The Betrayal of Bindy Mackenzie (35 page)

The Dream Diary of Bindy Mackenzie
Monday, 7.20 am
I dreamed that I was on an iceberg, just outside Cincinnati. It was not cold at all: it was soft and warm as a pile of feather quilts. I was flat on my stomach, resting my chin on my hands. In the distance, two little narwhals were fighting. They were using their single, protruding teeth like swords. It was a sword fight!

Suddenly, one of the narwhals stopped, leaned over, picked up a fish, and tossed the fish in the air. The other batted the fish with its tooth. The first hit it back. Hence, the fight became a cheerful game of tennis.

I smiled to myself. I knew they were competing for a female narwhal. I could see the very narwhal in question— she was on a distant iceberg of her own, across an expanse of silver-blue. She wore her hair in two coiled plaits, pinned to each side of her head.

I laughed out loud in sudden delight.

That was me!

I
wear my hair like that!

I squinted back at the tennis players, but could not tell who they were. I thought that the cheeky one was Sergio. Or
perhaps Toby. The other had bright blonde hair, and may have been Lleyton Hewitt.

I turned back to the female narwhal, but her iceberg had started up like a car, and was zooming into the distance. She had disappeared.

Yesterday, when I met Anthony for coffee, I told him about my decision to devote myself to uncovering the beauty of my FAD group.

Anthony is a year younger than me, but sometimes his eyes are wise.

‘Well, okay,' he said, ‘but make sure you don't lose yourself. Don't let yourself disappear.'

Before he could go on, Sam arrived, and the two of them began to take photographs of me for an assignment.

Also, in the dream, another iceberg pulled up beside me, and there was Eleanora, the pasta-maker. She was standing in the centre of the iceberg, staring directly at me. Her arms were folded.

I know why I dreamed that.

Last night, at Eleanora's, I excused myself to go to the bathroom. Before I knew what I was doing, I was slipping past the bathroom door and on down the hall to the baby's room. I had to know. Was there a baby in there? Was it merely an empty room? My heart hammered. My hand reached for the doorhandle—

Something made me turn.

Eleanora stood in the hallway, staring at me.

‘Oh!' I said. ‘This isn't the bath room?'

She continued to stare.

A Portrait of Sergio Saba
I am in Modern History.

I see Sergio. He sits ahead of me, to the right. He is therefore alongside Elizabeth, who sits in front of me. The two cast glances and jokes at one another, all the time.

I believe Ms Walcynski is speaking to me.

Ah yes, she just reminded me that we have moved on to the Romanov Dynasty, and I still have not submitted my assignment on American Civil Rights.

I hear some giggles, but mostly I sense a ripple of amazement. Faces turn—concerned, delighted, amused—to gaze at me.

Who is this Bindy Mackenzie?
the faces seem to say.
A Bindy who does not do assignments! I do not know her!

(I don't know her either. When will the real me return? Why do I not seem to
care
?!)

I have witnessed this sort of thing before. I think it's called:
public humiliation by the educational establishment
.

Now I know what it is like!

I don't mind it so much.

I said, ‘Ms Walcynski, I couldn't get into my room to get my assignment this morning because the cleaner was in there, vacuuming.'

She was so startled her face shook a little. People giggled.

It was a lie! I haven't done the assignment yet.

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

 

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.

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.