The Betrayal of Bindy Mackenzie

by Jaclyn Moriarty

  Feeling ill. Might just—

  Just threw up in the bathroom. Feel a bit better now but can’t stop trembling. How strange, this numbness in my cheeks. I sense it often, you know, and sometimes in my arms and legs—it’s more than pins and needles—it seems to numb my mind.

  I must keep working on my character. Eventually, that will cure me. As Dad always says, good health is nothing but good character.

  I wonder if Emily might be a humpback whale.

  That connection she has with her two best friends— I believe they could easily sing to one another, like whales, across hundreds of miles.

  But, to my surprise, Emily’s friends were not at St Mark’s to watch the debate.

  In the empty classroom at preparation time, I found out why.

  Emily hiccoughed quietly when I turned from the board and looked at her. She blinked, turned away, and picked up a pen.

  But it was too late.

  I could not pretend I had not seen. I moved towards her, and hesitated. Ernst, who had been looking discreetly from Emily to me and back, took my cue and he himself moved closer. We both waited.

  And Emily confounded us.

  She apologised, in a whisper, for joining the team.

  She said she was going to let us down.

  She would try her best, she said, but knew we had always won before, with Kelly Simonds on the team. With her, she said, we would lose. And she had made Lydia and Cassie promise not to come tonight, because she didn’t want them to see her fail.

  ‘You guys are just so professional at this,’ she whispered. ‘I’m not even, like, an amateur.’

  Well!

  She felt inferior to Ernst and me!

  It was a shock.

  We assured her she could do it. She’d been a hit in mock trial with Legal Studies; she’d won the next stage of the oratory contest; she was famous for cross-examining Mrs Lilydale last year—how could she doubt herself?

  ‘But this is different,’ Emily insisted. ‘You guys are gonna be wishing the whole time that Kelly Simonds was here. Instead of wherever she is. Overseas or wherever.’

  At this, Ernst surprised me.

  ‘Who really liked Kelly Simonds anyway?’ he said in a low voice.

  ‘What?!’ I cried.

  But that was what he said.

  Emily giggled, and I felt a weight, such a curious burden of weight, lifting slowly from my shoulders.

  Who really liked Kelly Simonds anyway?

  Not me.

  And then, as I stood, as I floated on the spot, Emily Thompson rushed to the board and began to scribble ideas.

  Now, much later, I am intrigued by a vision of a bank of elevators, one sliding down on its shafts, another shooting up towards the roof.

  I had believed that Emily was slipping downward into the debating world. It turns out she had believed she was climbing—ascending to the echelons of intellect.

  She had been terrified of looking up there, but, despite herself, she had tried.

  Emily Thompson may be many things, but above all, she is loyal, determined and brave.

  Imagine if she were my friend.

  A Memo from Bindy Mackenzie

  To: Emily Thompson

  From: Bindy Mackenzie

  Subject: YOU

  Time: Tuesday, 10.30 am

  Dear Emily,

  Once, I left you a message in which I said you are a komodo dragon.

  Today, I write to assure you that you are not. (Unless, of course, you would like to be.)

  I admit, I said it because I wanted to scare you away from debating. I was completely mistaken. You won our first debate for us on Friday night. I am honoured to have you on the team.

  You, Emily Thompson, are a northern hairy-nosed wombat.

  A wombat is a strong, sturdy animal with short legs and short claws.

  It likes to frolic when cheerful.

  It will growl, snort and screech when angry.

  It loves chocolate.

  And it is so tough and so determined it can push its way through any fence and dig under any wall.

  I hope you will forgive me for mistaking you for a komodo dragon, and I hope you will accept this small gift: complimentary personalised memo stationery.

  Very Best Wishes,

  Bindy Mackenzie

  PS I chose a northern hairy-nosed wombat because these are more rare than the common wombat, and you, Emily, are unique.

  5

  My Buddy Diary

  By Bindy Mackenzie

  Monday, 8.00 pm

  This afternoon I tried another class at the gym, as I have yet to complete my buddy’s challenge. I tried:

  Hip-hop

  I couldn’t do it. Such strange undulations of the body! Such meaningless slappings of the shoulders and the thighs, while the head darts back and forth! As soon as I had figured out one of the patterns, they had moved on to another. And they kept dancing off in one direction while I danced in another. I was always bumping into people.

  I still have some kind of a stomach flu, so that might be why it was so hard. There are curious twinges in my stomach, much like the small cracks and snaps you hear, late at night, in a stranger’s house.

  My Buddy Diary

  By Bindy Mackenzie

  Wednesday, 11.00 pm

  This afternoon, I tried a class called:

  Advanced Step

  I thought that would be simple. I know how to walk up steps. I have done it often. But oh no, they have to complicate things! First, you have to build a platform, and then you have to dance around the platform. Step, jog, jog, step, fall, jog, step. I always jogged while the others stepped, and I don’t think you were meant to fall.

  I was in no mood to watch Eleanora make pasta after that, and may have been a little snappy with her.

  Still, I was already depressed, even before the class. At FAD today, Try taught her own lesson on ‘Study Management’. She had already prepared it, she said. Why didn’t she tell me that when I offered to teach the class? I feltmortified.

  Her session was based on this book she likes, something about multiple intelligence. The book says there are seven different types of intelligence. They are:

  (1) ‘Body’—which means you can dance, exercise and do sports. Ha ha! I certainly have that kind of intelligence, don’t I? Ha ha ha! Anyway, we gave it to Elizabeth, as she’s an athlete. Sergio said she’s already better than he is at blading.

  (2) ‘Interpersonal’—where you are good at getting on with other people. I could tell Astrid wanted that one as she’s a party girl—she was kind of twirling her ponytail with one hand and brushing cake crumbs off her knees with the other, while we discussed it—but we gave it to Sergio.

  (3) ‘Intrapersonal’—where you have inner brilliance, meaning you think deep thoughts. Secretly, I thought I ought to get that because of my philosophical musings, but I guess the others don’t know about those. They chose Briony. Because she is so quiet, I suppose.

  (4) ‘Mathematical’—which we gave to Astrid because you could tell she was ‘stressing’ that she wouldn’t get any of the intelligences. Also, she mentioned that she’s got a Maths tutor now, and it was working because she got 82% in the latest exam. I got 63% in the same exam. That was surely an error in marking but I haven’t raised it with Ms Yen.

  (5) ‘Musical’—Toby got that because he chants in an almost-musical way. (I hummed softly to myself while they discussed this one, and played a few arpeggios on my knees. To no avail.)

  (6) ‘Verbal’—the othersgave that to Finnegan because they’d heard he’s doing really well in Computing Applications and was learning all these programming languages. They decided this equals verbal intelligence in the modern world.

  (7) ‘Visual’—Emily told us she can read minds so she got that. (I’m not sure that’s what it means—I think it might be referring to painting and the arts—but Emily does have a vibrant imagination.)

  So that’s the seven types of intelligence, and
I don’t know

  if you’ve noticed this, but Bindy Mackenzie is not there.

  Nobody appeared to notice this.

  And Try has not said a single word about my Life.

  The Dream Diary of Bindy Mackenzie

  Thursday, 10.00 pm

  Last night I had a dream that lasted through the night, or so it seemed. It lingered in my mind all day, like a tent of darkness, and all day I saw terrible visions—glimpses of decay and broken bodies. I kept remembering those two dead birds I once saw lying in the gutter near Maureen’s place. The visions seemed connected to the pains in my stomach and my head. I threw up once, but it did not help.

  I cannot clearly recall the dream. The mood was grim and shadowy, and I think it began in a living room somewhere. The tv was on and my father had his feet up on the couch. When I looked at his face, his eyes were bloodshot, so I knew that the tv news was about my mother. I started sobbing, crying out, pleading with the dream to let my mother live— but someone moved quietly into the room and told me it was not just my mother, but also my brother, and probably me as well. There was something absolute in the news of our deaths. There was an ugly smell in the dream, and today, an ugly taste in my mouth.

  My Buddy Diary

  By Bindy Mackenzie

  Thursday, 10.20 pm

  Today, despite my darkness and depression, I went to the gym after Maureen’s Magic and tried to do a

  Spin class

  I couldn’t keep up. It just means going on a stationary bicycle, so I thought: easy. But it’s not. They were too fast. My feet got tangled in the pedals. My face was still crimson when I arrived home, and, humorously, Auntie Veronica told me I was looking pale. Ha! If you think a fire engine can look pale! (I said to her).

  But she ignored me, and said she’d been noticing that I’m white as a ghost lately—or did she say white as a corpse? — and she said she’d got me some Vitamin Supplements, and wondered if I might not be exercising too much? And what did the doctor say about the gland—I interrupted to point out that she’s the pregnant one, and should be resting on the couch, not running around buying me Vitamin Supplements.

  That surprised her.

  She is always asking about my health and arranging doctor’s appointments for me. I’m tired of making excuses, and pretending to go to the doctor. I feel unwell enough as it is.

  As Friday flits and flutters by, so Bindy goes to:

  1. Modern History

  And Bindy, pay heed to . . .

  Ms Walcynski. Haven’t done the assignment on Martin Luther King etc yet. Move to a seat way down the back of the room? She might not notice me.

  2. Economics

  And Bindy, pay heed to . . .

  Mr Patel. Have not yet chosen financial article and analysed. Do it on bus on the way to school? Remember scissors, newspapers, pen, etc.

  3. Double English

  And Bindy, pay heed to . . .

  Miss Flynn. Essay on Pride and Prejudice due today. Can I write an entire essay during recess? Note that Miss Flynn talks a lot at the start of class—use that time to keep writing?

  4. Double English

  And Bindy, pay heed to . . .

  See above.

  5. Double Maths

  And Bindy, pay heed to . . .

  Lucy Tan, Saxon Walker, Marley Duncan, Kari Hutchinson, Ernst von Schmerz (traitor!), Arcadia Johnston, Chris McAdam, Natasha Bartosz, Deanna Waites, Nicholas Brunelli, Jose Mafio, Jane Ongaro, and Astrid Bexonville.

  6. Double Maths

  They all (apparently) did better than me in last week’s exam. I still cannot believe it. Must discuss with Ms Yen.

  Further note: Is this actually Bindy Mackenzie’s timetable? Can there be such a dramatic change? When have I ever been late with an assignment? At the same time there is something oddly exhilarating in the absoluteness of this change. In simply surrendering to perfect failure . . . All these years I have worked so hard and now I am very tired. Isn’t it time for me to stop?

  TO: mackenziepaul@mackenzieenterprises.com.au

  FROM: bindy.mackenzie@ashbury.com.au

  SENT: Friday, 4.00 pm

  SUBJECT: Hi there

  Dear Dad,

  Now it’s my turn to apologise for the delay.

  Guess what, I’ve resigned from Kmart and am working in Maureen’s bookstore!!! Thanks for your advice! (Although, I think you might have misunderstood—the pay is actually lower in the bookstore. And I’m not the manager. Just an assistant.)

  My role is to catalogue and shelve new books. And, I think, to chat with Maureen during frequent breaks for apple muffins and coffee.

  The shop, I should say, is veiled in a thin layer of dust. You can tell which sections are unpopular because cobwebs are strung from shelf to shelf. The light fittings are grimy, and clouded with dead moths and flies.

  And as for the rooms out the back! Let’s just say that you would be calling in the demolition team! I think renovation is beyond me but I could spring clean.

  No time though. Maureen’s always around, and I’m always busy cataloguing.

  Now, there is a spare key, hanging from a ring behind the counter in Maureen’s place. I could borrow it, when she isn’t looking, sneak in late one night and get to work . . .

  What do you think?

  Of course, I’m sure you’d prefer me to keep working on your Gilbert Road place. The walls are about half done now—I haven’t given up!

  Anyway, would love to stay and chat but Auntie Veronica is calling from downstairs—she, Bella and I are going shopping before my debate tonight.

  Best,

  Bindy

  TO: bindy.mackenzie@ashbury.com.au

  FROM: mackenziepaul@mackenzieenterprises.com.au

  SENT: Friday, 4.30 pm

  SUBJECT: Re: Hi there

  Hi Bindy,

  Good news about new job.

  You never answer my questions about Anthony. What’s he up to? You two help out your Auntie V. around the house there? Tell me if he’s not pulling his weight and I’ll have a word. (Tell him to e-mail/call me so that I can.)

  Best,

  Dad

  TO: mackenziepaul@mackenzieenterprises.com.au

  FROM: bindy.mackenzie@ashbury.com.au

  SENT: Friday, 11.00 pm

  SUBJECT: Re: Re: Hi there

  Hi Dad,

  You’ll be glad to hear that we won our debate again tonight. The topic was That every citizen of the world should be entitled to vote in US elections.

  We were affirmative. We eviscerated them.

  I was almost late because Auntie V., Bella and I were having so much fun in Castle Hill. At one point, a giant blue cat approached with a basket of lollipops. Bella shrieked and sprinted away, and we had to chase her all the way to the carpark!

  You ask about Anthony. It seems like we hardly see each other—we’re both so busy. And even when we’re home, his room is downstairs and I’m upstairs, so we’re a whole household away from each other . . . As for helping around the house, well, Auntie Veronica likes to make a game of housework. She often leaves a basket of clean laundry on a chair in the entrance hallway. When you enter the house you have to fold one item or match a pair of socks! (Bella tries hard, but usually mismatches.)

  As I speak, Anthony is standing in the entrance hall downstairs folding clothes. He can never stop at just one.

  Best,

  Bindy

  The Philosophical Musings of Bindy Mackenzie

  Friday, 11.30 pm (in my bedroom)

  When you speak to a large blue cat, to whom do you speak? Do you speak to the cat or the person you know to be inside the cat suit? Is he both? Does he stop being himself when he steps into the costume? Who is the large blue cat?

  Am I inside a cat suit, trapped by my own name? Is it my costume? And who is Ernst von Schmerz? He is trapped inside his name. (He says he can’t change it again until his personalised stationery runs out.)

  And who, pray tell, is my brother, Anthony? T
he real Anthony? Or an imaginary boy who lives in a room downstairs? Who stands in the entrance hallway neatly folding clothes?

  6

  A Portrait of Briony Atkins

  It is Wednesday lunchtime, and soon I must join the FAD group on the bus to Castle Hill.

  I missed last week’s session because I was not well. (My mother and her crazy notion that I have glandular fever! She insisted that I take the day off. She and Auntie Veronica are always on my case.)

  For now, I sit at a window desk in the Year 11 wing, watching Briony Atkins.

  She stands at her locker.

  On the floor, to her right, is her schoolbag. To her left stands a black umbrella. It is leaning against the lower lockers and it puts me in mind of a crotchet or a semi-quaver.

  Briony’s uniform falls neat and straight. Her shoes, I see, glint under the lights above—so does her short, brown hair with its auburn highlights.

  Now I can see inside her locker. She has pressed the door open, and is crouching down to reach inside her bag.

  The inside of her locker is so neat! Her books and folders line up, side-by-side, in a row, as if on display! They are not helter-skelter atop one another as mine are!

  Now she is standing again and her fingers are running along her neat row of books.

  An image comes to mind: my mother ironing the pleats of my netball skirt, back when we lived in the same house. I remember how she would pause now and then, set down the iron, run a finger along the pleats—

  Now Briony has found the folder she wanted, and is gone.

  I turn to the book that I like to carry these days—one that Maureen gave me on etiquette—and I open it at a random page.

  And there, if you can believe it, is the answer. The reason that Briony troubles me; the reason she has always troubled me. I will type out the lines:

  ‘A shy person will throw a restraint over a group of people, and cause the most sparkling conversation to flag; it is impossible to become friendly and chatty with such an individual.’

  How do I find the positive light within such a person as that?