Free The Year Nick McGowan Came to Stay by Rebecca Sparrow Page B

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    â€˜You know Nick helped me prepare tonight’s dinner. And this afternoon he completely cleaned out Gipper’s cage for me.’
    â€˜Fabulous,’ I say. Crawler , I think.
    I look out to the back garden. I spot Nick’s outline down by the pool. He’s out there now resting his head in his hands, his phone call long finished. I stand there and wonder what is really going on in Nick McGowan’s life. I think about his decision to drop down to Maths in Society, and wonder if I’m doing the right thing by refusing to help him forge Mum and Dad’s signatures on the consent form. I look up at the stars and say, ‘Please don’t let the rest of the year be like today.’
    I turn around to Gipper and grab the cage handle.
    â€˜Come on, Gip. Time for you to go to bed.’
    When I look down into the cage I see bright blue paper with the words Town planner and Dentist and Psychiatrist – all sprinkled with bird poo and feathers and husks. He’s lined the floor of Gipper’s cage with the career brochures I gave him.

I venture out of my bedroom at eight o’clock to give myself a five-minute break before I start on Biology. I bump into Mum in the hallway.
    â€˜I’m about to dish up some ice-cream. Do you want some?’
    â€˜Nah.’
    â€˜Well do me a favour—’
    â€˜And ask Nick?’
    She nods.
    I roll my eyes.
    â€˜And remind him’ – she hands me the cordless phone – ‘that it’s Tuesday, and he’s supposed to call his dad.’
    It’s a while before he notices me standing there, in the shadows, watching him smoke. When he finally turns and sees me, he seems neither surprised nor annoyed by my presence. Instead he just taps his cigarette into the mug, off-loads some ash and says, ‘You again,’ before turning back to look at the moon.
    â€˜Benson wants to know if you want some ice-cream.’
    Nick McGowan turns his head and looks at me. His eyes narrow, but his lips form a wry smile. He’s looking at me differently now, as though I’ve surprised him by making a joke.
    â€˜No, thanks.’
    An awkward silence descends.
    â€˜Mum said to remind you to call your dad.’
    I hold the phone out to him. He stares at it as though what I’m offering him is a gun. So I lay the phone down on the box beside him and turn to leave in a sudden hurry to get away.
    â€˜I do all the cooking at home.’
    I stop. Turn back around.
    â€˜That’s why I had a recipe book in my bag. I’m on a mission to find a good lasagne recipe.’
    I don’t know what to say. So I just sort of stare at Nick McGowan.
    â€˜It’s all about the bechamel sauce. And the layering,’ he says, nodding his head, not even looking at me. ‘Yep.’
    â€˜Right,’ I say.
    â€˜My dad likes lasagne,’ he says, picking up the cordless phone and bouncing it up and down in his hand. ‘So at least I’ll have something to say to my dad tonight. I can say, “Hey Dad, got another lasagne recipe for us to try”.’
    His tone is sarcastic.
    I start to make a move to leave.
    â€˜Rachel?’
    â€˜Yeah?’ I turn and look him in the eye.
    â€˜I just want you to know, I think your parents are great – you don’t know how good you’ve got it.’

I leave for school extra early the next morning so that I can avoid seeing Nick McGowan. Yet all day at school, without me wanting them to, my eyes search for him. Scanning classrooms, skirting over people’s heads down long corridors, jumping from person to person in the quadrangle, by the tennis courts, in the library, in the tuckshop queue. I never see him. In English, when we’re supposed to be watching the second half of Hamlet , I find myself staring out the window, wishing he would pass by. I imagine that Nick McGowan and I are like two characters in one of those old sixties movies starring Doris