The Year Nick McGowan Came to Stay

by Rebecca Sparrow

  He stares at me, as though I have just spoken to him in Greek. ‘Are you always this uptight, or do I just bring this out in you?’

  My mouth falls open. My brain shifts like a Rubik’s cube as I struggle to think of a comeback.

  ‘Nick!’

  We both turn. My mother is standing on the verandah waving the cordless phone at us. ‘There’s a phone call for you.’

  ‘Jesus.’ Nick grinds his cigarette into the bottom of the Felix mug. ‘It’ll be my dad. Again.’

  ‘It’s a Sam Wilks for you,’ yells my mum, putting the phone to her chest.

  I turn and watch Nick’s tanned face turn deathly pale as he slowly gets up and goes to the phone.

  He’s on the phone to Sam Wilks for half an hour. I offer to go and get him for dinner, but Dad looks at Mum and then quickly tells me to leave him go. Mum says, ‘We can start without him.’ She’s going to leave a plate for him in the oven. No eggtimer for him.

  I start heaping chips onto my plate and then I remember what happened down at the pool. I stop – mid chip grab – and look at my father.

  ‘Nick said you said he could smoke.’

  ‘Nick’s going through a tough time right now, Rachel. And he’s eighteen, so legally he’s allowed to smoke, so . . .’

  I didn’t know he was eighteen.

  ‘What tough time? I think I should know what’s going on – just so I can be mentally prepared if I come home one afternoon and find him sticking his head in the oven.’

  Mum looks at me and rolls her eyes.

  ‘Rachel, you’re being silly. Nick is just dealing with a few problems at the moment. So you need to give him some space.’

  ‘That’s not what they’re saying at school.’

  ‘Well, you should know better than to listen to rumours.’

  ‘Well why can’t you just tell me?’

  ‘Because it’s not for us to tell you what Nick’s been through. It’s up to him.’

  ‘Fine.’

  So I slump into the lounge and do what we always do on a Sunday night at six-thirty p.m. – watch ‘It’s a Knockout’ (a lame game show on TV) and eat Kentucky Fried Chicken for dinner. It’s the only time we’re allowed to eat in front of the TV, because Mum says she’s too tired to cook. And she happens to like Kentucky’s coleslaw. So we sit there and watch TV and my dad says what he always says every Sunday night: that the male host, Billy J. Smith, seems to be losing weight. And that Fiona McDonald’s teeth are so white, they remind him of the Osmonds.

  And I sit there and pray that Nick doesn’t come down right now while my father has coleslaw on his chin.

  During a commercial break I make an excuse to go downstairs so I can loiter past Nick’s bedroom door and hear what’s going on. And – of course – that’s when he opens his bedroom door, wiping his red swollen eyes, only to find me standing outside. Staring right at him.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I watch as he rakes his fingers through his blond fringe to push it off his face.

  ‘I was just getting . . .’ What? I’m not sure, so I abandon this sentence by the side of the road.

  ‘Are you crying?’

  I pause. Decide to try another tack.

  ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ he says, before running up the stairs two at a time.

  ‘Define fine,’ I mumble, as I follow up behind.

  ‘Maybe it’s his best friend, the one who saved his life.’

  I stand at the school gates trying to keep one eye on the uniforms of the students passing by me, and one eye on Zoë.

  ‘Nup. Mum pretty much said that stuff was crap.’

  ‘So your mum knows?’

  ‘Apparently. But they won’t tell me anything. Anyway, you didn’t see his face. When Mum said the name Sam Wilks, Nick looked like he was going to spew. And the other thing I forgot to tell you, is that Mrs Ramsay, the counsellor, rang him as well. He spent most of the night on the phone. Hang on a sec, Zee.’

  I go over to a Year-9 girl who has sauntered through the gates wearing her hair down. As soon as she sees me, she ties it back in a ponytail. I give her a look that says, ‘I’m watching you. And your hair.’

  I go back to Zoë.

  ‘Ohmygod, did you see how big her boobs were? She’s in Year 9 for godsakes. She’s gonna put someone’s eye out with those things.’ Zoë looks down at her chest. ‘What the hell is wrong with the two of you? You’re not even trying.’

  ‘You’ve been reading Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret again, haven’t you?’

  ‘Well, I read somewhere that if you name things and talk to them everyday, they’re more likely to grow.’

  ‘That’s plants, Zee. Plants. Not your boobs.’

  ‘Oh, right, right,’ she says slyly. And then out of the side of her mouth she whispers to her chest, ‘Don’t listen to her. Mummy loves you.’

  ‘You’re a freak.’

  ‘I’ve got it!’ she says, hitting me in the arm. ‘Maybe Sam is his dad?’

  ‘No. Mum and Dad have spoken to Mr McGowan. And plus his surname is McGowan, not Wilks. Mum wouldn’t say “Sam Wilks is on the phone”, she’d say, “Your dad’s on the phone”. And anyway, one of the conditions with Nick McGowan living with us is that he has to ring his father every Tuesday night. So Sam Wilks is not his dad.’

  ‘But maybe Nick McGowan is adopted. And maybe Sam Wilks is his real dad. His biological dad. Huh?’ She nods enthusiastically. ‘His biological dad has heard that Nick tried to top himself, and now he’s ringing to check on him.’

  ‘You’ve been watching too much “Knots Landing”.’

  ‘You should have asked Nick this morning instead of racing off to get the early bus. You’re an idiot. And another thing, you’ve got a hot guy living in your house and you’re not making the most of it.’

  ‘And what would you be doing?’

  ‘He’s got the best body out of any of the guys in Year 12. So for starters, I’d accidentally walk in on him in the shower.’

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘That’s right. Because you’re a perv. I’m just waiting for the day you ring me from prison asking for bail money. And haven’t you got an early guitar lesson? Get going and let me concentrate on my job.’

  ‘Okay.’ Then she drops to her knees, grabs my hand and starts pleading. ‘Pleeease come to the cast party next Friday night. Pleeease.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘God, you’re a stick-in-the-mud.’ She pokes out her tongue, and says, ‘I’ll see you at morning tea.’

  In the next twenty minutes I bust two Year-9 girls for wearing illegal black lace hair ribbons; a Year-11 girl for wearing her sports uniform; a swampie Year-10 boy for black nail polish; and Simon Guilfoyle for trying – again – to walk through the gates wearing a beanie. Despite the fact it’s summer. And about twenty-four degrees. I don’t enjoy busting people. I pride myself on being one of the nicer prefects. A shoulder to lean on, a big sister to come to in times of crisis. But I still have to give them all warnings or detentions. Rules are rules. And the school community has entrusted me to help uphold the image of the school. I’m not helping these students by letting them look messy, by letting them flaunt their beanies in my face.

  And then Nick McGowan strolls through the school gates in his sports uniform. And even though this is a detention-worthy offence, even though I busted someone just fifteen minutes ago for doing the exact same thing, I find myself turning my back and pretending not to see him.

  The day drags. In Modern History, Mrs Finemore says that if we’re well behaved she’ll let us watch a video about Stalin. Only at school is a Stalin documentary offered up as a treat for good behaviour. As usual most of the class fails to respond, except Jenny Hamilton, who puts up her hand and asks if it’s the documentary that was on the ABC last week. And weren’t we supposed to be doing
a pop quiz today? Someone groans. Someone else throws a pencil at the back of Jenny’s head. Mrs Finemore doesn’t notice or doesn’t care – she has a headache. Again. She wants us to spend the first half hour reading quietly from Crossroads of Modern History. Again. So Stacey McMaster and I spend the entire thirty minutes writing notes to each other about Mrs Finemore’s dress looking like it was made out of a curtain. Accordingly we spend the rest of the lesson referring to Mrs Finemore as ‘DWT’: Drapes With Teeth.

  When the lights are dimmed and the video comes on, Emma P and Meredith tap me on the shoulder and ask if it’s true that Nick McGowan is living at my house. That they’d heard that he and I had to share a room. A bedroom. They smile conspiratorially at one another when they say this. So I find myself filling them in on the story so far. Even though I don’t really like these girls, even though I wouldn’t usually have much to do with them. As the words pour out of my mouth I can tell that as soon as my back is turned they’re going to twist what I’ve said – pretzel my words – and turn them into something completely different. But right now I can’t have them thinking that Nick and I are room-buddies. When DWT starts to walk over to us, I turn back around and try to watch the film. But I find myself watching Mark Martin put pencil shavings in Jenny Hamilton’s hair. Jenny doesn’t even realise they’re there until Stalin’s third five-year plan.

  Through all of this my mind keeps going back to Nick McGowan, and how I should have stopped him at the gates. Given him a detention, like everyone else. I think about what he said on the phone to the man who must have been his dad. About changing his mind. And wanting to work in the mines. I’m sure it was Nick McGowan who last year got claustrophobic when the Biol class went on camp and had to crawl through some caves. So how the hell is he going to work in a mine? And everybody knows that Nick McGowan has been obsessed with becoming a doctor since he was eight years old. He’s the only person I’ve ever met who’s done the Red Cross first aid course six times. When I was in Year 10 and felt confused about what I wanted to do, Dad took me to the careers centre on Ann Street, helped me realise that there were lots of great jobs out there that would be perfect for me. Options – that’s what Nick McGowan needs. Perhaps it’s time for a brochure intervention. And perhaps if Nick McGowan was reminded that he doesn’t have to choose between medicine and mining, between jobs that start with an ‘M’, he’d feel a bit better about school.

  And that’s when I come up with a plan.

  ‘That’s a shit plan.’

  I look over at Zoë who is sitting on the edge of a table, swinging her long, alabaster legs, crunching on a giant-sized anzac biscuit while she reads a brochure on Town Planning.

  ‘Giving Nick McGowan brochures on different careers is not a plan.’

  ‘You know you’re not allowed to eat in here,’ I say, gesturing to the ‘No Food or Drink’ sign in the library Careers Room.

  Zoë rolls her eyes, shakes her head – which just succeeds in shaking her mass of brown curls – and says, ‘Always such a negative vibe. You’re gonna have to work on that, Rach. It’s not good for my aura.’

  ‘And it’s not a shit plan. I think it’s a good plan. Maybe Nick McGowan is drowning, and maybe I’m the person who can help him. That’s what I’m good at. I’m good at helping others. And in many ways I don’t have a choice because it’s in my job description, you know, as a prefect.’

  Zoë rolls her eyes.

  ‘Blah, blah, blah. Good for you. You deserve a big pat on the back with something heavy. The fact is I can’t believe that we’ve nearly spent our entire lunch hour in here trying to find a good career for Nick McGowan. I don’t even know what I want to do next year.’

  She sighs.

  ‘I thought you were going to do Arts?’

  ‘I told that to my dad and he said, “No daughter of mine is doing an Arts degree.” He said it’s a degree in nothing, won’t get me a job. He thinks I should be doing Law. But that’s just so he can go around saying, “My daughter’s doing Law.” So I’m going back to Plan B.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘Teaching. Hey, wanna come round to my place tonight and watch The Sound of Music?’

  ‘You’re joking, right? You know how much I hate that movie. And you always get annoyed when I start cheering Rolfe on to blow the whistle.’

  Zoë sticks her tongue out at me. I roll my eyes and keep searching for brochures. And while I try to think of careers that might appeal to an eighteen-year-old guy from Middlemount, Zoë lies down on the library table, closes her eyes, and from time to time bursts into random falsetto renditions of ‘Edelweiss’ and ‘Sixteen, Going On Seventeen’. I start to suspect she has Sound of Music Tourette syndrome.

  When the bell goes I’m armed with fifteen brochures on different careers, a book on good study habits (for myself) and no clue whatsoever on how to give the brochures to Nick.

  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 deaf?’

  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—’