minutes ago she was questioning whether her life purpose was to make gravy
. I watch my parents happily watch Nick wander off downstairs and I'm tempted to ask my mother if she's also planning to roll Nick some cigarettes while she's at it.

I don't say much during dinner. Mainly because I'm worried that Mum's beef stroganoff is overcooked and that Nick McGowan will notice. Or care. And then tell everyone at school tomorrow that the food at the Hill house is worse than at the refectory. But instead Nick demolishes his meal, politely answers my father's questions about Middlemount and even goes so far as to ask my mother how she gets her mashed potato so creamy. (Milk and an egg, apparently.)

After dinner I get up, stack my plate on the sink, grab a green apple from the fruit basket and head for the stairs. I remind my parents to let me speak to Caitlin if she should ring.

By the second stair I overhear Nick McGowan thanking Mum for the ‘Really brilliant dinner, Mrs Hill.'

By the third stair I overhear him offering to do the washing-up. I start bounding up the stairs two at a time. Too late. By the eighth stair my mother's said those fateful words: ‘Rachel can help you.'

I turn, go back down to the fourth step. ‘No, see, Mum, I've got an English oral to prepare for. I really don't have time to—'

Mum walks to the bottom of the staircase, throws the tea towel at my chest and says, ‘The wok may need to soak overnight.'

Nick McGowan and I are alone with a sink full of dirty dishes. In a weary tone I ask if he wants to wash or dry. He chooses to wash. I sigh loudly to convey the inconvenience of this whole exercise. Then I push the plug into the drain hole, turn on the taps and squirt some washing-up liquid into the water – just to get him started.

I pick up the scrubbing brush and rather than give it to him, I point it at his chest.

‘Just so you know, this isn't one of my regular jobs. I realise you were trying to be polite and helpful and all that kind of thing, but doing the washing-up after dinner completely screws up my study timetable. See, my mum usually does it. And right now' – I look up at the red kitchen clock – ‘between seven and seventy-thirty p.m., I'm meant to be doing English.'

He takes the scrubbing brush from me.

‘So you really have a study timetable? And you actually
stick
to it?' His tone is incredulous, as though I have just admitted to having a tattoo.

‘Yes.'

Now it's his turn to sigh.
‘Of course you do.'

‘What's that supposed to mean?' I put the dinner plate I'm holding down on the bench. ‘What's wrong with having a study timetable?'

‘Life's too short.'

‘To what? Study?'

‘You don't get it, do you? Study, exams, school – it doesn't mean anything. That's what I've realised lately – that none of that shit makes a difference. The sooner you get that, the better.'

‘You've completely lost your mind. Of course it matters. It matters if you want to actually get into university next year. Personally, I think it's pretty funny that
you
are trying to tell
me
that study isn't important. You who just so happened to top every subject last year. I mean just because you've changed your mind about doing Medicine doesn't mean that next year you're not going to have to do a lot of—'

‘Who told you I changed my mind about Medicine?'

Oh shit.

‘Well, I just sort of overheard you talking to your dad on the phone the other night.'

‘You eavesdropped on my conversation?'

‘No. Okay, well, yes, but—'

Ohmygod. I look at his face. He looks horrified.

‘No, see, technically it was an accident. I picked up the phone to ring Zoë and—'

‘First my dad and now you.
I don't want to be a doctor anymore
. Okay? Why is that so difficult for people to understand? Just because I wanted to do it for years doesn't mean I'm not allowed to change my mind.'

‘You don't have to bite my head off. And, whatever. Do Medicine. Don't do Medicine. I don't give a shit what you do.'

‘So have you taught Nick to play Best Free Feelings yet?'

Nick and I both turn and stare at my father, who has walked back into the kitchen.

‘I have to warn you, Nick, she's pretty good at it.'

My dad looks at me and then at Nick, who understandably looks confused. ‘Scratching an itch is always a good one. Or finally getting to a toilet when you're busting to go.'

Ohmygod
. ‘Dad,' I shake my head to indicate he should drop this topic. ‘We're not playing that. Will you just . . .'

But my father is clearly surprised by my lack of enthusiasm for the conversation at hand. ‘What? You and Caitlin always love playing that game,' he says, throwing his hands up in the air. Then the penny drops and he says in a worried tone, ‘Was Best Free Feelings on the list?'

Nick immediately says, ‘What list?'

I turn and look at him. ‘It's nothing.'

‘The list Rachel wrote out of things her mother and I weren't allowed to do or say once you moved in,' says my dad with a grin, and a wink in my direction. ‘Rachel's worried we'll
embarrass
her. But it's fine, I'm not going to take it personally.'

Ohmygod
.

Nick turns to me. ‘You made a
list
? You actually
made
a list
?'

Ohmygod
.

‘I'm also not allowed to sing in the shower or whistle in the car,' continues my father in a jokey tone.

Ohmygod.
‘
Dad
!'

‘Alright, I'm going,' says my dad. ‘Realising that your hiccups have gone, that's another good one,' he calls out over his shoulder.

My father now out of sight, Nick turns to me and says, ‘What on earth—'

‘Look, my father has a habit of coming to the breakfast table wearing nothing but a bath towel around his waist – so yes, Nick, I made a list of ground rules for my parents.'

‘And what's the hiccups thing?'

‘Best Free Feelings is a game my family plays when we're washing up on camping trips. But I don't want to talk about it. And I certainly don't want to play it, right now, with you.'

‘Fine.'

‘Fine.'

‘Well just do me the favour of not eavesdropping on any more of my private phone calls.'

‘Fine. And
you
do
me
a favour and next time you want to suck up to my mother, volunteer to wash her car or something. I have my own after-school chores that I'm expected to do. And this' – I wave my arm at the sink and the now-full dish rack – ‘this
isn't
one of them. Okay?'

‘Fine.'

‘Fine.'

And we finish the washing-up in silence.

We develop a workable routine that succeeds in keeping us out of each other's way. I set my alarm every morning for six-fifteen, which gets me up and out of bed half an hour before him. And everyone else. Any time I have to spare before I need to leave for the early, early bus is now spent hiding things from Nick McGowan. I can't afford to give him any ammunition to start spreading stories about me at school. Yesterday morning I remembered that my Cher aerobics tape was sitting out – in full view – in the TV cabinet outside his bedroom. This morning I moved the ugly photo of Caitlin and me at my twelfth birthday party into the drawer in my bathroom.

As far as school goes, we seem to have an unspoken agreement to stay away from each other. If I enter the library and he's there, I leave. If he rounds the corner to the tuckshop and I'm sitting at a table with Zoë and Stacey, he leaves. It could be worse, I guess. He could have found my Cher aerobics video.

I'm preoccupied thinking about all of this during Monday's period one – PE – while Miss Perkins is trying to teach us the finer points of archery. Not having listened properly to her instructions, I struggle to load the arrow into the bow. I look up just in time to see Emma P's arrow hit one of the outer, outer circles on the target. ‘S'your turn, Rachel.'

Arrow in place, I lift the bow up, pull it back. Someone has their hands over my eyes.

‘You've had sex with him, haven't you?'

‘Shit! No!' I struggle free from Zoë's grip. ‘Keep your voice down.'

‘It's been a week! Come on, tell me you did the funky-funky with him over the weekend. In which case, I hope you used a condom because frankly a pregnancy is going to be a little difficult to hide in this uniform.'

I wave Megan Howie through to have a turn while I deal with Zoë. ‘What are you doing here? Miss Perkins is going to see you.'

She points to a group of students on the far side of the oval. ‘My Health and PE class is playing Touch. Just thought I'd pop over and say hello. So are you still V?' She does a peace sign with her fingers.

‘Believe me, Zoë, when I lose my virginity you'll be the first to know. But I haven't. For starters, I saw Nick McGowan for like five minutes over the entire weekend. He had detention all day Saturday and all day Sunday as punishment for setting off the boarding house alarms. Mr Tallon made him weed this oval.'

Zoë makes a horrified face.

‘I know. Other than that the closest contact we've had was doing the washing-up together last Monday night and . . .'

‘And he plunged his head in the sink and tried to drown himself in the washing-up water?'

‘Zoë!'

‘What? I'm joking.' She rolls her eyes at me, as though I've lost my sense of humour. Then she takes a Mars Bar out of her pocket, peels the wrapper off and takes a big bite out of it.

‘It is a mystery to me that you are as skinny as you are considering the amount of shit you eat.'

‘Bite?' She asks this through a mouthful of chocolate, pointing the Mars Bar in my direction.

‘No, thanks. He keeps to himself, Zoë. He arrives home every night just before dinner and other than meal times, he's either in his room listening to loud music or out by the pool having a smoke. We completely ignore each other. Anyway, my point is that I really don't think he did try to kill himself over the summer. He just doesn't seem suicidal.'

‘How does someone “seem” suicidal?' She does inverted commas with her right hand.

‘Oh, I dunno. Depressed? Crying a lot? I don't know. All I'm saying is that as far as the rumours go, maybe they're wrong. Maybe nothing happened.'

‘Yeah? Well, Stacey McMaster said she saw Nick McGowan talking to Pastor Mears after school last week. And Stacey reckons there's a passage in the Bible that says that if thou committeth suicide, though shalt burn in hell for all eternity.'

‘I don't think “committeth” is a word,' I say more to myself than to her. Miss Perkins starts walking towards us. I nudge Zoë to leave.

‘Apparently Miss Perkins still lives at home with her parents, and she's twenty-seven! What a loser!'

I push Zoë in the arm. ‘Go!'

She starts to walk backwards across the oval, still talking to me. ‘All I'm saying is that people are saying that Nick McGowan might be a bit . . .' She spins her finger next to her head and makes a crazy sign. ‘He could be trouble.'

Twenty-four hours later and I realise Zoë's right.