The Year Nick McGowan Came to Stay Read online

  Rebecca Sparrow has earned a living selling touch lamps, working as a nanny, a travel writer, a television publicist, a marketing executive, a magazine editor, a television scriptwriter, a newspaper columnist and a secret shopper (once). Rebecca’s first novel, The Girl Most Likely, was published in 2003 and is currently in development to be turned into a feature film. Her second novel, The Year Nick McGowan Came to Stay, was published in 2006 and debuted as a stage play in 2007. Her third novel, Joel & Cat Set the Story Straight, was co-written with Nick Earls and published in 2007. Her fourth book, Find Your Tribe (and 9 other things I wish I’d known in high school), was published in March 2010. The sequel, Find Your Feet (the 8 things I wish I’d known before I left high school), will be published in September 2013.

  Rebecca currently writes a weekly column for www.mamamia.com.au. She lives in Brisbane with her family. For more information about Rebecca, visit www.rebeccasparrow.com.

  Also by Rebecca Sparrow

  The Girl Most Likely

  Find Your Tribe (and 9 other things I wish I’d known in high school)

  Find Your Feet (the 8 things I wish I’d known before I left high school)

  For Nicola Shew, Katrina Martin, Stephanie Oldroyd and Katie Greenwood, who made my high-school years so much fun.

  And for Brad.

  Rumours started going around about Nick McGowan pretty much as soon as school went back. Some people said he’d tried to overdose on sleeping tablets, and th at his best friend in Middlemount had found him slumped over in his car and been forced to give him mouth-to-mouth. Others said he had to have his stomach pumped.That he’d left a note asking to be buried in his Dire Straits T-shirt. And that under no circumstances was anyone to play anything by Bette Midler or from the movie Beaches at his funeral. Kate Winter, one of the pretty boarder girls who hung around in Nick’s group, who had the physique of a greyhound and a fondness for heavy black eyeliner, told anyone who would listen that the rumours were bollocks. She’d seen him over the summer break – gone and seen Cocktail with him at the Emerald cinema. New Year’s Eve marked the anniversary of Mrs McGowan’s death, she said, while teasing her strawberry-blond fringe to within an inch of its life. So the Christmas holidays were always hard for Nick and his dad.

  Back then I wasn’t sure what happened to Nick McGowan the summer before we started our senior year. What I did know was that he went from being the first Year 11 student to top every subject to the first prefect to be stripped of his badge. And kicked out of the boarding house. On the night of the swimming carnival, at eleven forty-five p.m., Nick McGowan got out of bed, changed into his school uniform and systematically set off every fire alarm in the boys’ boarding house. They eventually found him sitting on the Chapel steps – in clear view of the principal’s house – smoking a pack of Benson & Hedges and doing his German homework. When Mr Tallon, the principal, asked Nick what he was doing, he said that he had a German quiz the next day.

  And that’s when the P&C were called, my dad got involved and my troubles really began.

  I’m staring at an eggtimer, and for the first time in a week I’m wishing it would hurry up. That the sand would fill just a little faster so that I could have an excuse to get off the phone.

  ‘Are you even listening to me?’

  No. ‘Yeah, yeah. Zoë, you have two minutes.’

  ‘How can you even tell? What does two minutes of sand even look like? This is very Brady-esque. Didn’t Mike make the Brady kids time their phone calls using an eggtimer?’

  ‘It was a payphone. He installed a payphone into the lounge room. Zee, I’m really . . .’

  ‘Your parents seriously come up with the most bizarre punishments. You know I think if my parents found me making a one-hour international phone call, they’d just be happy that I was at home. As my mother says, if she can see me it means I’m not out somewhere getting pregnant or doing drugs. You know she’s started subtly trying to check my arms for track marks. She keeps saying she’s looking for moles, but I know what she’s doing. She thinks I’m a teenage crackhead waiting to happen. I think she’s been watching too much “Degrassi”.’

  ‘We have about a minute. Hurry up. Say whatever it is that you rang to say.’

  ‘Okay. Pleeease come to the party. Pleeease.’

  ‘What? We talked about this today. No less than an hour ago, outside the school gates. I’ve already told you I’m not going.’

  ‘Just for an hour?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Just for half an hour?’

  ‘No.’ I nestle the cordless phone into my shoulder, take off my shoes and start to unzip my maroon uniform. I’m tired, and the last thing I feel like doing is having this conversation about some lame party in two weeks’ time. I’ve got homework to start. It’s week two and I already have three assignments. Welcome to Year 12.

  ‘But you said that 1989 was going to be the year you loosened up a bit, let your hair down – became a bit more social.’

  ‘No I didn’t.’

  ‘Well you should’ve. And it’s ridiculous for you not to be there when everyone else from the play is going. Even the stage crew.’

  ‘Why is Sally even throwing that party now? I mean Lady Windermere’s Fan all happened at the end of last year – we should have had a cast party then, not now. Not three months later.’

  ‘Well she couldn’t have it then because her parents wouldn’t let her, but now they’ve gone to New Zealand and her older brother’s in charge. So you’ve gotta come.’

  ‘Zee, you’ve known me since I was five. You should know that once I make up my mind, that’s it. I am not going to the party. I’ve got assignments to start. This is a big year, and I plan to stay focused and work really hard.’

  ‘Who starts work on their assignments in week two? I swear, sometimes it’s like you’re a thirty-five-year-old trapped in a seventeen-year-old’s body.’

  ‘Well, that was a waste of ten seconds.’

  ‘God you’re in a cranky mood.’

  ‘I’m tired, Zee. I just walked in the door. My feet hurt. And in an hour I have to go and be perky in front of fifteen four-year-olds . . . Dad!’

  My father’s face has suddenly appeared at my door.

  ‘Rachel, when you’re off the phone, your mother and I would like to talk to you about something.’

  I nod. He leaves. I feel my face drain.

  I turn back to the phone. ‘Ohmygod. They know.’

  ‘Huh? Why are you whispering?’

  ‘Geez, Zoë. I said, ohmygod they know.’

  ‘No they don’t. You’re being paranoid.’

  But all I can think as I hang up the phone is, we’re dead.

  I knew there was trouble when I saw the chocolate cupcakes. In our house, the appearance of chocolate is a sign. A bad omen. A jinx. A red flag that something bad is about to go down. In short, the shittiest moments of my life have all unfolded in the presence of chocolate-based desserts. In 1982 a plate of chocolate brownies appeared minutes before Dad casually mentioned that he’d accidentally thrown my Lady Di scrapbook into the backyard incinerator. In 1984, chocolate crackles were served as Mum announced that Caitlin, my younger sister, had accidentally taped over the episode of ‘A Country Practice’ when Molly died. Before I’d had a chance to watch it. In 1987 chocolate mousse was on the table when Mum and Dad broke the news that I needed braces. And last year Mum had a chocolate jaffa pie in the oven when Dad announced that his work conference in LA had been cancelled. So instead of going to Disneyland for the school holidays, we’d be going camping. At Yeppoon. Again
. Sensing our disappointment, Dad reached into his pocket and produced four tickets to ‘Disney on Ice’. I smiled and said it sounded fun. Caitlin said that she hoped Mickey slipped and that Donald ice-skated over his throat. She was a little bitter back then and, at thirteen, had the looks of a Dolly model and the charm of Lizzy Borden.

  So when I walked into the kitchen on Thursday evening and saw the plate of chocolate cupcakes on the table, the Psycho shower-scene music played in my head. I knew big trouble was brewing. I just didn’t know what.

  ‘What is it? What’s wrong?’ My fingers rap on the kitchen bench.

  They glance at each other. My mind starts reeling, and I try to calm myself down. This could be about anything. A whole range of other bad news. Maybe Caitlin is returning home early from her exchange in France. Maybe they’re about to get a divorce. Maybe I was adopted and my disarmingly hirsute birth mother wanted to reclaim me and take me on the road as part of her Circus Oz act. Or. Or they know. In which case, I’m dead.

  ‘So how are you?’ Mum pats the seat next to hers at the kitchen table.

  ‘Okaaay.’

  So they don’t know about the enormous scratch on the car. Haven’t noticed the dodgy job Zoë and I did with the white car pen we bought from Repco. Zoë convinced me that the colouring-in would work since she did it all the time with the chipped wooden hat stands at CopperWorld. In both Zoë’s world and CopperWorld, there’s nothing that a good bit of colouring-in can’t fix. I look at my parents’ faces. If they did know about the scratch, my mother wouldn’t be quite this calm. Still, I have a horrible feeling about this talk. I think I’m about to get another ‘sex is about love’ speech. Or maybe Mum’s pregnant. I think I’m going to be sick.

  ‘How’s school going so far?’ asks Mum.

  I narrow my eyes. ‘Good.’

  ‘Still enjoying French?’ she says.

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘La fourchette,’ says my dad, slowly, as though he suspects I may be mildly retarded. ‘That’s French for “fork”.’

  I turn and stare at my father blankly. I’ve been learning French since I was ten years old. I can debate the convenience of school uniforms; the importance of democracy and the reasons Australia should be a republic all in near-perfect French. But in my father’s head, there exists the possibility that when it comes to français I am yet to master cutlery.

  And then Dad says, ‘So, Rachel, what we want to talk about is how you feel about Nick McGowan.’

  And before I can say, ‘Ohmygod, what is that supposed to mean?’ I’m listening in horror as my parents inform me that Nick McGowan, Nick ‘Oh is that a fire alarm? Excuse me while I set it off’ McGowan, Nick ‘sleeping-tablet lover’ McGowan, Nick ‘I only go out with girls who have the IQ of squid’ McGowan will be moving into Caitlin’s bedroom for the rest of the year. And that I need to make him as welcome as possible.

  ‘What? I’m sorry, but what?’

  ‘There was a P&C meeting last night. Now obviously Nick has broken the rules and the school can’t allow him to continue on as a boarder.’

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘That’s right, because he’s gone mental,’ I say.

  ‘Because he’s had a tough time recently,’ corrects my mother. ‘Mr Tallon explained to us that he’s a straight A student and a great boy who just happens to be going through a hard time.’

  I really, really don’t believe this. I’m beginning to wish my strangely hirsute birth mother would show up. Circus Oz is beginning to look appealing.

  ‘The school – together with Nick’s father – has asked if any family might be prepared to let him stay with them,’ says my dad.

  And there it is. My stomach drops.

  ‘So, what? You put up your hand? Without asking me first?’

  ‘We’re just going to trial it for the first term. See how we all go,’ says Mum.

  I look at my parents. ‘Do I get a say in any of this?’

  ‘Well, it was a spur-of-the-moment decision,’ says my dad, glancing at Mum. ‘And it seemed like the right thing to do. We didn’t realise it would bother you this much.’

  ‘Well, it does – bother me. It officially bothers me. I don’t want him here. Living here. I don’t want to get up in the morning and see him.’

  And for a moment I imagine what it would be like walking into the kitchen in the morning with my zits and bad hair to be faced with Nick McGowan’s six feet of bad blond surfie looks.

  ‘But you’ve always loved it when we’ve had exchange students come and stay. You got on so well with Tomoko and Johan . . .’

  ‘That’s different, Mum. They’re, they’re . . . what’s the word?’

  ‘Foreign?’

  ‘No. Naive. They were naive. I was able to convince Tomoko and Johan that I was cool. Nick McGowan isn’t naive. I can’t convince him that I’m cool – he already knows me. If you let him move in here then you are giving me a whole heap more stress to deal with on a daily basis. And, he’s clearly lost the plot since last year. Something’s snapped in his head. Do you really want me living with an emotionally unstable, suicidal maniac?’

  ‘Rachel, I’d really feel more comfortable if you sat down and stopped waving the cake knife in the air.’

  I roll my eyes at my mother. ‘Fine.’

  I’m not getting through to them. I need to convince Mum and Dad that this just shouldn’t happen. I decide to go the academic angle. I point out that this is my final year, a year when I need to focus, and a year when I don’t need any distractions from my study.

  But they’ve thought of that. Apparently. In what can only be considered as a shameless bribe they’re letting me move into the downstairs spare bedroom. Nick will move into Caitlin’s room. So I get to have the downstairs spare room, which is much bigger and quieter. And it has its own ensuite. And air-conditioning. Hooray – but still, shit. Shit.

  As a last resort I bring out the big guns. I lean across the table, look my parents in the eye and say, ‘Do you really think it’s a good idea – nay, good parenting – to have two hormone-charged teenagers of the opposite sex living side-by-side?’ Do I need to point out to them the skyrocketing rate of teenage pregnancies? Have they never watched Blue Lagoon for godsakes? It’s Brooke Shields and Christopher Atkins waiting to happen. Minus the turtles.

  But my parents smile at one another and insult me further by telling me that they trust me completely. And as Dad ruffles me on the head he says exactly what I don’t want to hear – Nick McGowan is moving in on Sunday.

  An hour later and I’m standing in the back corner of a fast-food restaurant wearing a clown suit and getting fries pegged at my head by four-year-olds. This does not bode well. In a week’s time I’m competing for the Party Hostess of the Year title at our restaurant. In one week, I’m going head-to-head with Fiona Curtis – a Year 11 girl from some private girls’ school that wears far too much chunder green. And sure, I can acknowledge that Fiona’s good. But she’s no Rachel Hill when it comes to strapping on the clown nose and running a kid’s birthday party.

  And yet today when I should be switched on, focused, in the zone, all I can think about is Nick McGowan. Not Simon Says. Not What’s the Time Mr Wolf ? Not Tiggy or Statues or Red Rover. Just Nick McGowan, and the fact that at some point soon it’s fairly likely he is going to see me in my Fido Dido pyjamas. And know that I like to eat tomato sauce on toast for breakfast. And be privy to the fact that because of a one-hour phone call to my sister in France, my phone calls are now monitored by an eggtimer. For the next month I’m allowed to talk for no more than three minutes per call. To anyone. About anything. And Nick McGowan is going to know this – see the eggtimer, be witness to my eggy humiliation.

  I think about how much I want to ring Zoë to get her advice. And I look down at my big clowny thighs and think about how good it would be if I could lose three kilos before Sunday. And I ponder the fir
e alarm in the spare bedroom and wonder if Mum and Dad will take the batteries out before Nick McGowan comes to stay. And then I suddenly remember that I am meant to be hosting Jamie Chapel’s fourth birthday party. I suddenly remember because one of Jamie’s friends – the one who smells like wee – tries to pull down my clown pants.

  Someone yells out, ‘The clown has pink undies.’ Another kid yells out, ‘Petey dakked the clown!’

  I pull my pants back up, inwardly cursing the elasticised waist. Outwardly cursing Petey, who has caused me nothing but trouble since this party started. Petey who apparently wanted to play a game called ‘Burn Clown, Burn’ when he held a lit birthday cake candle to my red nylon clown wig when I wasn’t looking. Petey who – at the age of three and a half – wanted to know why, if I’m a clown, I have pimples. Petey who has now dakked me no less than three times in thirty minutes. I briefly contemplate bashing Petey, but his heavily pregnant mother steps in and forces him to apologise.

  ‘Sorry, Clown,’ he says.

  ‘That’s okay,’ I say, bending down to Petey’s height, ruffling him on the head a little harder than is perhaps recommended by the Head Injuries Association. ‘So are you looking forward to having a new baby brother or sister?’

  And that’s when Petey looks me in the eye with the steady gaze of a serial killer and says, ‘When the new baby arrives I’m going to put it in a sack and take it to see a dragon.’ And he says this with just a hint of kiddie menace. And then he skips away. Skips away leaving me to clean up his cake plate, and leaving his mother to contemplate joining a witness protection program.

  So far, today is not shaping up the way I had expected.

  I look at my watch. Fifteen minutes to go. Fifteen minutes to go, and then I can go home and ring Zoë and figure out what the hell I’m going to do.

  Then the faint but sickly smell of wee fills the air and I feel two small hands pull down on my pants.