Always MacKenzie Read online

  ‘George Clooney? Isn’t he about a hundred and three?’

  ‘Maybe so, but he’s still smooth. You prefer someone else?’

  I said nothing. I could have mentioned Lord Peter Wimsey, but she wouldn’t have known who I was talking about, and anyway, he’s not particularly smooth. I just kept pouring and stirring, pouring and stirring, until we had a saucepan full of creamy liquid.

  ‘Keep stirring till it thickens. Patience, Martinic. And don’t let it stick to the bottom.’

  So I stirred patiently while Mackenzie darted back and forth, adding salt and white pepper and finally a shake of nutmeg. ‘Of course it would be better with whole nutmegs, freshly ground, but in this place . . .’

  ‘Peasants . . .’ I didn’t know there was such a thing as whole nutmegs. I squealed. ‘It’s thickening!’

  Mackenzie turned off the burner and ran her finger along the wooden spoon. ‘Taste that,’ she commanded.

  I licked her finger. ‘Good.’

  ‘Good? It’s bloody fantastic. Jaylene! The bechamel sauce is ready!’

  Jaylene dipped her teaspoon in Mackenzie’s creation. She only grunted, but clearly it was the best white sauce she’d ever tasted, and only sensitivity toward the less gifted kitchen-helpers prevented her from turning cartwheels and whooping in delight. That was my reading of the grunt, anyway.

  Mackenzie smiled her dazzling smile.

  I have to say the lasagne was pretty good; I had two helpings. I caught myself keeping an eye out for Mackenzie, so I could say, not bad, or something equally lame, but as soon as I realised I was doing it, I stopped. She was on the other side of the dining shed anyway, with her gang, and the moment never came.

  A couple of days later I went swimming with Georgia. The river was beautiful, even if it was a bit low with the drought. It was slow, and brown, yet clear, like the golden-brown glass of a beer bottle, and we could see smooth stones and sticks at the bottom. It was the kind of river I could imagine platypuses living in, though I don’t know if they actually did. I wasn’t a great swimmer – I’d always hated putting my head under – but I loved floating around in that brown clear water with the sun dappling through the gum trees, hearing the rapids plash upstream, and the bellbirds and pardalotes calling from the bank, and the rhythmic splashes from Georgia as she swam earnestly across the natural pool and back.

  I was floating in the cool water, thinking about nothing – oh, all right, I was having the conversation with Lord Peter Wimsey where he renounces Harriet Vane because he’s fallen in love with me – when a head shot up from the water right beside me. I shrieked, and flailed about, and swallowed about a litre of water, like an idiot.

  Mackenzie Woodrow grinned and smoothed her hair. ‘Rosie felt like a dip,’ she said, and there was Rosie Lee’s sleek black head bobbing up and down next to Georgia.

  I couldn’t think of anything to say. I nodded, and hoped she’d go away and leave me to my daydream.

  ‘Bet you were surprised,’ she said.

  ‘Yeah, I nearly drowned.’

  She laughed. ‘I didn’t mean now. I meant about the cooking.’ She threw me a look that I couldn’t interpret. I wasn’t very good at reading other people’s signals, maybe that’s why I was a nerd.

  ‘What about the cooking?’

  ‘I bet you didn’t expect me to be an expert in the culinary arts.’

  ‘I hadn’t really thought about it.’

  She was silent a moment, as if I’d surprised her, and that gave me a prickle of resentment. Did she really assume that I didn’t have anything better to think about than why Mackenzie Woodrow was interested in cooking? I did have a life. Yeah, that’s why I was floating in the river having imaginary conversations with fictional characters.

  She said, ‘It’s not very glamorous.’

  ‘You’re kidding, right? Bill Granger, Nigella, Kylie Kwong?’

  ‘Is Iris related?’

  ‘No. Isn’t food styling the new . . .’ I tried to think of something cool and glamorous, and failed. ‘The new fashion?’

  ‘Not bechamel sauce. Bechamel sauce is the old fashion.’ Mackenzie dipped lower so just her enormous blue eyes were visible, very serious, above the waterline.

  She re-emerged to say, ‘I like the old-fashioned stuff, sauces, and baking and pastry. The old-fashioned stuff takes skill. Anyone can throw pomegranates and seafood and fennel together, that’s easy. But dough – that’s a whole different plate of dumplings. I love to make my own bread.’ She was speaking very low, intensely, as if this was a momentous secret. But I honestly couldn’t see why it should be.

  I said, ‘Do you mean comfort food?’

  ‘Yes! Yes, exactly!’

  ‘O-kay,’ I said.

  ‘I’ve never told anyone this before,’ she whispered. ‘But I want to be a cook.’

  ‘Not an actress?’

  ‘Where did you get that idea?’ she said sharply.

  ‘Gee, I don’t know, the fact that you’ve starred in every House play since Year 7? Everyone knows you’re going to be an actress.’

  ‘Actor,’ she said. So she could be pedantic too. ‘Well, I don’t want to be an actor. Or a lawyer, or a model. I want to be a cook.’

  ‘Okay, so be a chef. You can have your own show, you’ll be Australia’s Nigella. Go for it.’

  ‘No. That’s not what I want at all. I want to be a cook.

  Not a chef, definitely not a celebrity chef. A plain cook, a great cook.’

  ‘Okay, okay!’ This conversation was getting too intense for me. ‘Be a cook. No one’s stopping you.’

  She snorted. ‘Yeah? Mum’s pushing me to be a model, my friends are all pressuring me to be an actor, my coach says I should concentrate on tennis, the school says, just don’t limit your options . . . Dad would go bananas if I became a cook.’

  At least Mackenzie had options. I didn’t have a clue what I was going to do with my life.

  I said, ‘No one can make you do something you don’t want to do. It’s your life . . . What’s your dad’s problem? Was he attacked by a knife-wielding chef or something?’

  Mackenzie gave me a sharp look, then she let out a huge sigh. ‘No. He just wants me to be a lawyer.’

  ‘Oh.’

  We floated in silence for a minute, then Mackenzie said, ‘I did know your name.’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘I just pretended not to know your name. I didn’t want you to think I’d been stalking you or anything.’

  ‘Strangely enough, if you had known my name, given that we’ve been going to school together for the past three years, I wouldn’t have assumed you’d been stalking me, no.’ I started to wade toward the bank, but Mackenzie grabbed my arm.

  ‘Promise you won’t tell anyone about the cooking?’

  ‘Okay, I promise.’ Sheesh, did this girl think she was the centre of the universe, or what? Georgia was by the other bank, with Rosie Lee. I waved, and Rosie gave me a dark look. Who knows what they were talking about: Rosie’s secret burning desire to be a dental technician, probably. I went for a shower.

  But in spite of myself, I kept thinking about that conversation with Mackenzie. It seemed a bizarre secret, but bizarre or not, Mackenzie had chosen me to confide in, and I couldn’t help being flattered.

  Then I thought, she clearly believes cooking is a dull and uncool occupation. Which is why she’d chosen to tell a dull and uncool person about it, because it would seem quite normal to me. Which it did. So that made me doubly dull and uncool, didn’t it?

  Anyway, I didn’t tell anyone. Partly because I knew Bec, Iris and Georgia wouldn’t be interested, but mostly because, well, Mackenzie had trusted me. I’d promised. And I keep my promises.

  My Croatian great-grandfather was a partisan in the Second World War. He kept his promises, too. He swore he’d never betray his country. There was a big meeting in the town square and he refused to salute the Nazi flag, so they shot him. His wife died not long after, when their baby was born, and so
that baby, my grandfather, was raised by two aunts. He came out to Australia when he was twenty years old.

  My dad was very proud of Grandpa Darko. I thought about him a lot. I wondered if I could ever be that brave, if someone waved a gun in my face; I wondered if I’d do what was right, or just do what everyone else was doing. I hoped I’d never have to choose between being safe and invisible, and standing out and getting shot for it.

  Life at Heathersett River rolled along. There were more bonding activities, but the staff never managed to recapture the cathartic touchy-feely scenes of that crazy evening.

  Bec and I went to dawn yoga classes, which were peaceful and serene. Georgia and I went rafting, which was terrible. I’ve never been so scared in my life. ‘Challenging’ is one thing, but being swept down boiling rapids and hurled against rocks is something else entirely.

  One afternoon I took my journal to the riverbank, and stretched out under the majestic river gums. We weren’t supposed to show our journals to anyone except the staff, and when the holidays came, we were to use what we’d written to reflect on our time at camp. For assessment, naturally.

  I hadn’t been there long when Mackenzie Woodrow sauntered over. At first I thought she must have mistaken me for a cool person, then I wondered if she’d come to share more of her passion for nana cooking – swap recipes for trifle perhaps. She sat on the grass and stretched out her legs (long, golden, smooth). I tucked my own legs out of sight (pale, stumpy, unshaven).

  ‘Writing your journal?’

  ‘Reading it,’ I admitted. ‘Nothing else to read, and it’s killing me.’

  ‘I used to read a lot, when I was little. But I got out of the habit. Too much else to do, I guess.’

  ‘Well, as you know,’ I said dryly. ‘That’s not a problem for me.’

  ‘Come on, you must have a social life. What do you do at weekends?’

  ‘Read.’

  ‘Ha, ha.’

  The thing was, I wasn’t kidding. Tragic, eh.

  She said, ‘What boys do you hang out with?’

  ‘I don’t know any boys.’

  ‘Seriously? How can you not know any boys? They’re everywhere, they’re always underfoot – like cockroaches.’ She made a dramatic gesture and we both laughed.

  ‘Can I read your journal?’

  ‘No way.’ I sat on it, just to be on the safe side. ‘If you want something to read, there are two books in the staff shed. Mine. Confiscated.’

  ‘Wow, you smuggled books in? You rebel.’

  ‘That’s me. Living on the edge.’

  ‘Most people had alcohol confiscated, or mobile phones.’

  ‘Most people?’

  ‘A few people.’ She didn’t mention Rosie; she didn’t have to. She sat up straight and her eyes gleamed. ‘Do you want them back?’

  ‘I’ll get them back at the end of camp. Unless there’s a book-burning ceremony.’

  ‘I mean, do you want them back now?’

  ‘Well, yeah. But you can’t always get what you want.’

  ‘Martinic, if you want it badly enough, you can always get what you want. That’s what Charles Le Tan says, so it must be true. Come on.’

  Bemused, I followed her up the slope and back to camp. She marched straight to the staff shed door and knocked. There was no answer. During the day most of the staff were out and about supervising activities, so that was no great surprise. ‘This way,’ commanded Mackenzie, and led me round the back of the staff shed. She stopped and put her hands on the glass.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Trying the window.’

  ‘Someone’ll see!’

  ‘I can’t open it anyway.’ She fell back.

  ‘Okay, you tried. Let’s go.’ I was getting nervous.

  ‘We’re not giving up. Time for Plan B.’ She marched off again, this time toward the tennis courts. Miss Marshall was there, refereeing a doubles match. She was the youngest staff member at the camp; she was probably only a few years older than we were. It was her first year teaching, and the Head had thrown her straight into Heathersett River, and she never seemed quite sure what the proper rules were for anything. Good choice, Mackenzie.

  ‘Oh, Miss, Miss!’ Mackenzie broke into a run. ‘Oh, I’m so glad I found you. Mrs Renton – I mean Danielle – she sent me to fetch something from the staffroom, but she forgot to give me the key and I can’t run all the way back to the bird-watching paddock, I’ll die.’

  Miss Marshall looked flustered. She felt in her pocket for the key, then she stopped. ‘What is it Danielle wants you to fetch exactly?’

  ‘Her binoculars,’ said Mackenzie, not missing a beat. Yeah, terrible actress.

  ‘I suppose I should come with you,’ said Miss Marshall. The doubles match had stopped; all four players swung their racquets sulkily, waiting for her.

  ‘Oh, yes, Miss,’ said Mackenzie, apparently shocked that Miss Marshall would even consider any alternative; then Miss Marshall handed her the key. ‘I know I can trust you, Mackenzie.’ She didn’t even glance at me, the Invisible Girl. ‘Bring it straight back.’

  Side by side Mackenzie and I ran toward the staff shed. ‘I can’t believe . . .’ I gasped. ‘And she trusts you.’ I was exhilarated, but I felt a bit sick as well; I was such a law-abiding citizen. Smuggling in the books in the first place was wickedness enough to last me my whole school career.

  ‘It’s a dumb rule anyway,’ said Mackenzie, cool as a cucumber, fitting the key in the lock. ‘Why shouldn’t you have books if you want them?’

  I wasn’t going to argue with that. Once we were inside I spotted the books straight away and shoved them up my shirt.

  ‘Anything else while we’re here?’ Mackenzie gazed about. ‘Chocolate biscuits? Bottle of vodka? Wonder who that belongs to.’

  ‘NO!’

  ‘You’re no fun, Martinic. I’ll take the key back and tell her you’re taking the binoculars to Mrs Renton. You go and hide those books, properly this time.’

  I hurried away to our shed while Mackenzie sprinted back to the tennis court. She was bold, I had to give her that. I could imagine her staring down a Nazi with a gun in his hand.

  That night as we were getting ready for bed, Iris spied the Dorothy Sayers book and yelped. ‘Did Peterson give it back?’

  ‘Not exactly.’ I hesitated, then confessed; Mackenzie hadn’t sworn me to secrecy this time. I guess I was expecting them to react to Mackenzie’s daring the same way I had, with slightly horrified, grudging admiration. What I didn’t expect was cold silence.

  ‘Be careful, Jem,’ said Iris eventually.

  ‘No one saw us. Mrs Peterson’s probably forgotten she ever confiscated the books; she won’t notice they’re gone.’

  ‘I don’t mean that. I mean you should be careful of Mackenzie Woodrow.’

  ‘What?’ I said. ‘Why?’

  ‘She’s using you, Jem,’ piped up Bec.

  ‘Using me? For what?’

  ‘We haven’t figured that out yet.’ Georgia rolled over in her bunk.

  ‘What do you mean, we?’ Had they been discussing me behind my back? ‘So what about Rosie Lee?’ My voice was squeaky. ‘Is she using you?’

  ‘Rosie Lee’s all right,’ said Georgia. ‘She just needs someone to talk to.’

  ‘Someone who isn’t superficial, like her other friends,’ said Iris pointedly.

  I opened my mouth and closed it again.

  ‘Don’t tell me Mackenzie Woodrow needs someone to talk to,’ said Bec.

  ‘For Pete’s sake,’ I said finally, which was Iris’s and my pet phrase. ‘We’ve only spoken to each other about twice.

  It’s not like she wants to be my friend.’

  ‘We didn’t think you cared about hanging out with the cool group,’ said Iris.

  ‘I don’t!’

  ‘Just be careful, that’s all,’ said Bec. ‘We’re only saying this because we’re worried about you. We don’t want you to get hurt.’

  ‘Thanks,�
� I said. ‘Thanks very much.’ I climbed into my sleeping bag and rolled over with my back to the room and held Peter Wimsey so close to my eyes that I couldn’t focus on the page.

  So my friends thought I was so socially inept, so gullible, so desperate, that I had to be protected from Mackenzie Woodrow.

  Sometimes the people who love you can hurt you most easily, even when they’re trying to be kind.

  Right at the start of camp, Bec and Iris and I had signed up for the Star Gazers Trek. Iris was crazy about astronomy, and of course she loved pondering the possibility of alien life forms and intergalactic travel and the vastness of the universe. She’d convinced Bec and me to come along with her; besides, I was mildly interested in the vastness of the universe too. She couldn’t persuade Georgia, though. Georgia loved her sleep, and there was no way she was going to be dragged through the bush and forced to stay awake all night, peeing behind trees, lying on two millimetres of foam sleeping mat, so she could peer up at the sky.

  The Star Gazers Trek involved a long afternoon hike up Mt Emmaline, then dinner over a campfire, and star maps after dark. We had to pack sleeping-bags and mats, but none of us expected to sleep much, out in the bush. Only a few girls had signed up, which added to the appeal.

  Bec and I were rolling up our sleeping-bags after lunch when Iris appeared. ‘Guess who’s coming?’

  ‘Georgia?’

  ‘Nope.’ Iris looked at Bec. ‘Jem’s new best friend, that’s who. Mackenzie Woodrow.’

  Mackenzie and I hadn’t spoken since the Great Book Raid three days ago. Instantly I felt anxious. Now I’d have to watch what I said to her, conscious of Bec and Iris listening; or if I didn’t talk to her, which was more likely, I’d be aware of her, observing a nerd in her natural habitat. Either way, it wouldn’t be relaxing. Great. Mackenzie Woodrow had ruined the whole expedition and we hadn’t even left yet.

  The star-gazing party gathered by a corner of the dining shed. Mr Harmison – Glenn – was leading the trek. He was a science teacher. I’d never had much to do with him, but Iris said he was great. He was always laughing and cracking bad jokes. And he was really old, over forty – nearly as old as George Clooney.