The Year Nick McGowan Came to Stay Read Online Free

authoritative tone to Nick McGowan, ‘She has a boyfriend. And if he knew you were standing this close to her, he would beat the hell out of you. He’s a little possessive.’
    â€˜Right,’ says Nick. ‘And is his name Huey Lewis, perhaps? And do most of your dates happen on your bedroom floor with a picnic basket under his poster on the wall?’
    Zoë laughs out loud. So I kick her.
    â€˜Very funny,’ I say. ‘As if I like Huey Lewis and the News.’ I snatch my homework diary and the other bits of paper from Nick McGowan. ‘This was a joke. I was trying to make my boyfriend laugh. It’s just this little joke thing my boyfriend and I have. You know we’re always um, laughing, and I wrote this out. It was a joke. You had to be there. Sort of.’
    Nick smiles. And nods. But I can tell he doesn’t believe me. Then he says, ‘See you.’
    I feel my face go red. So I grab Zoë’s arm and walk out of the library in silence and, when we’re completely out of sight, I turn to her and say, ‘I’m screwed.’

I sit in French realising how bad this situation really is. In the space of an hour I’ve been outed as a Huey Lewis and the News fan. And I’ve got an imaginary boyfriend. I think about the look of horror on Nick McGowan’s face when he said, ‘Do you listen to Huey Lewis and the News?’ And this is not the impression I wanted to create. I wanted him to think that I was cool. Instead I look like a dork who is one fan letter away from a restraining order. I think about my room with its posters of Kirk Cameron and Johnny Depp and A-ha and Michael J. Fox and decide that this is not the way it’s going to be.
    Then I do something I’ve never done before. I tell Mrs Lesage that I have a dentist’s appointment and that I have to leave class early. And because it’s me, Rachel Hill the prefect, Rachel Hill the good girl, she doesn’t even ask to see a note. She just says, ‘Copy down your homework before you go.’
    â€˜ Oui, madame ,’ I say, scribbling into my homework diary. Then I pack up my things and collect my bag from the day room and stroll out the school gates an hour before everybody else, no questions asked. It’s that easy.
    Except for the bit where I don’t actually know where I’m going. So I walk down Lambert Road and bypass my usual bus stop on Central Avenue, and head for Indooroopilly Station. Fifteen minutes later I’m on a train to the city. On my way to Brisbane’s coolest, independent record store, Rocking Horse Records on Adelaide Street. On my way to get some posters for my room that will make me look cool. On my way to buy myself some street cred.
    I find Rocking Horse Records easily. Not because I’ve ever been inside but because I’ve walked past it dozens of times with Mum in the past when she was dragging me to McDonnell and East on the hunt for school uniform supplies. But as soon as I step through the door it feels like a bad idea. Me being here at two forty-five p.m. on a Friday afternoon dressed in my deeply uncool maroon school uniform – complete with regulation maroon ribbon in my hair. There’s loud tribal music playing that I don’t recognise. I look around. I appear to be the only person in the room without a piercing. So I try to look like I fit in. After all, today I’m not Rachel Hill: prefect; I’m Rachel Hill: wagger. Truant. Badass. Like someone who could possibly be riddled with piercings underneath all this maroon cotton/polyester mix. And I try to look nonchalant as I wander around the store flipping through CDs and records, fiddling with cassingles with no real clue of what the hell I’m doing. I even hum as though I’m familiar with the music that’s playing.
    I look over at the sales assistant, a guy with jet-black hair, piercings and tattoos. He looks like one of the bad guys in the