The Betrayal of Bindy Mackenzie

by Jaclyn Moriarty

  Bella tumbled out of her booster seat in a strangely excited state. She began dancing around the front lawn. I stood in the middle of the road, my arms folded tightly, trying not to tremble.

  The front fender of Jake’s car was hanging loose. The other car had an apologetic, crumpled look. It was an electric blue Nissan Pulsar, and Jake told me that it belonged to a neighbour. We stood and stared at it. Jake became quite friendly with me, chatting about the particular neighbour and how he always disobeyed water restrictions, hosing down his lawn night and day. Auntie Veronica emerged from the house, frowning into the sun, and then ran across to us.

  The owner of the car was not home, but a few other neighbours were available, and, handily, so was a gang of tattooed men from a nearby building site. They all wanted to examine the damage, and to hear the tale. They looked at me expectantly.

  Why had I crashed into this car? they asked.

  Why accelerate towards a parked vehicle?

  Why, said one kindly, had I not turned the steering wheel?

  Several of the builders pronounced the Nissan Pulsar ‘a write-off’. Something about damage to too many panels. An irritating woman wondered if the police ought to be called. A bearded man with a hammer examined the road for skid marks. He could not find them. Had the brake locked up, he wondered, when I tried to stop?

  All I could do was stare.

  I had no idea what had happened.

  I hadn’t even touched the brake.

  Later, after I had phoned to explain my absence from piano, Veronica put an arm around my shoulder and offered me a cup of herbal tea. ‘Everyone crashes at least once,’ she said. ‘Look at it this way: you’ve gone and got your turn over early.’

  But later still, when I was not in the room, I heard her say quite clearly to Jake: ‘What was Bella doing in the car?’

  ‘She was only—’ Jake began.

  Veronica interrupted: ‘You don’t bring a four-year-old along when you’re teaching a beginner how to drive, Jake.’

  ‘It was only around the block—’ he tried again.

  ‘Whatever,’ she said.‘You just don’t.’

  I tried to phone my mother, but only got her voicemail.

  15

  Report on ‘Friendship and Development’ prepared for the Office of the Board of Studies, NSW, with absolutely no expectation that the Office of the Board of Studies will ever lay eyes upon it

  by Bindy Mackenzie

  Session 4

  I shall not tell how I arrived at FAD: late, alone, breathless, my outstretched hand pressed against the door, fingers smudging the cold of the glass, brushing the rough, white paint of the ‘u’ in the ‘Blue’ of ‘Blue Danish’. I was a-buzz, nay a-gleam with an ecstasy of agitation. For I, Bindy Mackenzie, was an aeroplane taking off. I was a firecracker, fuse freshly lit (the air quivered still with the memory of the snap of the match).

  I was a person who had done something. I had ensured that my climax—my elusive climax—would finally take place.

  This is why I was late.

  But I shall not tell of that.

  And nor shall I tell how the door swung closed behind me, and there was Emily, alone at the counter.

  I joined her there, but I shall not tell how Emily, gazing straight ahead at the girl behind the counter, spoke in one smooth sentence to say: ‘Can I have a hot chocolate, please, and I’m going to need my gratitude back.’

  It took a moment to realise she was talking to me.

  ‘What gratitude?’ I said.

  ‘The gratitude I gave you on Monday afternoon.’ She counted out change, refusing my eye. ‘For that speech topic. I have an ice-cold heart today, Bindy, and guess who froze it? You. Because I was talking to Ernst about debating this morning, and I mentioned the tradition of practice topics and token animals. And Ernst said, ‘Girl, you make my head spin like a Mixmaster.’ And I said—’

  Emily paused, frowning, and now she glanced at me.

  ‘I’ve never really heard Ernst speak before,’ she confided. ‘Why does he talk like that? Anyway.’ She remembered her icy heart and turned away again. ‘He said that it was all untrue. There are no practice debates or token animals. So I guess you made that up to play some kind of joke on me, and even though I won the contest with your topic, it is now an empty victory, in my mind. Because it started with a trick. And so, Bindy, I withdraw my gratitude. Unequivalently.’

  ‘When you say “unequivalently”,’ I said (stalling), ‘do you mean “unequivocally”?’

  ‘You do whatever you want,’ she said. ‘I’m taking it back and you can’t stop me.’

  ‘Ok,’ I agreed.

  And without so much as a sideways glance, Emily swept her hot chocolate up and flounced across to the curtain.

  But I shall not tell of that.

  No, and nor shall I tell that behind the curtain, the FAD group sat as they had the week before, shoes and sneakers resting on the table, laces lost amongst napkins and coffee mugs.

  Try welcomed me, saying they had all missed me at the event on Saturday, and expressing her hope that I could join them next time. Meanwhile, Emily, realising her chair was next to mine, wheeled it theatrically back and around the circle. Everyone watched as she jostled her chair into a new position. She ended up next to Finnegan, who gave her a curious look.

  I only smiled to myself.

  Don’t worry, Finnegan. I sent him a thought-message. Soon, you will see how your buddy takes care of herself. Wait until we get back to school! You will see how she floats above them all!

  I was a kite flying high in the blue. They were nothing but cold, wilted lettuce, spilled from a sandwich to the sand, unwanted even by the seagulls.

  Try had her basket on her lap, as usual. And, as usual, she was drawing out piles of papers. Doing this seems to make her blush and talk too quickly.

  ‘So, I’ve just put together a couple more cartoons for you,’ she chattered, ‘just silly things for fun, and I’ve written a schedule for the rest of the term, and I’ve got these exercises, and some forms to fill in, and, oh, these other cartoons too—’

  ‘Well,’ I said, in a friendly voice. ‘It’s great that you’re practising your art on us, Try, but don’t use up the entire Ashbury paper supply!’

  The following sounds were emitted, simultaneously, from the group:

  Uh!

  Oh!!

  FOXGLOVE hell, Bindy.

  I laughed, to indicate to my sensitive friends that my remark was intended as a joke, or as some friendly advice. Try herself also laughed, leaning close over her basket, busying herself with papers.

  ‘Okay, fair enough.’ She allowed some little plaits to spill over her eyes. ‘I’ll cut back on the paperwork and spare a few Aussie trees!’

  At this, Emily and Astrid launched into a passionate attack on Australian trees.

  Apparently, such trees are worthless compared to the value! the magic! the talent! that came shining through in a single one of Try’s cartoons. Even Sergio said he’d been thinking she should syndicate them. And Toby pointed out that Ashbury uses recycled paper.

  Try hushed them all, still laughing.

  But, of course, I shall not tell of that.

  No, and nor shall I tell how Try asked us each to describe an important event from our week.

  On Monday, said a clear, chiming voice inside my head, my uncle and aunt told me they’re expecting a new baby. I’m not sure where they’ll keep this baby when it arrives. Seeing as I live in their spare room.

  And the clear, chiming voice went on: But don’t worry. I’ve made myself invaluable to them. Just yesterday, I crashed their car.

  Aloud I replied, ‘No events of note this week, thanks.’

  Astrid made a contemptuous euumh sound.

  As for the others? Important events of the week? Well, Elizabeth had learned to rollerblade. Sergio had taught her. Briony’s grandmother had visited from Dubbo! Toby had discovered a snail on his bedroom floor. Finnegan had stayed up a
ll night last night, watching The Sopranos, season five. Emily had decided to end her diet. Astrid had been chased by the police, but had escaped by hiding in some rose bushes.

  ‘Not carnation bushes?’ I said. ‘Shouldn’t you turn to relatives in times of need? Or what would you call them, ancestors?’

  Before anyone had a chance to launch into a chorus of gasps again, Try cut in with her topic for today’s session.

  The topic was FLAWS.

  She wanted to know what we didn’t like about ourselves— what we would change if we could.

  But I shall not tell of the confessions, the jokes, the despair of my ‘friends’ in response to this query.

  Partly, I admit, I shall not tell because I did not listen.

  I was thinking of the topic.

  I was thinking of my own three flaws:

  (1) a tendency towards

  reverie

  (2) difficulty coping with

  anti-climax

  and

  (3) occasional trouble

  judging distances

  These three flaws were safe in their boxes. Why on earth would I reveal them? Release them from the boxes? Risk their expansion?

  The idea was astounding.

  But let me tell you (or no, I shall not tell), what was even more astounding: the eagerness with which the others (all except Briony) wanted to share!

  Their chatter floated around me like soap bubbles. Now and then a word brushed against my arm and quietly popped. They spoke and I looked from face to face and thought of their manifold flaws. They seemed to me to be nothing but collections of flaws! (Except for Finnegan, of course.)

  But, oh! I knew their faces (except Finnegan’s face, which I have scarcely glanced upon). I knew their faces because today I had studied each in turn. At lunchtime, I had tracked down their school photographs, photocopied each, and blown them up to poster size. And just before FAD I had taken these posters, and—

  But Astrid was speaking.

  ‘Well, for me,’ she was saying, ‘my problem? I think, well, this is my flaw. I seem kind of bad in the way I treat guys? I mean, I have this habit of making them fall for me, I know that sounds conceited but I kind of use my, whatever, seduction powers, and get them to fall in love with me, and then I just hurt them. It’s like I want to hurt them. Like a compulsion or something.’

  ‘Strange,’ I murmured. ‘I’d thought of her as a sea wasp, but now I see she’s more a poisonous princess.’

  Astrid spoke quickly.

  ‘Seriously,’ she said. ‘I know it sounds conceited and everything, but I’m really, truly not saying I’m a princess. I know I’m not beautiful or—’

  ‘Sure you are,’ said Toby.

  ‘No,’ I declared. ‘I’m referring to the mythical poisonous princesses. The legend is that certain little girls were fed poison all their lives, so that when they grew up into beautiful young women the first man they kissed would die. You’re just like them.’

  ‘Oh!’ Astrid laughed. ‘Ha ha. Okay.’

  There were sharp intakes of breath. One or two people simply sighed.

  And then (but I shall not tell this), silent Briony spoke.

  ‘Sea wasps,’ she said, ‘also known as box jellyfish, are one of the deadliest animals in the world.’

  Ah.

  The marine biologist mother again.

  Sergio swivelled to look at her. ‘Yeah?’

  Briony nodded, and spoke a second time.

  ‘I think Bindy just mentioned sea wasps,’ she explained. ‘So, anyway, they’ve got these long almost invisible tentacles, up to three metres long, and they can kill you in minutes. If they sting you, you feel like you’re suffocating.’

  ‘Huh,’ offered Elizabeth.

  Briony spoke a third time.

  ‘They usually come out in the summer, up north, so you can’t go swimming then,’ she said, ‘unless you wear nylon stockings.’

  The others looked at her, expectantly, but Briony was finished. She was drinking her coffee, and looking through the plate glass window at the traffic outside.

  ‘The sea-cucumber speaks three times,’ I whispered to myself.

  Apparently, the whisper reached Toby. He turned sharply towards me, and his eyes seemed to burn into my skin.

  I raised a protective hand, pretending I needed it to rest my chin.

  Just wait, I thought, until you see the Year 11 wing.

  No, but I shall not tell of any of these things, not of Emily nor Try, not of Astrid nor Briony, not of Toby and his scalding eyes. I shall not tell of any of this, for these things do not count.

  The only thing that counts is this:

  Sergio shared a theory.

  Sergio, the boy with the burn scar on his face, the boy who taught Elizabeth to rollerblade this week, the boy whom I took to be a platypus—Sergio began to speak.

  (This is not unusual, actually. Sergio talks a lot.)

  Today he shared a theory about adrenaline.

  ‘That’s like this theory I’ve got,’ he began. ‘You gotta ask yourself: why does anyone swim at all when there’s killer jellyfish in the water? Not to mention sharks. There was a fourteen-foot shark off Collaroy the other day; it took a chunk out of this guy’s surfboard. But he’s back out in the water the next day. It doesn’t make sense but, check it out, maybe it does. Because, see, what if we’re supposed to scare ourselves SPURGELESS every couple of days? Because we’ve got to get our rush of adrenaline? Keep our fight/flight response kinda tuned, like when the sabre-toothed tigers were after us. That’s why I myself am dedicated to extreme sports and rock-climbing and . . .’

  Sergio continued and I stared at his face, the burn-scarred face I knew so well from a poster I had held in my hands less than an hour before. I watched his mouth, and as I watched, his chin turned into a platypus bill.

  I blinked a few times.

  But there it was: Sergio’s face, growing a shiny black beak. His eyes, meanwhile, were shrinking, turning round and bright, and thick fur was crawling from his eyebrows down to his cheeks. I forced myself to look at the floor, but the carpet had become a rushing stream. Sergio’s armchair itself was awash with mud, bark and leaves, and Sergio was the size of a small cat. He was lying flat on his back on the chair, balancing on his tail, four webbed feet splayed out around him. The hind feet, I noticed, kicked against the chair now and then, to emphasise a point. I saw the little slits of his ears, and remembered that the platypus closes its ears when it dives underwater. How adorable Sergio was! Protecting himself from ear infections by closing his little ears! How sweet, and unique, and harmless he was! I wanted to hug him!

  But—no! I remembered in a panic. He was not harmless at all! There were hidden spurs just above his heels! He was not kicking for emphasis, he was kicking to release a spurt of venom! Venom strong enough to kill a dog!

  Elizabeth, seated beside him, gazing at his sweet little platypus face, was oblivious to the danger.

  Someone had to save her!

  Of course, I remembered, calming slightly, Elizabeth was not a dog. Sergio’s venom wouldn’t kill her.

  She was just a girl.

  No! She was a butterfly!

  At this, my thoughts hit a large stone wall and collapsed in a shameful puddle.

  What on earth was I thinking?

  What madness had beset me?

  I dug my nails into the palms of my hands, and turned my attention back to Sergio.

  To my relief, he was a boy again.

  His feet were firmly planted on the carpet, which itself was perfectly dry.

  ‘This is why,’ he was saying, ‘this is why speeding tickets should be outlawed. We’ve got to speed when we drive to keep ourselves alive, or we’re all gonna end up dead. See my point? We’ve got to get ourselves that rush. Me? Whenever I get behind the wheel, I’ve got to gun it. I’m kind of pathological about it. I’ve got to put my foot down to the floor. Now it might be that my mother refuses to—’

  ‘Well, Sergio,’
I thought, in a clear, chiming voice, ‘is it any wonder you have that terrible burn scar on your face with an attitude like that?’

  And then there was the silence.

  Such a silence.

  It seemed that the entire café had paused, but for the sound of a single plastic teaspoon tapping on the side of a mug. Outside, a row of cars stood in suspense at the traffic lights.

  I looked up, surprised.

  What had happened?

  Uneasiness curled tentacles around my heart.

  Every person in that circle of chairs—every person except Sergio—was staring directly at me.

  Surely I had not said those words aloud?

  Please don’t let me have said those words aloud.

  But just as one knows for certain that the buzz of an alarm clock is not a dream, so I knew with a sudden twist in my stomach that I had spoken those words aloud.

  ‘Well, Sergio,’ I had said, ‘is it any wonder you have that terrible burn scar on your face?’

  The silent faces were worse, far worse, than any of their gasps or murmurs. These faces no longer blended together. They did not have the faded, vacant stares of blown-up paper photographs.

  These faces were sharper than the fangs of a saw-scaled viper.

  Furthermore, these faces were ready to launch themselves at me in a single, unified attack.

  I admit this:

  I did not believe I could survive the attack.

  My only chance, as far as I could tell, was to leap over the back of my chair, spin on my heel, dive through the curtain, and run. While running, I would have to scream and knock over tables, in order to create confusion.

  In all honesty, I was drawing my knees up ready to spring when I noticed Sergio.

  He was grinning at me.

  ‘You got me there, Bindy,’ he said, broadening the grin. ‘To be fair, I didn’t pick up this particular scar in a high-speed car chase. But, okay, Bind, I could have got it that way, and you got me.’

  His tone was playful, wry and mock-gallant all at once, and he settled himself into his armchair, in a deliberate gesture of repose. Scuffed black shoes landed with a thud on the coffee table. Arms stretched up and folded themselves behind his head.