9. German translation
10. Visualisation
11. Prepare Sunday list of things to do
12. Go to bed
FROM THE TRANSCRIPT FILE OF BINDY MACKENZIE
Saturday, 12.45
Castle Towers food court, after work. I sit near Mister Minit, where keys are cut and bracelets are engraved. There is an occasional horrible shrieking sound from Mister Minit. Single lines of conversation float into my hearing.
A man says to his wife:
And all this is real? Because, you know, it doesn’t seem all that plausible.
A girl rushes by with a group of friends, concluding a story with the words:
It was a great, big, giant head of cabbage!!
Here are some Lines from a Book which Caught Brady’s Eye Today . . .
On the etiquette of shopping
‘In inquiring for goods at a store or shop, do not say to the clerk or salesman “I want” such an article, but, “Please show me” such an article, or some other polite form of address . . . It is rude to sneer at and depreciate goods, and exceedingly discourteous to the salesman . . . Whispering in a store is rude. Loud and showy behaviour is exceedingly vulgar.’
From: Our Deportment, or the Manner, Conduct and Dress of the Most Refined Society; including Forms for Letters, Invitations, etc, etc, Also, Valuable Suggestions on Home Culture and Training by John H. Young (1881), pp 150–151.
Night Time Musings of Bindy Mackenzie
Monday, 4.30 am
I have awakened in a feverish state.
Strange, strange how my heart crashes about like a sneaker in a clothes-drier.
There are just three days until Wednesday.
Already, I have written to the Board (step 1), and have begun to expose the poisonous souls of my FAD class (step 2).
Anyway, I have exposed the poisonous soul of Toby Mazzerati.
I think that was a success. On Friday, I put his soul in an envelope and stuck it to the outside of his locker.
Later that day, I saw him leaning against a classroom door. ‘Hey, Bindy,’ he said as I passed by. ‘Thanks for your note.’
Everything about his words had a careful, uncertain tone. As if he were seated at a piano, trying out a difficult new piece.
‘You’re welcome,’ I said, mysteriously, and I smiled.
‘Uh,’ he said, ‘but, by the way, I didn’t say I was a cane toad. In the FAD class? I didn’t say cane toad.’
‘You didn’t?’ I feigned surprise.
‘No. I said wolverine.’
I laughed then, a waterfall of laughter, and continued on my way.
Emily Thompson is next.
As for the weekend? My first weekend in Year 11? I think it went well. At Kmart, I was on the changing room door and had to give out the plastic numbers: 1, 2, 3, 4 or 5. (It is forbidden to try on more than five items at a time.)
I like to imagine that I am the Gatekeeper to the Kingdom of Changing Rooms. The plastic number is my gift to shoppers. A magic key that will reveal its purpose at an unexpected moment. Perhaps it will slay a dragon or open a secret door?
I have noticed that shoppers do not see the plastic number in this way.
Anyway, I survived Kmart, and I ticked off everything on Saturday’s list. But I encountered my downfall again:
reverie
This is what happened.
When I arrived at the Brentwoods to babysit on Saturday night, Maureen Brentwood gave me TWO BOOKS.
She runs a second-hand bookshop called Maureen’s Magic, and she has been promising to set aside a book that I might like. I have never believed her promise. Why give away books when you could sell them?
Seriously, it’s just not the secret to success. There is flaking paint on her front door and mould spots on her bathroom ceiling: I believe she could use some success.
Yet, she gave me two books as she ran out the door, her husband waving from the car.
Now, I was planning to spend the evening reciting John Donne poems to Rebecca (aged three) and Sam (aged one), to help me memorise the poems (and for the good of the children’s vocabulary), but instead, I watched them play with their fingerpaints.
And as I watched, I thought to myself: what a lovely person Mrs Brentwood is, and what a rare thing it is, to meet a thoughtful person in this cruel world, and also: how did she know that I love history? (The books are about etiquette in the nineteenth century.)
Next thing I was caught up in reverie about books, history, clothes, rules, manners, kindness and so on, and all the time I was so happy that Mrs Brentwood had thought of me, I wanted to cry.
After I put the children to bed I played Mr Brentwood’s PlayStation™ all night.
I don’t know.
So much for the night of John Donne!
Last night there was babysitting for Eleanora—no chance of working there, of course! (She knows of my fondness for history, but I cannot imagine her giving me books.)
How do I expect to maintain my position (first) in all my classes if I don’t use every moment? People say that Year 12 is important because that’s when you do the HSC, but it’s in Year 11 that your rank is set in stone. If I slip down a rank or two this year, I doubt I will be able to climb back up and I will end up living on the streets with a cardboard sign:
$1 for a smile
Now, it is my belief that character flaws should be imprisoned to stop them from spreading. But I’m tired of writing the word ‘reverie’ and putting it into a box.
reverie
I must think about Emily Thompson.
It’s lucky I don’t need much sleep.
reverie
reverie
reverie
I believe that Emily Thompson is a vampire.
Also, I believe that Emily Thompson wrote the following on my Name Game:
Well, what can you say about Bindy. Hmm. Did someone say the word ‘SMART’???? Bindy! You have words in your head that would be too long to fit in anyone else’s head! Because you have SUCH A HUGE HEAD!! Just kidding!! (kind of)
Let me explain why I think that.
Emily Thompson is a walking exclamation mark.
She is always opening her mouth and her eyes in astonishment. She reminds me of the face at Luna Park, or a set of swinging double doors. Life bursts out of Emily’s face just as people burst through swinging double doors.
She adores, nay she devours! (sucks the blood) of the people she likes. (Such as her two best friends—who, along with Emily, spent the summer with my mother, by the way. Did I spend the summer with my mother? Why, no, actually. Thanks for asking. She was busy with Emily Thompson and Emily’s two best friends.)
And she hates and despises (nay she demolishes!) the people she dislikes.
I am a person Emily dislikes.
Lucky me.
What else? She wears too much lipgloss. She talks in capital letters (her voice is so loud you can hear her from the front gates of the school).
And, strangest of all, she is obsessed with doing well at school.
Strange because she is a moron.
She will never do well at school.
Yes, there is no doubt. She is the one who wrote that comment on my Name Game. All those exclamation marks and capitals. Poor girl, she can’t stand how well I do, so she tells herself I am ‘big-headed’. Jealousy, thy name is Emily.
So, how to describe her true nature?
I will reflect upon it and before this week is up, I will show her.
But, more to the point, on Wednesday afternoon at the next session of FAD, I will show them ALL my own true nature.
At last, I am going to speak my mind.
I wonder how to slow my beating heart?
Resolutions from the Heart. This week, Bindy will . . .
1. Live until Wednesday afternoon (that is, do not have a heart attack before then).
The Dream Diary of Bindy Mackenzie
Tuesday, 5.20 am
I dreamed that I was lyi
ng on my stomach, somewhere dark and warm. My eyes would not quite open. This is good, I thought, I deserve this rest. I smiled to myself, and pressed into the warmth. Flower petals brushed against my neck. It was a tropical sauna.
But something heavy was resting on my back. What was it? Some kind of a backpack? My computer? I shifted, trying to tip the weight, but it only pressed harder and heavier.
Then a voice moved against my ears. It was not a backpack but a person on my back!
‘It’s flying fingers Mackenzie,’ said the voice, ‘woho, we got lucky, we got flying fingers Mackenzie, it’s ok, Mackenzie, I got lucky, I got flying fingers too—’
The flower petals brushed more quickly—they were sticky, they were sticking to my neck. They were not flower petals, they were fingers! What’s more, they were lumpy and were clinging to me!
This was not a sauna but a swamp! I was a cane toad! There was a cane toad on my back.
It was so shocking that I had to wake at once.
A Memo from Ernst von Schmerz
To: Bindy Mackenzie
From: Ernst von Schmerz
Subject: Summonsing You
Time: Wednesday, lunchtime
Yo Bind,
Looked for you in the library, looked for you in the tuckshop, looked for you on the lawn. Nevertheless: whassssup? Why have we not crossed paths to date this year, my dirty ho? More than a week has passed. Have we no single class together? Howzat possible? Perchance you is INVISIBLE this year?!?! How was your summer holiday, anyho?
Me? Oh, thanks for asking. Went to a Science camp, Penrith way. Sweet as.
To the point. Mrs Lib/dale wants to see us. She fastened her evil eye on me and said, ‘I need you and Bindy.’ Find Bindy, she said, and bring her to me. The mission is yours, she implied, should you choose to accept it.
And guess what, Bind, I accept.
So, where’s YO ass, girlfriend?!!
No doubt she wants to talk to us about someone new for the debating team, given the loss of our second speaker to the vortex of international exchange. Think on ideas for recruitment, woncha, and track me down, hokay?
Just had a thoughtflash and philosophised. Here it is, for your infotainment:
The Philosophical Musings of Ernst von Schmerz
Where is Bindy?
Seems that I am alone this year
Like a tear that falls from a candlestick
(No, Ernst! That’s wax, I fear, not a tear)
(oh fear is the tangling horsewhip)
Can this be right?
It’s a gangsta night so
it can’t be right: this darkness.
The Philosophical Musings of Bindy Mackenzie
1.46 pm
At last I am at FAD! Here I am at FAD! And I shall keep nothing to myself!
I am the first to arrive. Here I sit in the storage room at the back of the gymnasium. I have unstacked the chairs and they speak to me: speak the truth, Bindy! Do not fail!
Also the chairs murmur: why has Bindy unstacked us?
The chairs are right.
I will restack them. Why should I help the Venomous Seven to their seats?
No. It is too late. Here come Emily and Astrid. Let it begin.
5
Bindy Mackenzie
24 Clipping Drive, Kellyville, NSW 2155
The Director
Office of the Board of Studies, NSW
Dear Sir (or Madam),
I am a student at Ashbury High, a mediocre school in Sydney’s windswept Hills District, and I wrote to you last week.
I am surprised that you have not replied. Did you receive my letter? Did you read the enclosed Report?
I suppose you may be busy. You are, after all, responsible for the education and future of this state. (I had assumed that my own education and future would therefore be relevant to you. But perhaps I have mistook.)
Now, when I sent my Report last week, I thought that it spoke for itself. I thought there was no need for me to direct you to the obvious. But perchance on this topic too my thoughts were amiss? For instance, when you read the Report did you happen to notice that:
1. We spent most of our first FAD session opening and closing the concertina wall.
2. When not manipulating the concertina wall, we talked about animals.
3. When not talking about animals, we passed papers around the room.
4. The reason we talked about animals, and passed papers around the room, was to help the teacher remember our names.
5. The teacher was utterly unable to recall our names.
6. By contrast, we all remembered her name.
7. Her name is Try Montaine.
Furthermore, please note that the course is entitled Friendship and Development. Yet, our friendships have already been formed and set in stone. And my development is quite complete, thank you very much. I can’t speak for the others on that issue, but as far as sex is concerned, I believe they have developed off the charts.
I am enclosing a Report of the second session, which took place today. I draw your attention to the fact that:
1. I have no time to take a kickboxing class.
And I remain:
Bindy Mackenzie
Report on ‘Friendship and Development’ (FAD) prepared for the Office of the Board of Studies, NSW
by Bindy Mackenzie
Session 2
The session took place, once again, in the storage room at the back of the gymnasium.
I arrived first and sat in the circle of chairs; the others arrived in a flood, viz.:
• Emily and Astrid, in a frenzy of talk;
• Sergio joining them with a single ironic line (which I could not quite hear) which made Emily and Astrid laugh;
• Toby, talking to himself and doing a curious ostrich-style walk;
• Briony, daydreaming such that she almost bumped into Toby;
• Elizabeth, bright-eyed in t-shirt and tracksuit pants, and alongside her:
• Finnegan Blonde, actually taking Elizabeth’s tracksuit pant cloth between his fingers, tugging it slightly—and letting it go.
When Finnegan touched Elizabeth’s clothing in this way, he said something solemn in a low voice. Elizabeth nodded like a mystic.
Just as this group poured through the concertina wall, the tiny teacher emerged from the fire escape.
She rushed towards the others, as a stream might rush to join a river.
They blended together and chatted excitedly like rapids.
I stayed in my chair like a rock.
It turned out that the excitement was about the summer storm brewing outside. The day had turned heavy with darkness. It would pour rain any moment, they all agreed (in some amazement).
There would be thunder!
There might be lightning!
‘And these are things you’ve never experienced before?’ I queried (cuttingly).
But Elizabeth was speaking: ‘There’s a rainbow out there.’ She was pointing through the window to a faint curve of pink amongst the grey. A charm bracelet jangled faintly on her wrist.
‘What does it mean?’ Emily said, in low, panicked voice. ‘What does it mean if a rainbow comes before rain?’
‘You know what those clouds remind me of?’ said Astrid, and Emily dropped her wide-eyed look at once. She took a Toblerone out of her pocket and peeled back the foil, while Astrid declared: ‘Those clouds remind me of a knee.’
Every head tilted in surprise. Emily, biting off a pyramid of chocolate, said, ‘Astrid, what the FLAX?’
‘Okay, remember when we went on that excursion to Hill End in Year 8? And we had to like goldpan in the creek?’ Astrid began. ‘And so, Sergio was kind of like running through the water, cause he wanted to get to the best gold, like acting like he knew where it was? And the rocks were like so slippery. So he goes flying and lands on his knee on these rocks and there was like blood just like bleeding everywhere, and then later? His knee was so bruised. It was like FOXGLOVE blue and FOXGLOVE
yellow and even FOXGLOVE purple.’
‘What a great way of describing a stormy sky,’ said Try, serenely. ‘Like a bruised knee.’
‘You remember that?’ Sergio stared at Astrid. ‘That was three years ago.’
‘I forgot we even went to Hill End,’ said Toby, and then began a nonsensical chant about goldpanning in Hill End.
‘And yet your lyrics suggest that you remember it well,’ I said to him (acerbically). But Astrid and Sergio were dancing in time to Toby’s chant and his focus was not on me, it was on them.
‘We were so like trashed that day?’ Astrid said, nostalgically, breaking away from the dance. ‘And I always remember everything that happens when I’m trashed. It’s kind of like a thing about me, like a reversal? Because I remember FOXGLOVE nothing from when I’m not trashed.’
I took a deep breath. ‘You would have us believe,’ I began (scornfully), ‘that inebriation enhances recollection?!’
Astrid glanced at me with an expression I have seen her use in Maths when she does not comprehend what her textbook is saying, and, further, holds the textbook responsible.
Sergio had placed his foot up on the chair beside mine and was rolling up his trouser leg to reveal his knee. Everyone moved in closer. The knee was white, knobbly, and hair-sprouting.
‘Did you imagine the bruise from Hill End would still be there?’ I laughed (bitingly).
But Sergio was pointing to a fine white line which he said was his ‘wicked-ass’ scar from that very fall, on the rocks, in Hill End.
There was the slightest pause.
I think we were all thinking the same thing: if that fine line on his knee was a ‘wicked-ass’ scar, what was the scar on his face? Sergio has a burn scar, you see, which begins just below his right eye, dips down towards his mouth, and extends out to his ear. It takes the form of raised white bumps with tangled red threads between them.
‘Maybe you should have got stitches?’ suggested Try, touching the small scar on Sergio’s knee.
‘It’s not too late,’ suggested Toby. ‘Alls I needs a needle and a thread.’
And they all stepped back to talk about the storm once again.
The Betrayal of Bindy Mackenzie Page 3
