The Betrayal of Bindy Mackenzie (33 page)

The Philosophical Musings of Bindy Mackenzie
Anyway, she is gone now. I didn't really mean to miss English. But how could I tell her that I had simply been confused? That time has been rather curious of late? That I no longer know who I am? A person who does not write essays! A person obsessed with her FAD group! (Help! What of my future! Oh well. Never mind.)

How could I say that my arms and legs are heavy with exhaustion, that my head pounds like a beating fist, that my stomach is sick with something like the cousin of fear? (But what do I fear?) I saw a billboard ad for soft tissues today,
which showed a puppy resting its neck on the edge of the package. The idea of pressure against my neck—a wave of nausea struck me like a cannonball. I had to run to the gutter and throw up.

The Philosophical Musings of Bindy Mackenzie
Speaking of palms, mine are marvellously calloused at the moment. From the rowing machine. I can't stop feeling the roughness of the skin there.

Which makes me think of those ‘trust exercises'. It was months ago that Try mentioned them, at an early FAD session. It was when we were first given our ‘buddies'. Try said she'd planned to give us ‘trust exercises', but it was raining.
We'll do trust another time,
she said. And she explained.
You know,
she said,
you tie your hand to your buddy's hand and lead each other around blindfolded?

Imagine if we did that now! Finnegan would hold my hand, and he would feel the callouses on my palms.

He might not like that. He might prefer a soft and tender hand.

The Philosophical Musings of Bindy Mackenzie
I have been using handcream and moisturisers each day lately, just in case these trust exercises come up.

The Philosophical Musings of Bindy Mackenzie
And yet, I picture this: Finnegan's hand closes around my hand. A buzzing sound, that no-one else can hear, as of a swarm of distant bees. This is our hands, communicating. Finnegan's hand buzzes, ‘What's this?' and my hand replies, ever so softly, ‘This? This is callouses from the gym.' And Finnegan's hand says, ‘Ah, the gym that you joined because of my challenge?' and my hand whispers, ‘Yes.' And then, although we both face resolutely forward, so that the gold of his hair is nothing but a light in the corner of my eye, so that his profile is nothing but a shadowy outline—although we look straight ahead, and not at one another—even so, our hands squeeze tight.

I have seen Finnegan's hands so I know how they would feel; they are much larger than mine. Cool and dry, I think, yet with something that softens as it presses.

The Philosophical Musings of Bindy Mackenzie
I wonder what we will do in FAD today? I think we ought to do those trust exercises
some
time. Really, a teacher should not promise future exercises and then not carry them through. That just confuses the students.

The Philosophical Musings of Bindy Mackenzie
I suppose I have missed a couple of FAD sessions. I suppose she might have done the trust exercises while I was absent. But what would poor Finnegan have done? Wandering lonely as a cloud, blindfolded, no buddy to guide him, bumping into trees.

I hope they didn't do something like take turns sharing buddies, so that Astrid tied her hand to Finnegan, or Elizabeth, or Emily, or Briony. That would have been wrong.

The Philosophical Musings of Bindy Mackenzie
There was another trust exercise, too. I remember Try mentioned something else. Falling into your buddy's arms and trusting your buddy to catch you. Imagine Astrid falling into Finnegan's arms. She is too quick and bony. I don't think he'd have liked that. Or Elizabeth. (He might have liked that—I think he is fond of Elizabeth—sometimes I feel sorry for him, as he must have noticed that Sergio and Liz are together.) Or Emily. But she is too hysterical—she wouldn't have trusted him, she would have collapsed into giggles.

The Philosophical Musings of Bindy Mackenzie
No. It is right that I, his buddy, do the trust exercises with Finnegan. I would fall freely and neatly. I would not grow hysterical. He would be pleased. And I would catch him, too, when he fell into my arms. He may be taller and larger than me, but I would focus, oh! I would concentrate, and I would catch him. I am sure of it. I suppose we might somehow tumble to the grass.

The Philosophical Musings of Bindy Mackenzie
I suppose I should be at the Year Assembly just now. And yet why? I might just rest my head here on this desk and have a sleep.

Important to be awake for FAD later today.

I might just rest my head. I might just fall, inside my mind, backwards, into his arms.

My Buddy Diary

By Bindy Mackenzie

Late, Wednesday
I write now to record an incident connected with my buddy.
I call it the
Cincinnati Incident.

It took place today, on the way to FAD.

Now, I should say that, earlier, at lunchtime (after several hours of very strange reverie in the Year 11 wing), I had chanced upon my buddy, emerging from an office.

It was the office of Mrs Lilydale.

Something sparked in my brain.