The Year Nick McGowan Came to Stay (14 page)

It's a relief to be going to the Riptides concert on Saturday night. Having spent the remainder of Saturday afternoon listening to Nick's Snuffy taunts, I just want to go out and get some fresh air, have some fun away from Nick. Nick who thinks I'm seeing the Riptides with Paul. I tell Nick that I am meeting Paul at the concert and instead arrange for Zoë to pick me up from outside my work restaurant when Nick is out with Dad renting a video from Video Ezy. Zoë pulls into the restaurant car park driving her mother's orange Leyland P76, a car she likes to call ‘the Steel Placenta'. I'm not sure where Zoë got this name. Probably from her cousin Sharon, who's nineteen, very cool and drives a Commodore station wagon. But ever since Zoë got her licence she's started referring to the P76 as ‘the Steel Placenta' and making compilation tapes of her favourite driving music. Despite the fact the P76 doesn't have a tape deck. The most memorable was ‘Music from the Steel Placenta Vol. 6' which featured a lot of Indigo Girls and a disturbing dance version of Kenny Rogers's ‘The Gambler'.

We pick up Katie Shew on our way and get to the university Refec a bit before eight p.m. even though the band isn't on until nine. We mill around and try to look like we belong in this crowd of mostly uni students. I am, of course, wearing completely the wrong thing: black stonewash jeans and a Sydney Hard Rock Cafe T-shirt. And I have a scrunchie in my hair. It's just all so wrong. Zoë looks her usual casual cool – jeans, black T-shirt and a red bandanna in her hair. While Katie, as per usual, looks gorgeous. She's wearing a bubble skirt and a striped top with huge shoulder pads. She's well known for always wearing the trendiest clothes. And she looks way older than sixteen, which is why she has no trouble buying us all rum and cokes. I take a sip and decide it's revolting, but I continue to sip it anyway, and only when Katie's back is turned do I tip my drink into a palm tree in the corner of the room.

It's nine-fifteen p.m. when the Riptides finally come on stage, and as soon as they do the whole vibe in the Refec changes. There's cheering and clapping and wolf-whistling as the band members adjust their leads and microphones. Someone yells out, ‘Play “Holiday Time”!' and someone else yells out something about the line-up at the bar being worse than the one at the New Zealand Pavilion at Expo. The lead singer looks down at his guitar and seems to smile to himself and then turns his head and says something to the drummer. Then he turns back around and counts them in and suddenly every inch of space in the Refec is filled with the opening chords of ‘Hearts and Flowers'. (I recognise the song not because I'm a long-time Riptides fan like Zoë but because this particular tune featured on ‘Music from the Steel Placenta, Vol. II', which Zoë made me listen to constantly last year.) As the Riptides play, it's like everyone in the room is suddenly in a good mood – intoxicated by the moment, beer in one hand and cigarette in the other, swaying and jostling and singing along. And I wonder if this, this music, this venue, this atmosphere that feels so foreign and intimidating to me now, will feel right to me next year when I'm a uni student. I hope so.

Katie leans into me and says something I can't quite hear.

‘What?'

She pushes a strand of hair behind my right ear, leans a little closer and says, ‘I can smell marijuana!' I nod my head and say, ‘Me too,' even though I'm not one hundred per cent sure what marijuana smells like. I feel something cold on my back and turn to see the back of a guy with spiky black hair wearing a Go-Betweens T-shirt stumbling his way through the crowd with two beers in his hands. Then I feel a tug on my hair and am confronted with Zoë's hand dangling my scrunchie in my face. She laughs. I try to snatch it back but she slingshots it into the crowd and ruffles my messy, permed hair with her hand. ‘Jesus,' she yells, attempting to be heard above the music while dancing the twist at the same time. ‘It's as hot as a nun's nasty in here.'

At the end of the first set, Zoë wanders off in search of my scrunchie and Katie says she wants to have a D&M about Nick McGowan. I must look confused because she says, ‘You know, a
Deep
and
Meaningful
?'

‘Oh, right.'

She leads us to a quiet area near the girls' toilets.

‘So what's it like having him live at your house?'

‘Well, it's been sort of weird, I guess, but . . .'

‘I mean, God, he's gorgeous. Jillian Powter and I were saying just yesterday that he seriously has the best body out of every guy in our year. I can't believe he's from Mt Isa, because—'

‘Middlemount. He's from Middlemount.'

But Katie isn't listening. ‘Because he totally looks like a surfie. Don't ya reckon? God, I had the biggest crush on him last year when he joined my Legal Studies class. He always used to sit by the back window so I started sitting there. I mean it was totally obvious I liked him 'cause I was always asking him questions and stuff, and—' she suddenly grabs my elbow. ‘You're not going to tell him any of this, are you? Promise me you won't tell him . . .'

‘No, I won't. I prom—'

‘So has anything happened?' She leans in closer. ‘Have you kissed him?'

I decide not to tell Katie about the awkward events of last night's Truth or Dare game and instead keep my answers brief, just saying that Nick and I tend to keep out of each other's way, which isn't a total lie. But Katie is visibly disappointed.

‘So nothing's happened?'

I shake my head and look over towards the stage. ‘Nope.'

‘So what do you reckon about the rumours that are going around about what he did to himself over the summer holidays, because—'

That's when I get hit in the face with my pink and purple scrunchie. Katie bends down to pick it up off the floor and I scan the crowd, grateful to spot a grinning Zoë walking towards us, just as the Riptides are stepping back out on stage.

It's eleven p.m. when Zoë drops me home.

I walk up the driveway, thankful that Mum has left a few lights on for me so that I can navigate my way through the dark to my bedroom. I turn the lock and then wave to Zoë – we have a rule that you don't drive away until the other person has safely opened their front door. She waves back and I watch as she drives the Steel Placenta off into the night, winding its way through the streets of downtown Kenmore. I turn back to the door and gently push it open, stepping softly into the house so as not to wake anyone up. I wonder what will happen between Nick and I tomorrow.

‘So, did you have a good time?'

I gasp in fright, turn and, squinting, see Nick McGowan sitting on the lounge.

I walk towards his silhouette. ‘What are you doing?' I say this in the sternest whisper I can muster.

He whispers back, ‘We need to talk.'

My mind is reeling as I follow Nick down to his room. He wants to talk in there, he says, because it's private. No one else can hear. We can talk more freely.

‘Okay,' I say. So many things are going through my head. He's going to confess that he has a crush on me. I let myself think how great that would be. I bet that's not it. Or. Or he knows that Paul is made-up. Or. Or he's done something. Snooped through my room. Found my diary and photocopied it for the boys at school. And he wants to confess. Or he's moving to another family's house. He's miserable here. Has been complaining about it to Mrs Ramsay and she's finally sick of his moaning and is sending him to live with another family. A family who don't watch ‘It's a Knockout'.

‘Rachel?'

I look up.

‘You can take a seat, you know. And don't look so scared. It's all okay.'

I perch myself on the edge of his bed. Nick sits next to me.

My mouth has gone dry. I really need a glass of water.

‘So what do you want to talk about?' (I'll just say that the Paul/Snuffy thing got out of hand and that it was a joke from the start. Zoë and I just never expected him to be so gullible and fall for it.)

He takes my hand in his.

Oh, God
.

‘I just want you to know, that I know. And it's totally fine by me.'

‘Know what?' (That I like him? That Paul is fake? That I snooped in his room during the week and found those brochures?)

‘I can't imagine how hard this has been – still is – for you. And I'd like to think that we're friends. I want you to know that I am
totally
cool with it. Really. So you and Zoë should feel comfortable around me.'

‘
What
? Nick, what are you talking about?'

‘It's okay. Rachel, it's me, Nick. You don't have to lie about it any longer.'

‘Lie about what?'

‘About you and Zoë being gay. Being, you know, together. I'm totally cool with it.'

He thinks I'm a lesbian.

‘You think I'm a lesbian? You think I'm a
lesbian
?
I am not a lesbian, Nick
!'

But Nick isn't listening. To him, I'm just some hysterical homosexual sitting on the edge of his bed.

‘I saw Zoë drop you off tonight, that's when I knew. You weren't out with Paul because there is no Paul. “Paul” is actually Zoë. And I mean, it's totally understandable because you're worried about breaking the news to your parents.'

‘Nick. Nick.' I start to shake his shoulders. ‘I am not gay. I am not gay. I'm not. Paul is made-up, that's true. There is no Paul. But Zoë and I are just – we're friends. I've known her since I was five years old. She's like a sister to me. I love her but I don't, you know,
lurve
her.'

‘I was worried you were going to do this.'

‘What?' My voice is now going into that dangerously hysterical zone.

‘Deny it.'

I stand up. ‘
I am not gay
!'

‘So, what you're saying is you're not gay? You and Zoë aren't a secret couple?'

‘No. No we are not.'

‘And Paul is . . .'

‘Made-up. I wanted you to think that I had a boyfriend. But I'm straight. Really.'

And that's when Nick says, ‘I thought so. I just wanted to hear you admit that Paul was fake.'

With that he gets up from the bed, winks at me and says, ‘See you in the morning.'

And I wander out of his room dazed, fighting the urge to throw up.

I successfully avoid seeing Nick McGowan for most of Sunday by staying in my room. I'm too humiliated to face him. So I stay upstairs and start work on my French assignment, wondering what the fallout is going to be from last night's revelation. Is he going to spread it around school that I had an imaginary boyfriend? I try not to think about it. That's probably what he'll do. He'll tell everyone that I made up a boyfriend to look cool.

I ring Zoë to tell her about last night's startling events – the trap that Nick planted by telling me he thought she and I were gay lovers. Zoë takes the news surprisingly well and doesn't seem the least bit phased by Nick questioning her sexual orientation. Instead, her initial response is to say, ‘As if I'd date you! Give me some credit. For starters you have crap taste in music, and then—'

‘Forget the gay thing. It was a trick,' I say, cutting her off. ‘A trick. To get me to tell him that Snuffy was made up. And now it really does look like I like him.'

‘Who's Snuffy?'

‘Paul.'

‘When did you change your boyfriend's name to Snuffy? I mean, Rach, as if anyone is going to believe that you've been dating a guy called Snuffy.'

‘Zoë, focus! The point is that now Nick McGowan probably thinks I like him.'

‘But you do like him.'

‘But I don't
like him
like him.'

She says, ‘Oh, please,' and then hangs up.

Half an hour later Mum knocks on my door. She's decided to make spaghetti bolognaise for dinner. ‘We're all eating too much takeaway,' she says. ‘No more Kentucky Fried.' After much pleading she allows me to eat mine in my room (since I tell her I'm doing an assignment). But she draws the line at letting me get out of doing the washing up.

‘You've got Nick to help you, it won't take you long.'

Apparently washing-up has become one of my new jobs. I roll my eyes and trudge downstairs not caring that I'm wearing track pants and an old Sportsgirl T-shirt.

At the sink, neither Nick nor I speak. I'm too embarrassed to even look at him, since he now knows my love-life is nothing more than imaginary. The silence between us starts to get uncomfortable as he puts the plug in and turns the taps on.

‘I think we should play that game.'

I feel him look at me. I say nothing.

‘What was it called?
Best Ever Feelings
, or something?'

I still don't respond.

‘No, it was Best Free Feelings. Okay, a best free feeling.' He pauses for a moment. ‘Okay, how about the feeling when you're driving down a rough dirt road and then you move onto smooth bitumen. Rough to smooth, that's a great feeling. So what do I get now? Five points or something?'

He looks at me. I keep my head down.

‘Come on, Rachel. Don't make me call your dad.' He nudges me in the ribs. ‘If you play this game I promise to do the washing-up by myself for the rest of the week.'

I look at him, eyebrows raised.

‘Really.'

‘Fine, but for starters you don't get points. There are no points in this game, you're just supposed to keep taking turns until someone gets stuck or gives up.'

‘Fine. Bring it on, Hostess Girl.'

I look out the window and think for a minute. ‘Okay. The feeling you get when your name is called out and you've won an award you weren't expecting.'

Now it's Nick's turn to raise his eyebrows at me.

‘What?' I ask him.

‘Is that
all
you think about? Winning stuff? Getting high grades? Beating everyone else? You're, like, obsessed with it.'

‘I am not.'

‘Whatever you reckon.' He hands me a clean plate to dry.

‘Fine.' I give Nick my best sarcastic smile, take the plate and while I'm drying it, I say, ‘The best free feeling is when the person you hate more than anyone else in the world – who is arrogant and thinks that everyone is in love with him – is doing the washing-up and you get to tell him that he missed a bit.'

I hand the plate back.

I watch Nick turn the plate over. ‘Where? It's perfectly clean.'

‘Let me see.' I take the plate back from him, then I grab the spoon that's still sitting in the leftover spaghetti sauce and I pour a spoonful of sauce down the plate. ‘There,' I say, pointing to the dribble of meat sauce.

Nick's mouth drops open. Then his eyes narrow.

Uh-oh.

Suddenly my hand is being shoved into the bowl of cold meat sauce. ‘Or that great feeling of putting your hand into a tub of cold spaghetti bolognaise sauce. That's a special feeling,' says Nick.

I yelp, trying to pull my hand out but Nick forces it down, so that I'm now wrist-deep in bolognaise. I feel bits of mince and tomato squelching between my fingers.

‘Having fun, you two?'

We both turn and see my father, looking somewhat bemused, in the kitchen.

Nick bites his lip. I attempt to remove my hand from the bowl but Nick is still holding it down. So I stand on his foot.

‘Sorry.' He releases his grip. I remove my hand.

I whisper through the side of my mouth, ‘The feeling of joy you get watching your worst enemy get caught by an adult.'

Dad just looks at us, shakes his head and says, ‘Thank God you two didn't make dinner.' He lingers in the kitchen making him and Mum a cup of tea, forcing Nick and I to continue the washing-up in a more traditional, civilised fashion. But when Dad's back is turned I flick some suds at Nick.

He laughs and knocks into me with his shoulder. I roll my eyes, try not to smile and start to dry the next plate.

Just after eleven p.m. our phone starts ringing. I hear the shuffle of my father's slippers and the murmur of voices in the kitchen. I lie there with my eyes closed, thinking that it's probably Caitlin. She never works out the time difference between France and Australia. She has a habit of ringing at all times of the day or night.

I tell myself to go back to sleep. Until I hear Nick McGowan's voice.

I stand at the top of the stairs, bleary eyed. ‘Who's on the phone?'

‘Go back to bed,' says Mum.

I take a few steps down the stairs and see Nick McGowan sitting on the lounge room floor, his back to me as he leans up against the couch, talking to someone on the phone.

I turn back to Mum. ‘Who's he talking to? Has something happened?'

I watch Mum shoot a glance at my dad who says, ‘Everything is fine, Rachel. Go back to bed. It's just someone for Nick.'

‘Who?'

They walk towards me like two people paid to do crowd control.

‘His friend Sam.' They keep walking towards me, moving me backwards. Back to bed.

‘Why are they ringing now? What's happened?'

‘It's fine, Rachel. We'll talk about it in the morning. Go back to bed.'

I scratch my nose. ‘My hand smells like bolognaise,' I say to no one in particular.

‘Off you go, Rachel.'

I turn to leave, and head back up the stairs. As I pass Dad's study, I see the cordless phone sitting on his desk. I can solve this mystery once and for all.

I hold my breath as I put the receiver to my ear.

‘It's alright, mate. You know you can ring me whenever you want.'

Nick's voice has taken on a soothing tone – it takes me by surprise.

But it's what I hear next that makes my jaw drop. The sound of a little girl's voice whispering back, ‘Nick, when are you coming home?'