The Betrayal of Bindy Mackenzie

by Jaclyn Moriarty

  ‘Can these letters hurt you?’ she cried, pointing her toes at them, and almost slipping on one. (‘Apart from when they break your leg?’ she joked.) She said that people who want to ban swearing make the swear words more powerful. ‘If the words were used all the time,’ she argued, ‘they would be harmless.’ (There is a flaw in Emily’s logic, but my head is too tangled to figure out what it is.)

  ‘In conclusion,’ Emily concluded, ‘I suggest a new school rule. All students must replace three common words—let’s say ‘classroom’, ‘bus’ and ‘tree’—with three extremely rude words. Let’s save the fabric of society! Let’s everyone use as much bad language as we can!’

  ‘Let’s everyone not,’ remarked Miss Flynn, but in a good-humoured way.

  Nobody was surprised when the announcement was made at the end of the class: the winner of the contest was Emily.

  Emily Thompson, drama queen; Emily Thompson, komodo dragon—Emily Thompson had my prize.

  At the bus stop, after school, I happened to pass Emily, Toby and once again Astrid. As I approached, Emily broke away from the others and thanked me for the topic she had used in her speech. She seemed genuinely grateful. She tried to be matter-of-fact, as if her success meant nothing to her, but her eyes sparkled and her mouth kept breaking into smiles.

  Astrid was scratching her ankle with her bus pass, but she straightened up to ask what we were talking about. When Emily explained, both Astrid and Toby congratulated her enthusiastically.

  It occurred to me that, in all the years that I had won the oratory contest, no-one had congratulated me once.

  On the bus trip home, I thought about ways you could break open a coconut, using nothing but the objects in a park.

  Here are some Lines from a Book which Caught Bindy’s Eye Today. . .

  ‘The school days to a young girl are usually full of pleasure and freedom from care or anxiety.’

  From: Twentieth Century Etiquette: An Up-to-Date Book for Polite Society Containing Rules for Conduct in Public, Social and Private Life, at Home and Abroad by Annie Randall White (1900), p 101.

  A day in the life of Bindy Mackenzie . . .

  Tuesday.

  Worst day of my life.

  Astonishingly, the day began, once again, like this:

  Uncle Jake, in the kitchen, with a box.

  This box was smaller and he was tearing it more quietly. In fact, the kitchen itself seemed smaller and more demure. Veronica sat up straight and smiled, ‘Hello there, you!’ as I walked in the door. Jake looked up and announced, ‘Bindy Mackenzie!’

  I wanted to make a joke about the cardboard box. I wanted to say something clever like, ‘Don’t tell me. Twins.’ Something that would show I was not an adolescent, running from the room in a temper, but a sophisticated person who took babies in her stride. But all I could do was say, ‘Hello.’

  ‘This time he’s found a stroller on sale,’ Veronica tilted her head at Jake’s cardboard box. ‘Can you believe this guy? And Bella’s old stroller is still perfectly fine. I’m sure I could have washed out these food stains and sewn up that . . .’ Her voice drifted. ‘Or maybe not,’ she decided, and tilted her head at me. ‘You feeling okay, Bindy? That flu you had is hanging around longer than it should be.’

  ‘No, no, I’m fine,’ I assured her. I was trouble enough for them without complaining about my health.

  I reached around Jake to get to the fridge, and noticed a crust of toast peeking out of the hem of his pyjamas.

  ‘Hey, Bind,’ he said, ‘I hear you’re after driving lessons?’

  I stopped.

  A premonition—a flailing heart.

  ‘Because,’ he continued (slow, tearing sound), ‘I reckon I could give it my best shot.’ He looked up, a fresh square of cardboard hopeful in his hand. I sat at the table, poured myself juice, and tried to thank Jake for his offer.

  It was clear to me—and my heart broke a little at the thought—that they were both being generous and kind. They wanted to make up for laughing at me yesterday. It made me want to shout again: Stop it! I don’t deserve it! You should be ANGRY at me!

  Meanwhile, I have to admit, my mind was consumed with an image: a plump young woman nods, a dimple in her chin, a key swinging gently on a chain around her neck. I was seven years old, and this woman was my first piano teacher. Her name was Penny. I think that the key around her neck was engraved with the number 21, but it should have been engraved with the number of her prison cell.

  Penny should have been in gaol.

  For, you see, she was untrained in the art of piano teaching.

  It took my next teacher, my current teacher, months, nay years to unravel the habits that Penny had instilled. My wrists were at an ungainly angle! My fingers curled too tight! The pressure I applied, the clunking of the pedals, oh, I need not go on. . .

  Who knows? If I’d begun with a qualified teacher, I could perhaps be a concert pianist today. (As it is, I don’t do quite as well at my piano exams as I would like.)

  And now the same thing was going to happen with my driving lessons!

  With the right instructor I might become a racing-car driver and win the next Grand Prix! With the wrong instructor, who knew what dangerous habits I might (unconsciously) adopt? I pictured myself in the driver’s seat: hunched forward, wrists oddly bent, fingers curled too tight around the steering wheel. I pictured Jake beside me, brazenly unaware. At the very least, I wanted professional driving lessons. But how could I refuse such an offer without seeming rude?

  Perhaps, if I just stayed quiet, his offer would slip into a void, much like the forgotten piece of toast in his pyjama cuff.

  At school, I walked around trying to think how to get out of driving lessons without offending Jake. I would have to avoid him, I thought, whenever the car was in sight. I would have to lose my L-plates, or accidentally burn my Guide for New Drivers.

  Or I could say that my father wanted to teach me to drive. I could say that!

  Only, would Jake believe me?

  I could convince my father to teach me how to drive.

  More plausibly, I could sell my father a new business proposal and earn myself the money for professional lessons. But what would my proposal be?

  I was engrossed in the problem and scarcely noticed what was happening around me. But curious things kept happening that day, and these I could not help but see.

  First, in Economics, Mr Patel opened the lesson with a rhetorical question: ‘What makes the Australian dollar rise and fall?’ A boy named Jacob Kowalski raised his hand. He spoke in a complete paragraph. He used words like ‘export’ and ‘reserve bank’. Mr Patel raised his eyebrows. He shot a few more queries at Jacob. Jacob responded to each with the same eloquence. Now, Jacob Kowalski is someone who has always drifted in the shadows at Ashbury: a small, skinny boy, shoulders violin-thin; hazy; an average student who never contributes in class. But today, as Jacob spoke, Mr Patel’s head tipped sideways in wonder.

  ‘I’ll just step out and have a smoke,’ he said. ‘And Jacob will take this class.’

  He did step out and have a smoke too, but Jacob didn’t take the class. Everyone talked amongst themselves.

  Afterwards, I heard Jacob admit to a friend that he had subscribed to the Financial Review for a while. I turned, amazed, and noticed something else: he was no longer small and skinny. His head reached to just below the doorframe. And his shoulders were cello-broad.

  Then, in the library at lunchtime, I saw Miss Flynn encircled by some people from my year. They were planning an online student newspaper. Why was a substitute English teacher starting a school newspaper? It seemed a bit forward to me. Playing around with our intranet. A high-pitched giggle bubbled from the group. That was surely not Gabby Riley? (She’s in all the lowest classes, and was suspended seven times last year.) And yet it was Gabby Riley. It emerged that she wants to write the paper’s gossip column. She would do it as a kind of daily blog. I had no idea she even knew the alphabet, let alone a
word like ‘blog’.

  In Biology, I noticed that Finnegan was absent. I knew he was at school, as I’d seen him in Economics earlier. About ten minutes into the lesson, I had to leave the room to get my ping-pong paddle (for an experiment), and was just turning back when I saw him. He was emerging from Mrs Lilydale’s office. Why had he been speaking to Mrs Lilydale? She doesn’t teach any of his subjects. I wondered if I should point that out to him, archly. He would walk towards me now, to reach Biology. His lateness might go unnoticed if we entered the science lab together. I would point that out, too.

  But, as I watched, he spun on his heel and walked in the opposite direction. I kept my eye on the door for the rest of the lesson but he never turned up.

  Why was everyone behaving so strangely? I pondered this as I entered the Year 11 wing just before final rollcall. People seemed to be emerging from curious places—from anonymity, from serial suspension, from Mrs Lilydale’s office. And then the final curious event occurred.

  A group of people were standing by the window at the far end of the room.

  Six people.

  Toby, Emily, Briony, Elizabeth, Sergio and Astrid.

  I continued on to my locker, opened it, and turned back to look.

  There they were. The Venomous Six.

  Cane toad, komodo dragon, sea-cucumber, Queen Alexandra’s Birdwing, platypus and sea wasp.

  As I watched, the cane toad leaned over and murmured something into the ear of the sea-cucumber. The Queen Alexandra’s Birdwing began to giggle. The platypus clapped his hand onto the arm of the komodo dragon. All seemed to dance around the darkness of the sea wasp. My vision speckled and the animals tumbled together. It was just as if they had been placed in a crate, and someone had lifted that crate into the air and given it a good strong shake.

  Something seethed within me.

  Something pressed at the back of my teeth, and stung the inside of my nostrils.

  What did they think they were doing? Chatting and laughing, blissful and ignorant? After all my work could none of them see who they were? Was I the only one who truly saw them?

  I stood by my open locker taking short, shallow breaths. I could hear myself wheezing and knew I should get out my puffer, but my arms were folded too tight. My fingers, meanwhile, were drumming hard onto the arms—I realised they were playing the piano. They were pounding out Mozart’s Rondo in D—a clamour in my mind.

  I wanted to scream with the force of my whole body. I wanted to run to that group of six, shake each by the shoulders and cry: ‘Can’t you see who you are? Can’t you see yourselves?

  I looked around at other students, opening lockers, spilling out books, slamming lockers, dropping things to the floor—all unaware of the animals dancing in the corner.

  And that’s when the plan came to me.

  It swooped into my mind, complete.

  A simple plan to reveal their venomous souls.

  I would do it.

  Tomorrow, just before FAD.

  I managed to unclasp my arms, take a puff of Ventolin, and turn to my locker. I calmed my breathing but inside my head something seemed to bubble and steam. I could feel engines burning. Firework wicks were being lit.

  Which is why, when I arrived home from school, I sat at the piano to relax my wrists.

  I used my left hand to lift the right wrist high in the air, and let it flop down onto the keys. I did the same with the left wrist. The keyboard jangled and jarred.

  I sensed a shadow behind me.

  ‘Nice technique,’ joked Uncle Jake, through a mouthful of stewed apples. (He still buys himself the jars of baby food that Bella used to eat.) ‘Some kind of modern jazz?’

  ‘Ha ha,’ I responded, mildly.

  ‘You’ve got your piano lesson today, haven’t you?’ he continued. ‘What’s say we drive you there?’

  ‘Thanks,’ I said, ‘but that’s okay, I like to walk.’ In order politely to signal the end of our conversation, I played the scale of E flat minor, pianissimo.

  ‘Your first driving lesson,’ announced Uncle Jake, and he dropped the car keys onto the piano top.

  Now I understood.

  But I did not know how to argue.

  I scarcely had time to review my copy of the Road Users’ Handbook. I grabbed the Guide for New Drivers, but that turned out to be a waste. I gave it to Uncle Jake, pointing out the section called ‘Information for Supervising Drivers’, and he took it with a flourish and read a random line.

  ‘Feeling stressed, Bindy?’ he said. ‘If so, we’ve gotta reschedule!’ Then he laughed and headed out to the driveway.

  My L-plates were so bright! Black and yellow, like cartoon bees. Vaguely, I wished I had put them through the washing machine, like my brother does whenever he gets new jeans. If only they were faded and frayed, I thought, then I might look like I could drive.

  I felt embarrassed, placing the L-plates on the front and back of the car, and even more so sliding into the driver’s seat. I had never sat there before. It seemed such a crowded and serious place. To calm myself, I held the steering wheel and jiggled it a little.

  Uncle Jake sat in the passenger seat. His eyes had the careful, squinting appearance of someone who is trying not to laugh. I stopped jiggling the steering wheel.

  ‘What’s this?’ Jake wriggled his bottom. Then he pulled out my Log Book. He had sat on it, bending the top right-hand corner.

  I explained about the Log Book: how I had to complete at least fifty hours of supervised driving before I could take the DART (the Driving Ability Road Test); how it was Uncle Jake’s job to sign off on each driving task as I completed it; how I had to record the time, date and location of each practice session in the Log Book, along with the number of kilometres covered, the road, weather, traffic conditions . . . I suppose I may have talked on a bit.

  ‘Daddy?’ said a voice. ‘When is Bindy going to drive?’

  I spun around so fast the seatbelt snapped and pulled a muscle in my neck.

  Bella was in the back seat! Strapped into her booster seat, straining forward to get my attention, an earnest expression on her face.

  ‘Bella!’ I said. ‘I’m sorry, darling. You can’t come with us now. I’m learning to drive!’

  Bella tilted her head like a little bird.

  ‘Bindy,’ she said. ‘When are you going to drive?’

  Beside me, Uncle Jake burped.

  When he burps, he twists his mouth to the side and blows the burp out slowly, like cigarette smoke.

  ‘Excuse you, Daddy,’ said Bella.

  ‘Come on, Bell,’ I pleaded. ‘Run inside to your mum.’

  ‘She’ll be right,’ said Uncle Jake. ‘Let’s get going.’

  And then he began to talk.

  He said I should imagine the steering wheel as a clock, and place my hands at ten to two. He mentioned the ignition, the rear-view mirror and the dashboard. He talked about the handbrake. He talked about getting the big picture, about defensive driving, about indicating, about communicating with other drivers. He shifted around, pointing here and there as he talked, while Bella sang the national anthem and kicked the back of my seat.

  I cannot explain what happened next.

  I truly cannot say.

  There is a blur or a buzzing in my mind, perhaps from the cartoon bees, perhaps from Uncle Jake’s voice.

  I remember the voice fading in and out. I remember thinking, ‘Surely he doesn’t expect me to remember all this?’ I remember thinking, ‘Ten to two? But perhaps he is wrong? What if it is quarter to three? What if it is half past six!’ (But half past six would make no sense. You’d have both hands together at the bottom of the steering wheel. I missed a whole section of Uncle Jake’s speech as I reasoned this through.) I remember saying, ‘But in the handbook, it didn’t—’ and Uncle Jake cut me off.

  ‘Bindy,’ he said, ‘forget the handbook.’

  (His voice, as he said this, put me in mind of a commander in a military movie, addressing his elite SWAT team. �
��Forget the drills,’ the commander says. ‘This is where you prove your worth. This is it. The real thing. Crunch time.’)

  I missed another chunk of Jake’s speech, thinking up the commander’s speech, and lingering over the phrase: crunch time. (It made me oddly hungry.) When I tuned back in, Jake was asking some rhetorical questions. ‘Am I just following the rules? Am I just driving in theory? Or am I one with the car? Am I, Bindy Mackenzie, one with the traffic on this road? That’s what you’ve got to be asking yourself.’

  Then Bella interrupted her singing to enquire when Bindy planned to drive.

  I remember turning the key, resting my foot on the accelerator, and breathing in sharply as the car gave a growl. Uncle Jake, I recall, was still talking: he was instructing me on what to do when we reached the ‘Stop’ sign at the end of our street.

  As it happened, there was no need for that instruction.

  There was a car, I noticed vaguely, parked on the kerb opposite our driveway.

  I edged to the end of our driveway.

  I switched on the right-turning indicator. A small, green arrow blinked at me.

  I proceeded out of the driveway.

  At this point, I thought to myself: Once I have turned the corner, I will remember to switch off the indicator.

  And then I reconsidered.

  No, I thought, it will turn off by itself.

  The strangest panic struck me: Do I need to turn the indicator off, or will it turn off by itself? And then: Hang on, did I need to put an indicator on AT ALL? There is no car behind me! There is just a house! Uncle Jake is squinting with laughter at me!

  This is it, I thought. CRUNCH TIME!

  I gripped the wheel, pressed the pedal hard, and crashed into the parked car.

  The noise of the crash was like a giant taking a bite out of a brick wall. Above that crunching sound was something louder and more penetrating: it was Uncle Jake barking out a series of swear words.

  I sat and gaped in amazement.

  Jake stopped swearing. His voice took on a firm, controlling tone. He instructed me to get out of the car, and, once I had done so, he slid over to the driver’s seat, and reversed into our driveway.