The Betrayal of Bindy Mackenzie

by Jaclyn Moriarty

  And it makes no sense! You can get into a room if someone’s cleaning it! You’re allowed!

  Although, it’s partly true—Maria, the cleaner, was in my room this morning, vacuuming, and it was so loud it made my head explode.

  But back to Sergio.

  I see him clearly from here. I have always considered him attractive. Soft, dark hair, golden-brown skin—such a keen, mischievous glint to his dark eyes. Girls tumble over themselves to catch that eye.

  That tiny gold stud in his ear. I wonder if he ever wears silver?

  His only flaw is the burn scar that tendrils across his cheek.

  Without that scar, Sergio would be perfection.

  But now, as I look, I see moles and pimple scars. There is a faint red patch on the right of his neck, as if he had just scratched himself. The collar of his shirt is smudged.

  These things I only see because I stare, and, as I stare, Sergio turns, sees me and looks back, a flicker of something in the deep black-brown of those eyes. Somehow, I cannot look away. We stare for an eternity. I am typing now, as I stare. I am thinking of the narwhal—my face burns—I am—

  ‘Bindy Mackenzie!’

  That is Ms Walcynski again.

  ‘Do you have to type every word I say?’ she demands.

  I look up at her enigmatically, still typing. She thinks I’m typing class notes!

  I haven’t got a clue what she is talking about. Is she perhaps speaking Russian?

  Sergio is neither tall nor particularly large, although his forearms resting on the desk there do have muscular definition.

  I remember an event from last year. It was in a History class, too. Sergio was staring through the classroom window and saw a gang of Brookfield students arriving at our school carpark. They carried cricket bats, hammers, and planks of wood. They circled around a student’s car.

  It was not Sergio’s car.

  But seeing them, Sergio shouted, leapt from his desk, scrambled out of the classroom window, and ran like the wind across the school yard. The rest of the class were slow to see what Sergio had seen.

  Of course, when they did see, they rose as one and poured out the windows of the classroom (while the teacher yelled for them to stop). We ran, I remember, like a storm, towards those Brookfielders.

  Seeing the storm, the Brookfielders retreated. But who knows what he had intended, a shortish boy like Sergio, confronting a gang like that? He could not have known the class would rise and join him.

  I found the event exhilarating.

  I return my gaze to brave Sergio: his hands and wrists on the desk. There is an elastic band hanging loose around his wrist. On the back of his right hand: smudged red ink. I think it might be a phone number. His nails are chewed and torn; his thumbnail is black.

  I drop my eyes to his shoes beneath the desk, and feel a quickening pulse. Something so intimate about shoes. I can even see part of one ankle—the way he is sitting now. He is leaning back, elbows on the back of the chair, loose, almost disrespectful—and one trouser leg is slightly raised. There is a graze on the ankle. I think I see a small tattoo.

  There is something I am seeing, but yet I do not see.

  What is it about Sergio?

  There is something connecting it all: that misbuttoned shirt, the slipping hem on his trousers leg, the tattoo, the cuts, grazes, bandaids, smudges. All tilt towards his brazen attitude. He leans, seeming amused, but joins in conversations—both at FAD and in class—at unexpected moments. Teachers and students light up when he speaks.

  There is attitude in him, but when Sergio pauses and looks at you, he truly looks. He embraces you with his eyes. He is comfortable with his world, and his words, when he speaks them, are honest.

  He looks, I understand it now, because he refuses to be looked at. He defies you to look at the scar on his face. He defied the FAD group early on, when he folded up his trouser leg and pointed to a faint white scar, remnant of that terrible trip to Hill End.

  When he looked at me just now, he saw my fears and my faults.

  But I think, for just a flicker, he may have seen simply this: Bindy Mackenzie. I think he might have glimpsed me.

  That is Sergio’s charm.

  So few people look and truly see.

  Now I know why Sergio is so attractive to the girls.

  In the past, I know, he has perhaps taken advantage of this—he has not been especially committed to his girlfriends. I hear he has cheated on them.

  But this year, it seems, he has found strength. He has chosen one—Elizabeth Clarry. That he sees her unique beauty, that he sees the truth of Elizabeth: that is what I admire above all else.

  When people stare, Sergio looks back.

  He rises to the challenge.

  For this he deserves to be nobody but himself. Enough with the animals. Sergio is simply a boy.

  A Memo from Bindy Mackenzie

  To: Sergio Saba

  From: Bindy Mackenzie

  Subject: YOU

  Time: Monday, 2.30 pm

  Dear Sergio,

  I once believed that you were a platypus.

  I apologise for that.

  You are not a platypus, Sergio. You are an extraordinary young man.

  I hope you will forgive my mistake.

  Here’s some personalised memo stationery.

  Very Best Wishes,

  Bindy Mackenzie

  PS Sorry for staring at you in History this morning.

  11

  Telephone Messages for Bindy Mackenzie . . .

  While you were . . . at school today.

  You received a call from . . . Eleanora.

  In relation to . . . she wants to cancel Wednesday and Sunday nights until further notice . . .

  Further notes . . . she’s the one you sit with while she makes pasta, isn’t she? Because she’s worried that the baby will wake up while her hands are sticky? Maybe she’s noticed the kitchen tap. Sorry about losing your job, Bindy, but it was a weird one, wasn’t it?

  Also, that lawyer called again. Confirming your meeting this Friday. He was a bit pompous. Love, Auntie Veronica.

  The Philosophical Musings of Bindy Mackenzie

  Don’t know what day it is. Tuesday?

  Strange to see my income dwindle. Have left Kmart. And yesterday, the message: no more Eleanora. I suppose I shouldn’t have walked down the hall towards the baby’s room—but still, to cancel straightaway like that—it makes you wonder. Was I too close to the truth? Is there, in fact, no baby? Wonder if I should break into her house one day and check?

  Suppose I could prepare another business proposal for Dad, but I should really get some school work done. Or should I? Feel rather giddy with this fall.

  The Philosophical Musings of Bindy Mackenzie

  Yes, I’m sure it’s Tuesday

  And soon it is my birthday! Maybe someone will give me money? I wonder if my FAD group knows? This year it falls on a Friday, and the next day we’re going to Try’s house in the Blue Mountains. Wonder if they’ll like me by then. Have sent memos but no response. Maybe haven’t pointed out enough of their positive attributes to each of them? Point out more?

  Strange sounds. Strange familiar sounds.

  Might just rest my head here for a moment.

  NOTE FOR BINDY MACKENZIE

  Hi Bindy,

  You’re a tricky one to find. Have you not been hearing the messages over the PA? I need you to come and see me—still no History assignment! And the assessment task on Tsar Nicholas is due this week.

  Reminder: Exams are coming up and you’ll need to get cracking, Bindy, or you won’t even understand the questions. This is not like you at all!

  Yours,

  Ms Walcynski

  The Philosophical Musings of Bindy Mackenzie

  Tuesday, mid afternoon

  How can I complete a History assignment when I’m so busy each night? I’ve been busy each night. I can’t remember why. Each night, I am very busy.

  Just now, the Biology
teacher told us all what amazing work Briony’s doing on some experiment, some extension of her polluted water assignment, and Briony blushed.

  ‘Look,’ I murmured, ‘she’s turning cinnabarine.’

  The person beside me ignored me.

  ‘It means red,’ I explained. But it was as if I had not spoken.

  Yet, I had spoken rather loudly, hoping Finnegan could hear. (He sits two rows back.) I sense that he loves words that start with Cin. I’ve been looking them up for him.

  The Philosophical Musings of Bindy Mackenzie

  Still Tuesday

  Last night I dreamed the word ‘Cincinnati’. It was a banner and it rippled through the sky.

  The Biology teacher is talking to me. He is using words. Local terrestrial. Aquatic ecosystem. Biotic. Abiotic. Overdue. Exams. What are these wonderful words?

  I smile at the teacher, delighted. What does he mean?

  I find that my heart hurts a little when I smile.

  So, I stop and turn away.

  NOTE FOR BINDY MACKENZIE

  Dear Bindy,

  How about you pop up to my office today—if you don’t mind the climb to the top balcony? I’ve been hearing reports that you’re not quite yourself. I want you to drop by the sick bay, too. I’ve told the nurse to look out for you.

  Let’s have a chat, as soon as possible.

  Best wishes,

  Mr Botherit

  Year Co-ordinator, Year 11

  The Philosophical Musings of Bindy Mackenzie

  Wednesday, almost time for FAD

  MUST try to go to English class more often. Miss Flynn was talking to me again today, and I could not understand a word she said.

  ‘Look at the sky, Miss Flynn,’ I said. ‘It’s such an ashen grey! It’s cinerulent!’

  Then I looked at her and realised that Miss Flynn is not Finnegan. Even though there are F’s and n’s in both names.

  The Philosophical Musings of Bindy Mackenzie

  Thursday, I think

  Yesterday in FAD, Try was handing out cartoons again, so I asked her in a whisper if she’d received my framed cartoon. ‘Oh, yes!’ she said. ‘Thanks! That was so sweet of you.’ She seemed genuinely grateful, but no word on my Life. Anticlimax struck another blow to my rib cage. But what do I want her to say?

  The Philosophical Musings of Bindy Mackenzie

  Still Thursday, I think

  I must remember to go to work in Maureen’s bookshop today. Yet, it is so familiar. I am tiring of it. The bookshop. I feel cinct by books.

  Every night these last few nights, after midnight, I slip silently from the sleeping house, and I go there. I stop by Dad’s Gilbert Road house on the way and tear down a few strips of wallpaper.

  Then I am cinct by books, just as Australia is cinct by sea. Dusting, cleaning, polishing—I have dusted every book. I have climbed on shelves and taken apart the light fixings. I have swept up piles of insects, I have scrubbed the walls until buckets of water turned black.

  But today it will all be worth it. Today! Maureen will thank me! She will hug me and whirl me in circles! She will call me an elf and a fairy! She will shower me with more free books! She might pay me a bonus.

  Telephone Messages for Bindy Mackenzie . . .

  While you were. . . at your bookshop job this afternoon.

  You received a call from . . . your mum.

  In relation to. . . she says she’s left a thousand messages on your phone. She wants to know what the doctor said this afternoon. And she says she’s been getting phone calls from your school.

  Further notes. . . Bindy Mackenzie, did you GO to the doctor today? Your mum says she made an appointment for you at 4 and I’m sure you were at your bookshop then. Have you been to any of the appointments I have made for you? And what’s going on at school? Stop hiding in your room! Come talk to me! You look more sleepy every time I see you. Love, Auntie Veronica.

  The Philosophical Musings of Bindy Mackenzie

  Late Thursday

  What an unexpected twist.

  Maureen did not notice.

  A week’s worth of midnight escapades. That bookshop gleamed! But she did not say a word. She said she’d been in Queensland these last few days, but she did not wear a suntan nor the air of one who had relaxed.

  ‘Bindy,’ she said, sounding agitated, ‘have you noticed the spare key? It usually hangs on this hook above the counter and I can’t find it.’

  She was frowning, distracted. She was rummaging in her handbag, pulling things up and pushing them back down. A notebook fell to the floor with a slap, open at a page. ‘Markus Pulie?’ said the page. Maureen jumped, swept up the book, and stuffed it back into her bag. She returned her gaze to the empty hook.

  The Philosophical Musings of Bindy Mackenzie

  Late Thursday

  Does she think I stole the key? How dare she?!

  Well, I suppose I did.

  But who is Markus Pulie? A name in her notebook. Why the question mark? I have a strange conviction that he will replace me. She was so harried and distracted today. She hardly looked at me. Is she going to fire me? And hire this Markus Pulie in my place?

  The Philosophical Musings of Bindy Mackenzie

  Still late, Thursday

  Let us count our small blessings.

  At least I don’t need to worry about school tomorrow— I’m going into the city to see a lawyer.

  And tonight I convinced Auntie V. that I am perfectly well. I do not have glandular fever! I do not have glandular fever! (That is my new chant.) I ‘confessed’ that my problem is my eyesight.

  ‘I can’t read the board any more,’ I explained. ‘My glasses stopped working months ago.’

  ‘What! Why didn’t you say anything!’

  She’s going to take me to the optometrist next week.

  It was not a total lie. My eyes are blurry on occasion. And there is a buzzing in my ears. And I feel, sometimes, like I just got off a fast-moving ferris wheel.

  Night Time Musings of Bindy Mackenzie

  Late Friday night

  Have you ever seen a burst of light explode?

  It happened to me today, and everything fell into place.

  I saw the lawyer. I took the train to Redfern and found my way to Cleveland Street.

  I wore my school uniform. It seemed formal enough for a legal office.

  But the legal office was nothing but a bare, little room. An exposed electric light. A scratched table.

  A young man in a suit.

  Blake Elroy.

  His face was puffy and his voice pompous.

  He ushered me into the office—where was the receptionist? Where the glamorous harbour view?

  But the office was at street level, and bedraggled men and women peered in, or bounced against the glass.

  I sat opposite the lawyer, trying to ignore the bouncing.

  ‘Now then,’ he said, straightening his shoulders. ‘You know what this is about?’

  ‘I understand it’s about the dispute between the two substitute teachers last year,’ I said, adopting his official tone, trying to show at once that I was more than a mere schoolgirl. I would make an exquisite witness! ‘They were arguing about a Polish exchange student,’ I declared. ‘The blonde woman struck the redhead with her right hand. This left a bright red mark on her cheek. The redhead dropped her books.’

  I sat back, waiting for the praise.

  I realised something—I missed waiting for praise. It had been so long. In the past, I was always sitting back, waiting for praise. But at school these days there has been a drought of it, I suppose because I don’t do any work. All this time I had embraced my decline, but really I’d never stopped believing I would soon climb back, that I would soon reclaim the praise. Now I thought: but how? How could I ever catch up?

  ‘Very well,’ said the lawyer, pursing his lips. ‘But what makes you think they were substitute teachers, these two women?’

  ‘Well!’ I began. ‘It was clear—they were
—’

  Why had I believed they were substitute teachers?

  ‘Because’ he said, ‘they were not substitute teachers. The women you saw fighting were in fact computer programmers. Contractors. Working for the Board of Studies. Installing new software. But, no matter! Tell me, what makes you think they were arguing about a Polish exchange student?’

  On this, I was more certain.

  ‘I heard them,’ I explained. ‘I heard the name.’

  ‘The name of a Polish student at your school? Hmm. An exchange student, you say?’

  ‘Well—’ I realised, as I spoke: ‘Well, I don’t know that it was an exchange student. I just heard a Polish name. And I assumed it must be an exchange . . .’

  He looked down at the papers on his desk. ‘And what was that name?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I whispered. ‘I can’t remember.’

  ‘Well, no matter. We’ll get a list of the names of Polish students at your school and you can go through it. You don’t happen to have a list on you, do you?’

  I gasped, slightly.

  It was like walking into the wrong exam.

  ‘No matter,’ he sighed again. And then, sharply: ‘Are you sure it was a student? How do you know this Polish person was a student?’

  I thought I might burst into tears.

  I couldn’t speak for a moment.

  How did I know?

  Then I rallied: ‘But, why does all this matter?’ I pleaded. ‘I clearly saw that woman hit the other one! Isn’t that all you need for an assault charge?’

  ‘An assault charge! Who said this was an assault charge?’ The lawyer looked amused.

  I chewed on my nails like a teenager.

  ‘No, no,’ he said. ‘This is a copyright dispute. It matters not a whit that one struck the other. What matters is the words they spoke. Our client tells us that, when you were eavesdropping on them, (a) the copyright issue was being discussed, and, (b) important admissions were made about that issue, which the other party now, of course, denies. So, what we want from you is what you heard. Tell me. What did you hear?’

  A copyright dispute?

  My head seemed to me to be revolving.