Trish said she had figured out that existing ‘friendship groups’ were at the bottom of all the trouble. Mackenzie didn’t say well, der, but the expression on her face was so eloquent that again I had to bite back a laugh.
We were issued with textas and butcher’s paper and instructed to brainstorm how we felt about the groups. All around the room I saw blank faces. Sara-Grace and Jessica turned their backs to each other, and Sonia just blinked. ‘What groups?’ She was even more of an innocent than Bec, who’d got us into this mess in the first place.
‘It’s up to us, Jen,’ said Mackenzie, and she seized the textas and flopped down on the floor. She even flopped gracefully, tucking her hair behind her ear and somehow arranging herself as she went down. I wasn’t surprised that she’d got my name wrong, she was such a long way above my orbit, and anyway, I was invisible. And I wasn’t surprised she’d grabbed the textas. That was simply her way of exercising her leadership qualities.
And when I saw what she was writing, it confirmed everything I’d suspected about her.
Nerds • act superior
• show off in class
• try to make the rest of us feel stupid
I said, ‘What are you talking about?’
She gave me a long, cool, blue stare. ‘You know what I mean. You’re one of them.’ She leaned over and her hair swung in front of her perfect cheekbones as she wrote.
Musos • cliquey
• speak in language we can’t understand
• injure us with hard instrument cases on bus
Well, that was true. Music School girls always droned on about minims and crotchets and A minor chords. Music was a Big Deal at our school; we held three concerts a year, one at the Arts Centre in the city, like professionals. Professional standards were expected, and the muso students acted like professional prima donnas. The musos were even allowed to bring their instruments to camp so they could practise. Miss Macmillan, the Head of Music, insisted. Which was, as Bec would say, so unfair.
Mackenzie obviously didn’t have much time for musos. I would have laughed if I hadn’t been so furious about what she’d written about the ‘nerds’. We could call ourselves that, but coming from a golden girl, it was definitely an insult.
Sara-Grace was a muso (clarinet) and she cast Mackenzie a look that could kill. ‘May I have the pen, please?’
Mackenzie smiled and handed it over, and Sara-Grace scrawled:
Athletes • think their sexier/skinnier than us
•ARE sexier/skinnier than us, because they starve themselves
Sara-Grace refolded her arms as if to say, my work here is done. Did I mention that Mackenzie was sporty as well as an actress? She was in the top tennis team, and I mean the top team, with the Year 12s. She read what Sara-Grace had written and spread her hands helplessly. So she was skinny, and sexy. Mackenzie Woodrow wasn’t even going to try to deny it.
I could have taken the pen and corrected Sara-Grace’s spelling of their to they’re but that would have proved Mackenzie’s point, so I didn’t. It made my fingers itch, though, so I sat on my hands. But then Mackenzie gave me that cool, smug, Oscar-winning smile, and I knew that she knew that Sara-Grace’s their was killing me.
Jessica Harper hadn’t chipped in yet. She was sporty too, an all-round star. I couldn’t remember what she was good at. Hurdles maybe, and discus, and long jump or something? I didn’t pay much attention. Anyway she was absolutely a golden girl, though she and Mackenzie were in different gangs, and she was pretty sexy too, in a lean, brunette kind of way. She glared at Sara-Grace and Mackenzie and held out her hand for the pen, and wrote:
Drama queens • up themselves
• bimbos
• weird
Then she sat back and folded her arms.
‘That’s raised the tone of the debate,’ I said. ‘I thought we nerds had the monopoly on weird.’
‘You’re not weird,’ drawled Mackenzie. ‘You’re not interesting enough to be weird.’
Sara-Grace and Jessica laughed. That summed it all up. The shiny people might have their own sub-tribes, their own petty feuds, but when the chips hit the fan (as my nana would say), they’d unite in a nanosecond to humiliate the rest of us. The grand old alliance of the golden would always triumph. I looked away. Why should I care what Mackenzie Woodrow said to raise a laugh from her minions?
Sonia Darcy was staring at us wide-eyed. She said plaintively, ‘Are you talking about different groups at school? Like the houses in Harry Potter?’
‘Yes, honey,’ said Mackenzie soothingly.
‘Which one am I?’
‘You’re a nerd, sweetie. Like Jen here.’
‘But I’m not even friends with Jem.’ Sonia eyed me with mild distaste. ‘She doesn’t know anything.’ She meant I didn’t know anything about computers. Well, it wasn’t compulsory. I might have been a nerd, but I wasn’t a geek.
I stood up. ‘This whole session is an exercise in futility. I’m leaving.’
Mackenzie raised a perfect eyebrow. ‘I think you’ll find that trying to leave is an exercise in futility.’ She was right. I was completely hemmed in by clusters of chairs; girls were bent earnestly over butcher’s paper, deep in conversation. And then I realised: girls were crying.
I sank back in my chair, stunned. Then I scanned the room for my own tribe. Georgia was in a corner, wiping her eyes, talking to Rosie Lee. The same Rosie Lee who wouldn’t (as my nana would say) pee on one of us if we were on fire. Bec had disappeared. Maybe she’d managed to escape. But there was Iris – Iris Kwong, my so-called best friend, who I was supposed to go to Oxford with one day, and she was hugging Jasmin Hussan.
‘I hope someone gets a photo,’ said Mackenzie, following the direction of my gaze. ‘What a perfect shot for the cultural diversity section of the school prospectus.’
‘Oh, shut up,’ I snapped wittily. At that point, my flabber was totally gasted. I’d just seen Bec come back in, with Phillipa and Frances, and they’d clearly all been crying. Bec never cries. She didn’t even cry when she got a B for one story in her creative composition project in Year 7 English, and she always said that was the worst thing that had ever happened to her . . .
Mackenzie Woodrow was an island of relative sanity in the dining shed, the only other person who wasn’t in tears. Even Sara-Grace and Jessica Harper were misty-eyed. Mackenzie and I looked at each other, and I could see she was as appalled as I was.
‘This is ridiculous,’ she said.
‘Ludicrous,’ I agreed.
‘It’s worse than a Charles Le Tan workshop.’
‘Pardon?’
Mackenzie rolled her eyes. ‘You’ve never heard of Charles Le Tan? He’s “inspirational”.’ She made quote marks with her fingers. ‘My dad’s in love with him. He says things like the universe throws us gifts; it’s up to us to catch them.’
I winced. ‘Ouch.’
Frances’s voice rose above the sound of sobs. ‘I just never understood what it was like for you.’ Bec was nodding earnestly; where was my sharp-tongued, cynical Bec? I couldn’t believe this.
Mackenzie stood up. ‘You’re right, Jen. We’ve got to get out of here. This is insane.’
She picked her way through the huddles of weeping students, and because she was Mackenzie Woodrow, girls automatically moved aside to let her pass. I followed, but I had to weave around in Mackenzie’s wake, darting through the gaps before they closed up again. I told you I was the Invisible Girl.
Mackenzie made a beeline for the kitchen, and we ducked out through the back door where the bins were lined up like sentinels. It stank, but it was quiet, and no one was crying.
‘Did you see the staff?’ said Mackenzie.
I nodded. ‘They’re ecstatic. It’s a dream come true.’
‘The whole of Year 10, bonding as one. Do you think this happens every year?’
‘No way. We’d have heard about it. Someone would have warned us.’
Mackenzie peered back th
rough the doorway. ‘Now they’re all swearing eternal friendship. Oh my god. Trish has got everyone in a big circle again. Oh my god!’
‘What? What’s going on?’
‘Everyone’s holding hands.’
We looked at each other in horror, and burst out laughing.
I said, ‘Maybe aliens have infiltrated the camp.’ Instantly I wished I hadn’t; it was such a nerdy thing to say.
But Mackenzie didn’t seem to care. ‘Infiltrated everyone but us. We’re the sole survivors, Jen.’
‘It’s Jem, actually.’ I wished I hadn’t said that either; another pedantic, superior correction from the nerd. But it was my name.
‘Oh, sorry, really?’ said Mackenzie. ‘As in Jemima?’
‘No, as in Jess M.’
‘Oh, yeah,’ said Mackenzie slowly, as if she was accessing distant memory files. ‘Jess Martinic, right?’ She pronounced it Martinick.
‘Martinich.’ There I went again.
But she repeated it. ‘Martinich. Right, sorry.’
‘You know what we have to do?’ I said randomly.
‘What?’
‘Swear eternal enmity. To balance things up. We should swear to be enemies forever.’
‘I know what enmity means, Jem. I studied Romeo and Juliet last year too, you know.’
‘Oh. Of course. Sorry.’
Mackenzie held up her hand in the light that streamed from the kitchen door. ‘I swear—’
‘I solemnly swear—’
‘I solemnly swear that I will never, ever be friends with Jess Martinich as long as we both shall live.’
‘And I solemnly swear that I will never, ever be friends with Mackenzie Woodrow or hold hands with her or cry on her shoulder, as long as we both shall live.’
‘Excellent,’ said Mackenzie, and we slapped hands.
We crept around and peeped in the windows; the circle was fraying round the edges, girls were wandering off, making mugs of hot chocolate at the big urn. The staff were rapt, especially Ms Wells; she was bounding around like the Easter bunny. Then Rosie Lee turned on the stereo, and Jessica Samuels started to dance (typical), and she pulled little Sonia Darcy onto her feet, and soon the whole shed was full of girls jiggling and swaying. I was relieved to see Georgia and Iris and Bec standing awkwardly by the wall where they belonged; events hadn’t got completely out of hand. I think if I’d seen Iris dancing that would have sent me over the edge. Iris didn’t do dancing.
Mackenzie said, ‘Probably safe to sneak in now.’
‘No, thanks. I’m going to bed.’
‘You don’t want to dance?’
‘Er, no. You know what they say about two left feet? I’ve got two left feet stuck on backwards.’
‘How do you cope at the socials?’
‘I never go to the socials.’
‘Really? Never?’
‘Really. Never.’
Mackenzie didn’t say anything, but I could read her mind. Loser, ugly, social reject, was the gist of it.
‘You’re not missing much,’ she said at last. ‘The guys just stand around and talk about football and cricket.’
‘Do they?’ This was news to me; I didn’t know any boys.
‘Zero interest in football, but I like cricket; I could talk about cricket.’
‘They don’t talk about cricket to the girls. Just to each other.’
‘What kind of a dumb rule is that?’
‘It’s not a rule. It’s just what happens.’
‘Like your gang taking all the horse-riding spots?’
‘Kind of,’ said Mackenzie after a pause. ‘You want a hot chocolate?’
‘No, thanks. I’m going to bed.’
‘Don’t forget. Enemies forever.’
‘Enemies forever,’ I echoed, and I walked through the dark, shaking my head. I guess she went back into the dining shed and danced; probably everyone cleared a space for her, so she could twirl and shimmy and sway like a graceful reed, or whatever it is that fabulous dancers do.
It was nice to have our shearers shed to myself, however briefly. While I got ready for bed I kept thinking how bizarre it was to have had a conversation with Mackenzie Woodrow, of all people. When she’s famous, I thought, I can tell my grandchildren about it. Just another of those challenging Heathersett River experiences.
It could so easily not have happened at all. If we hadn’t both been Threes, if I hadn’t sat down where I did, if Bec hadn’t wanted to go horse riding . . . It’s scary, when you think about it. How small the chances are that change your life.
march
The afterglow of the amazing bonding session lasted for the next few days. Girls floated around, making a great show of sitting next to unlikely allies at breakfast: Look at us!We can be friends! Even though we’ve got absolutely nothing in common!
Everyone was super-nice to everyone else. Spots in the shower queue were sacrificed, compliments were exchanged, duty roster places swapped. You’d rather sweep out the dining shed than chop carrots? No problem! You’d rather chop carrots than clean the toilet block? Er – okay . . . Sara-Grace, I’ll teach you to play chess. Oh, thank you, Bec, I’ll teach you to put on eye make-up. (I’m not kidding, that actually happened. Yes, books were banned, but eye make-up was perfectly okay. How twisted was that?)
It was as though a religious conversion had swept through the whole camp and the only people left untouched were Mackenzie Woodrow and me. In the week after that first crazy, touchy-feely night, we didn’t actually speak, but at least once a day we’d catch each other’s eye and one of us (usually her) would wink or silently mouth Enemies forever! We were so proud of ourselves, relieved we hadn’t bought into the whole artificial-sweetener world that Heathersett River had become.
For those few days it was really hard even to talk to Bec and Iris and Georgia. I’d assumed that they’d wake up in the morning and yawn and say, Oh my, what a terrible dream! But that hadn’t happened. They’d all taken it seriously, especially Georgia. She’d become very matey with Rosie Lee, who’d apparently confided all kinds of dark secrets to her that night, and the two of them regularly disappeared down to the river together, allegedly to swim, but really to have long, meaningful conversations, and Georgia would come back burdened with the weight of Rosie’s world. I was sure it couldn’t last, because Rosie was such a wild child and Georgia was straight as they come.
It was disconcerting to see my friends under such an evil spell. I began to question my own sense of what was normal; I wondered if I was the crazy one. Seriously, if it had gone on much longer, I might have turned weird myself.
Iris was the first to crack. I knew she would be; her sense of irony was too strong to dissolve under this deluge of sugar-sweetness. I knew the evil magic was weakening the day I set off for a bushwalk and she came running after me.
‘I thought you were doing tai chi with Phillipa,’ I said.
‘If I have to spend one more minute with Phillipa I will go insane,’ said Iris, and a huge sigh of relief welled up inside me. I could have kissed her.
The others held out slightly longer, but it was no use; the tide had turned, and normality reasserted itself.
It was like Wife Swap. In theory the ones who swap places have their horizons broadened and learn about different philosophies of life, but usually at the end the wife runs back to her own family blubbing, I never knew how much I loved you! That other family were FREAKS! Not that I watch Wife Swap. Well, maybe once or twice.
By the end of the week, the friendship groups were back in place, more strongly cemented than ever. They’d all had a glimpse of life on the other side, and guess what? They didn’t like it.
The next Saturday, a week after the touchy-feely night, I was rostered onto cooking duty. So was Mackenzie Woodrow. Now normal transmission had resumed and we didn’t all have to pretend to love each other any more, there was no need to remind her that we were enemies to the death, so I just ignored her and concentrated on stirring the white sauce. And I
only took my attention off it for a minute. I don’t even know if curdled is the right word, that’s how much I knew about cooking. But when Mackenzie materialised as I was scraping it into the bin, and laughed her charming Cate Blanchett laugh, I was ready to knock her on the head with the saucepan.
‘I hate white sauce,’ I said through gritted teeth as I scrubbed out the saucepan. ‘White sauce is what my nana puts on fish. It makes me gag.’
‘What about lasagne? I thought all you—’ Mackenzie stopped, and actually blushed.
‘What? You thought all nerds loved lasagne?’
‘No-o. But I thought you – Italians – would eat it all the time.’
She meant wogs, but she was too polite to say so.
‘I’m Croatian, actually. And no, my family aren’t big on lasagne. My dad’s got a thing against mince.’
‘Well, we’re making lasagne now,’ said Mackenzie. She must have been paying more attention to the rest of the kitchen than I was. ‘I’ll teach you to make a bechamel sauce to die for.’ She waltzed to the cool room, then waltzed back with her arms full of ingredients.
‘The love-fest is over, remember?’
‘This is nothing to do with love, Martinic. I’m showing off. This is all about making you feel bad.’
Phillipa gave us a look from the other side of the kitchen. I frowned back at her.
‘First, the butter.’ Mackenzie dropped a huge lump of butter into the saucepan and immediately it sizzled round the edges. ‘Next, the flour, stir it in. See how it’s turned into a paste? That’s called a roux.’
‘I rue the day I let you take over the cooking.’
‘R-O-U-X, it’s French, you peasant. Cook on low heat for a couple of minutes. Then the milk.’
Jaylene, the cook (her actual title was Nutrition Manager or something), wandered over and watched for a while, but it was clear Mackenzie had everything under control so she wandered off again.
‘The secret of great bechamel sauce,’ said Mackenzie, ‘is to add a dribble of milk. Guaranteed no lumps. Now stir that in. And a dribble more. See? Smooth as George Clooney.’