Nick McGowan is – as is his specialty – nowhere to be seen. This annoys me. I’m not sure why he even bothered to come.
I stick two stale Cheezels in my mouth. I’m not sure if it’s a sad inditement on me or this party that I’d actually rather be at home memorising Ophelia’s ‘Hamlet’s a nutter’ speech. But then I’ve never been much of a party person. The last school party I went to was Louise Kaye’s last October, out at Brookfield. Practically everyone in our grade went to that party. It was okay at first. The garage had been turned into a dance floor. There was a stack of food. The music was great. Christopher Jacks started doing some of his impersonations of the teachers at school and had everyone in fits of laughter. My mouth began to hurt from laughing so much. But a few hours later and the Kaye’s bathroom smelt like vomit. And their backyard was full of spew, cigarette butts, discarded Passion Pop bottles and one or two couples having sex. Meanwhile, Louise was stressing out because someone had poured beer into her parents’ pool. Naturally everyone ignored her except some girl from choir. Christian East got into a fight with some girl from St Margaret’s who turned up uninvited. Natalie Swan was the worst, though. She vomited on herself and then, later, passed out on the dance floor with one of her boobs hanging out. What I remember about looking over at Natalie is that the song ‘Kick’ by INXS was playing. It was like Alice stepped through the Looking Glass and into a Teen Binge Drinking commercial. Anyway, that’s when I ended up sneaking to a phone and ringing Mum and Dad to come and pick me up early. Which is what I’d like to do right now. Not because this party is out of control – it’s about as out of control as my nanna. But because this party is boring, and I’d rather be at home memorising Ophelia’s babble or watching last week’s taped episode of ‘21 Jump Street’. Or doing a dozen other things other than sit here and eat stale Cheezels.
And then. And then Zoë, Sally and Amanda get their hands on some Bundy rum and cokes. I don’t know where the alcohol came from. It could belong to Sally’s parents, who are overseas, or to her brother, Tom, who’s at a late uni lecture. Regardless, it’s now being drunk by a group of high-school kids. Zoë skols hers through a straw and immediately goes out onto the deck (balancing the empty glass on her head) and offers to take her clothes off for five bucks. Accustomed to Zoë’s frequent offers to strip, nobody pays any attention to her (except the Year 9s, who have started pooling their change). But Zoë is nothing if not persistent, and won’t be put off by the group’s overall indifference to her offer of nudity. In her mind, the issue is clearly fiscal, because she immediately drops her stripping fee to three dollars. Still no takers.
‘How about a dollar?’ she hollers, while attempting to shimmy up against a rubber tree plant.
Someone chucks a Cheezel at Zoë’s head. Zoë, naturally, takes this as encouragement and in a bewildering move shoves the Cheezel down her pants, all the while singing her own slurred striptease music.
Just as I’m moving in to stop her from unbuttoning her shirt – or eating the Cheezel – she spots the West’s fish tank and cries, ‘Fishies!’ She hurtles – all knees and elbows – to the lounge room fish tank like a drunken gazelle. Then she collapses onto the beanbag and starts watching ‘Magnum PI’ reruns.
I’m less concerned about Zoë than I perhaps should be. But having seen my best friend display similar antics (sans Cheezel, plant and alcohol) at the Year–9 confirmation camp three years ago, I’m not entirely convinced that Zoë is actually drunk. I think she just likes the idea of being drunk, and so long as there’s no actual nudity and no vomit to clean up, I’m happy to go along with her faux-drunk routine. Still, it’s probably time for me to get her some water.
Sally’s house is pretty big, and it takes me a while to find the kitchen. It’s one of those fancy kitchens with slate tiles and one of those big island benches in the middle of the floor and a fridge with double doors. I wonder what it must be like to come from a rich family, a family with an island bench in the kitchen. It takes me a while to find a glass (I find one with Muppet Babies on it!) and then to find my way back out to the group. As I round the corner of the lounge room, ready to give Zoë my ‘It’s time to leave’ speech, someone yells out, ‘There she is!’ Another voice calls out, ‘Rachel!’
I turn, eyebrows raised. Everyone is sitting in a circle on the lounge room floor. And there’s a bottle in the middle of the circle.
Oh, God. They’re playing Spin the Bottle.
Leanne yells out, ‘C’mon!’
I reluctantly walk over to the group. That’s when I notice Nick McGowan. He’s back, sitting in the circle next to Kate Winter. Ready to play.
‘We’re not playing Spin the Bottle,’ Amanda says, as she makes room for me to squash in between her and Angus. I am flooded with relief. ‘We’re playing Truth or Dare.’ Her eyes light up in a way that doesn’t exactly console me.
I hate Truth or Dare. But I take a seat beside Amanda because that’s what’s expected. My heartbeat begins to quicken.
There’s a climate of anxiousness, almost fear, every time the bottle spins. Truth or Dare is a bit like watching A Nightmare on Elm Street; you really want to leave but the excitement of staying keeps you pinned to your seat. As the bottle pinpoints victims, I watch as most people opt for truth since it is a well-known fact that dares could involve naked streaks. Clare is first. Brad asks for the truth about what exactly happened between her and Jacob Wellman at the Hoodoo Gurus concert at Expo 88 last year. (A: Kissing. With tongues. She let him put his hand up her shirt during the song, ‘Like Wow – Wipeout’.) Kate Winter’s next. She’s asked if she’s still a virgin (A: She pauses, says, ‘Yeah,’ and then flashes a sly look to give the impression she’s possibly lying . . . which means she probably is a virgin.) When it’s Marty’s turn, Clare asks him if he’s gay. Marty laughs nervously, but at the same time looks devastated. Then he says, ‘No. People always ask me that. I did have a girlfriend in Year 10, you know.’ I feel immediately sorry and embarrassed for him.
Marty takes his turn to spin and I get a bad feeling in my stomach. It spins. And spins. And spins. And stops. At Nick McGowan.
Nick doesn’t notice at first – he’s talking to Kate Winter about something to do with the new Transvision Vamp album. But everyone else has noticed and there is suddenly an atmosphere of expectation. It’s a weird kind of atmosphere as though everyone is holding their breath, waiting for what happens next. Because when it comes to truths there are many unanswered questions and rumours hanging over Nick McGowan’s head.
‘McGowan, you’re up,’ yells Angus across the circle.
Nick looks up, a little startled, as though he had momentarily forgotten where he was, only to realise he is sitting under a spotlight. He looks around the circle, the smile falling from his lips and I watch his eyes move down to see that the bottle is indeed pointing at him.
‘Truth, or dare?’ Angus’s tone is laced with challenge.
All eyes volley back to Nick McGowan. Nick who isn’t saying anything.
Angus’s voice continues. ‘Is it true that over the Christmas holidays you—’
‘Dare,’ says Nick.
Nick McGowan has chosen dare. You can almost see the disappointment, watch the crowd visually deflate. Shoulders relax. People lean back again, not forward. There will be no revelations tonight. Personally, I feel a combination of relief and disappointment. I want to know Nick’s secrets. I’m just not sure I want everyone else to know at the same time.
‘Alright, I dare you to choose a girl from this circle to pash for five minutes.’
‘Fine. But I’m not doing it in front of you lot. I’ll kiss one of the girls for five minutes but in another room.’
‘He can do it in the study,’ says Sally excitedly, pointing to a room off to the left, while at the same time fiddling with her hair.
‘It has to be on the mouth,’ says someone else. I’m not sure who. Possibly
Marty.
Nick rolls his eyes at this and says, ‘Obviously.’
‘So who do you choose?’ asks Angus.
The circle leans forward. I look over my shoulder at the TV and pretend to watch ‘Magnum PI’ even though the sound is down. My heart is in my throat.
‘I choose Rachel.’
Nick closes the study door behind him, shutting out the catcalls and cheering that accompanied our walk to this room.
‘We’ve got five minutes.’
I’m not sure if he’s looking at me as he says this or not because I’m just leaning against the study wall, arms crossed and staring at the floor. My heart is beating so fast it feels like it’s actually hitting my chest. Five minutes? Five minutes of what, exactly? I don’t know if I’m excited or terrified at the thought of what lays ahead.
I never expected this. I so badly wanted him to choose me and so badly didn’t want him to choose me, all at the same time.
And then it happened. ‘I choose Rachel.’ Not Zoë or Amanda or Leanne or Kate Winter, or any of the other girls. Nick had specifically requested me. And, I have to admit, that when he said my name, I got the same feeling in my stomach as when they announced me as a prefect late last year. Because he may be a pain and annoying and a million other things, but Nick McGowan is gorgeous, in a dishevelled, blond surfie kind of way.
Naturally when he said my name, I played it cool and pretended to be disinterested. I rolled my eyes. I made a horrified face at the carpet. I definitely made sure I didn’t look pleased. Or worse, enthusiastic. And then I looked at Zoë across the circle. Just from looking at her face, I’d know what she was thinking. Our eyes met. She nodded her approval.
So now I’m here with Nick. Alone. In a study at Sally West’s house. With the door shut. And ‘Kokomo’ by the Beach Boys is playing on the stereo outside.
‘So . . .’
‘So . . .’
‘Thanks for going along with this.’ He smiles at me as though I’m here for a job interview.
‘Whatever,’ I say, looking away and trying to keep the combined fear and excitement out of my voice. I wish I hadn’t eaten quite so many Cheezels. Oh God. What if I taste like fake cheese stuff?
‘What time is it now?’
I glance down at my watch. ‘Eight-forty-five.’ I try to say this in an alluring manner. Then I flick my hair a little bit and try to look seductive. But not slutty – I don’t want him to think we’re about to have five-minute sex. I look out the window and start singing along to ‘Kokomo’ in a nonchalant, I’m-really-laid-back kind of way. I love this song.
‘I hate this song,’ says Nick, with his back turned to me.
‘Me too.’ I roll my eyes as if I’m completely over it while making a mental note to hide my ‘Kokomo’ cassingle when I get home.
I glance at Nick. He doesn’t seem to be interested in me at all. He’s too busy looking at the bookcase in Sally West’s study. Pulling covers out, reading the back-cover blurbs. Putting them back.
‘So how long do we have in here?’ I say, trying to hurry him along. I know full well we’ve only got five minutes but I want to get the ball rolling.
‘Five minutes,’ he calls over his shoulder.
‘So . . .’ Try to think of something to say. Say something. Say something.
‘So, good idea suggesting that we come into this room.’
He pushes a copy of The Road Less Travelled back into the bookcase. ‘Well, this way they won’t know what we did.’
What the hell does that mean? Suddenly I just want to get this over and done with. ‘Well, I’m ready whenever you are.’
He turns around and looks at me with a puzzled expression.
Oh shit.
It’s a horrible moment. One of those horrible moments when you immediately know that you’ve said the wrong thing. That you’ve just made a complete fool of yourself.
‘We’re not actually going to do anything, you know that, right? We’re just going to tell them that we pashed.’ He stops, shakes his head and says, ‘I hate that word. Anyway, we’ll just tell them that we kissed and they won’t know the difference. You knew that, right?’
It takes a second for me to register the meaning of his words. We can just tell them that we pashed? He has no intention of kissing me. Ohmygod, I’m such an idiot. I should have known . . .
‘I knew you wouldn’t be interested because of your boyfriend.’
My brow furrows and then the penny drops. My boyfriend. I’d completely forgotten that in the library that day I’d told Nick McGowan I had a boyfriend.
‘You do have a boyfriend, right?’ Nick’s face is moving from puzzled to suspicious.
‘Yes.’
‘That’s what I thought.’
Nick takes a seat in the swivel chair behind the desk. I slide down the wall and onto the carpet, rest my head on my knees and wait the next few minutes out. ‘Don’t Worry, Be Happy’ plays on the stereo outside.
‘They’ve locked us in.’
‘What?’
Nick turns the doorknob but the door won’t actually open. He pushes against it with his shoulder. Then he turns to me, ‘Those morons have pushed something heavy against the door.’ He shakes his head and rolls his eyes.
I hear them laughing outside.
I slide back down the wall onto the carpet. ‘Could this evening get any worse?’
Yes, apparently, because no sooner are those words out of my mouth then George Michael’s ‘I Want Your Sex’ comes booming through the stereo in Sally West’s lounge.
Ohmygod I want to die. I don’t know where to look. My face heats up. So I stare down at the carpet.
Nick McGowan walks back across the room to sit on the big, black leather swivel chair behind the mahogany desk.
‘My God, you cross your arms a lot.’
I look up.
‘I’ve never met anyone who crosses their arms as much as you. It’s really standoffish.’
‘Well, I’m stressed. I’ve got a lot on my mind.’
‘Like?’
‘Like three assignments, and we’ve got a Biol exam coming up, and tomorrow is my last chance to win the Party Hostess of the Year title at work. And I’ve got to win it.’
‘Do I even want to know what Party Hostess of the Year is?’
I make a sarcastic face at Nick. ‘It’s a competition at the restaurant where I work. It’s the award given to the person judged to give the best birthday parties.’
‘So what, there’s a prize? You could win money or something?’
‘No, it’s just, it’s just a title. You don’t get anything. Anyway, the point is that I’ve got to win it.’
‘Why?’
‘Why what?’
‘Why have you got to win it? Is that what you want to do? Do you want to work with little kids or something? Are you hoping that it will help you get a job?’
I snort. ‘No. I want to do Communications.’
Nick McGowan looks surprised. ‘Sooo what difference does it make if you win the award? What does it matter?’
‘Well—’
‘Hello, lovebirds.’
We look up to see Kate Winter in the doorway. ‘They were sitting on opposite sides of the room,’ she yells out over her shoulder. ‘I knew he wouldn’t kiss her.’
She turns back and looks at us, a smug expression on her face. I feel my cheeks go red. I feel embarrassed and humiliated and for a second I feel like I might actually cry, until Nick McGowan gets up, taps Kate Winter on the shoulder and says, ‘Kate, you’ve got food in your teeth.’ Then he turns to me, offers me a hand up off the floor and says, ‘Let’s go get something to eat.’
We’re standing in Sally West’s kitchen, staring into her fridge.
‘I don’t think we should be going through their fridge. We should be
in the pool with everyone else.’
But Nick’s not listening. He’s too busy pushing past containers. ‘Yeah, but it’s thirty-four degrees, I’m starving and we need something cold. Where’s Benson when we need her?’
‘Yuck. Who eats beetroot?’ I pick up a can of tinned beetroot that’s sitting on a middle shelf. ‘It looks the way it tastes.’
‘Rachel, Rachel, Rachel – the beetroot is the best part of any hamburger. In fact, I would go so far as to say that a hamburger is not truly a hamburger unless it has at least three’ – he holds up three fingers to my face – ‘slices of beetroot on it.’
I screw up my face and push his hand away. ‘Beetroot? You’re joking, right?’
‘No. I love the stuff. It’s the sweetness of the beetroot combined with the salty flavour of the beef patty. Then there’s the texture and the colour. It’s the whole aesthetics of it. Beetroot has a lot going for it.’
‘You’re insane.’
‘One day, Rachel, if you’re very, very lucky, I’ll share with you my secret recipe for beetroot and hommus dip.’
I pretend to gag and say, ‘I’d rather eat my own vomit’ as he opens the freezer door and picks up a dark blue ice-cream container.
‘Ahh, Double Chocolate Swirl ice-cream. Now we’re talkin’.’
The Year Nick McGowan Came to Stay Page 9
