Who is Mackie Spence? (2 page)

Smiling back at her, I try to register her last words as I exit down our front porch steps. “You have burritos in the freezer for dinner. Make yourself a salad, please, and don't be out too late. Dad and I will be back on the ten-thirty ferry. Remember to set your alarm for tomorrow. Okay?”

“Okay. Thanks,” I mumble, waving a hand over my shoulder. Ben watches my slug-like pace toward his car. The morning air feels comfortably cool and the saltwater smell from Puget Sound drifts in on a breeze. It's a fine September day.

“Hey,” I say, as I adjust my backpack and fasten the seat belt.

“'Morning,” he returns.

It's our usual quiet ride to school, but I don't mind. Being with Ben's a lot easier than being with some of the more social guys. He stays within himself, but it's not like he's unfriendly. Ben just thinks more than most of us.

Guiding his grandpa's old Honda into an assigned parking space not far from the west side of school, Ben rouses himself. “You need a ride in tomorrow?”

“That'd be great. Don't you wish this was a home meet?”

“Yeah. I'll be by at a quarter of six.” Ben kills the engine, and opens his door.

“Thanks,” I say as I heave myself out of the car. Ben peels off toward B Building, and I walk through the parking lot looking around for anyone I know.
Will I get to see Mackie before class starts?

Standing near the crowded Student Lounge in C Building, I rub my eyes, trying to wake up as trumpeting voices bounce off the pale-yellow masonry walls. The usual cliques have assembled in the hallway—the jocks, the jocks' girlfriends, the techies, the druggies, various geek groups, and the wannabes. I pass the Jesus Freaks. I don't buy what they're selling. My motto is “see and verify.”

“Jeremy.”

I turn to find Erica, Jon, and Wendy. The four of us are part of a larger group of friends who've known each other since kindergarten. We eat lunch together at school and hang out on weekends. Wendy links her arm in mine and pulls me forward. We begin to walk.

“Are you ready for the quiz?” she asks.

“No. There's a quiz today? You're playing me.”

“Like you didn't study. Miss a question. C'mon.” She nods her head to get me to agree.

I grin as we march up the stairway. Wendy and I have been friendly rivals since third grade. She's like a girl-version of myself: someone who wants to know how, and why, things work. A while back, I was crushing on her, but she acted like a good friend and no more, so that went nowhere. Anyway, she knows that I read our U.S. History assignments. Even though it does take me forever.

After I finish the quiz, I open my notebook and pretend to study our next history assignment. I'll see Mackie at lunch and might be able to find out when she's scheduled to work again at the shelter. I can't be too pushy, though, or she'll wonder why I ask. Still, it would be great if she were also interested in me. Yeah, that would be cool, for her to look into my eyes, lean forward . . .

At the end of class, Wendy and I find out that we've tied at 95%. We both fell for the same trick question. Mr. Wakely, beaming proudly, explains the reason why there can be only one correct answer to his true or false question: “Supply was the deciding factor in the North's victory over the South.” It turns out that “supply
and finance
” were deciding factors.

As we leave class, Wendy calls out, “Jeremy, next time. Next time you're going down.”

She flips her long hair around like a martial arts weapon and grins. I shake my head, pretending not to know what she means. We both smile.

I weave through student-clogged hallways to Computer Lab and sit down. As I pull out my notebook, Brody walks in and comes straight at me. He looks pissed. The small of my back pushes against my chair, and my feet press down hard on the floor, my skin suddenly hot.

Brody glares at the guy in the cubicle next to mine. The kid grabs his books and moves away without saying a word. Brody leans against the edge of the now-vacant desk.

“What's up?” I ask, not really wanting to know.

“Why didn't you say that you and Mackie were together all the time? At the animal shelter.”

“Didn't think it mattered.”

“Hey, I asked you if you knew what was going on with her, if she was seeing anyone, and you didn't tell me about that.”

I stare at him. What does he want?

“Anything else you forgot to tell me?” he asks.

“Nothing to tell. We both volunteer at the shelter. So?”

“You better not be messing with me.” He touches his right index finger to his head and taps. Like always, Brody just has to show that he's in control.

Then, he leans over and jabs the same finger into my chest.

I rise out of my seat, squaring my shoulders, ready for anything.

Mrs. Leonard, the Computer Lab monitor, walks up, frowning.

“No talking. Let's try and use our time wisely, please.”

Brody stretches a “good-boy” smile at her. She smiles back at him and then shakes her head at me.
How am I the bad guy?

After Computer Lab, Brody gives me a hard look, but doesn't say anything. I want to punch him. A voice in my head says,
leave it.
I need to eat lunch.

Everyone is seated at our table when I enter the packed Dining Hall. Wendy motions that she will make space for me. Guess she isn't too upset about our 95% tie.

Mackie sits directly across from me at the table, talking with Erica. I give her a friendly nod. I really want to sit next to her. She sends a quick grin back and waves to Wendy. Suddenly, as if she can hear my thoughts, Mackie looks back at me with a big smile.
Too weird.

I glance to my right. A few tables down, Brody sits with his arm around Jilly, apparently unconcerned that Mackie is so near, and that I'm sitting across from her. Brody. The guy is one big contradiction. Or maybe the game rules have shifted.

After lunch, I walk out next to Mackie. My curiosity about when she will work again at the wildlife shelter is greater than my recent shyness around her. “Hey, Mackie. Are you working at the shelter today?” I manage to sound reasonably casual, though I hear my heartbeat echo like a roll of thunder.

She turns her eyes that can charm an eagle into submission up at me. “Olivia reworked my schedule. I'm on the evening shift,” she says in a surprised tone.

I can't believe my ears.
Together! Tonight!
I control an urge to leap in the air and smack the ceiling light, or, worse, grab her arms and swing her around like a little girl. Instead, I manage to stay cool.

“Are you working, too?” she asks.

“Uh, yeah. I didn't know Olivia was making adjustments. It's good; good that we're working tonight. Together.” I bite my lower lip.
That sounded really lame.
We head into our English Literature class, where I spend most of the session trying to pay attention as Mrs. Littlejohn expounds on the “still relevant” themes of Charles Dickens. Following alphabetic seating rules, Mackie sits in front of me. I'm happy that our last names beginning “S” and “T” have me sitting behind her.

After sixth period, cross-country has a pre-race meeting. Coach motions for us to follow him, and we sit outside on the track's sun-warmed, metal bleachers.

“Tonight, get some sleep. Tomorrow morning, six o'clock sharp, we're leaving from the front parking lot for the ferry. I want everyone suited up, ready to run. Don't forget your shoes.” He looks pointedly at Trace Benton, and a couple of the guys laugh.

Coach passes out copies of the course map. “Bring money or a ticket for the ferry. Also, very important, Ethan will run as our varsity alternate. His times are good enough to move him up. Tomorrow, we go out as a team and Ethan's part of our team. Okay, remember your strategies, what we talked about this week. Think about how you're going to run the course. Get in your zone. And be here on time. That's it.” He whacks his clipboard against the bleacher to signal that we're done.

I settle in for another quiet ride home with Ben. We weave through residential streets lined with tall, thick Douglas firs and mature cedars. In my neighborhood, homes are set so far back you see only the openings of driveways. We're within a quarter mile of Puget Sound and the air smells of saltwater and woodsy, organic decay. For me, that has always been the familiar scent of home.

Ben pulls into our laurel-lined circle drive and stops at the halfway point.

“See you. Early,” he says.

“Yeah, too early,” I reply, climbing out of my seat.

Ben snorts his agreement. He gears the Honda into first, and eases around the other side of the drive back to the road.

As Ben leaves, I stand at the base of our porch stairs, searching the bottom of my gear bag for keys to the front door. I like being the first one home after school. I have all the space to myself. Not a grand place like some on the island, our house has been my home since I was born. I remember the day my dad told me it was built in the 1940s to resemble a small country lodge, with a river-rock base. Blue-gray rocks merge with cedar siding, topped by a dark green metal roof.

I open the outer door and pick out a second key for entrance from the vestibule to the foyer. Because my dad designs security software and keeps files at home, we observe a number of protocols. Cameras are stationed at all outer doorways. I like to sometimes make faces at those, and one time got Justin to put on a gorilla mask so I could lift him right up to a lens. After the police came out on a silent run, I had to explain to them, and Dad, about the mask. We decided fooling with the system wasn't such a good idea. I saw a smile on Dad's face though, when he reviewed the security shots.

In our family room, a river-rock half-wall sits behind a red wood stove, used when temperatures drop below freezing. Worn, wicker chairs and a big couch top a thick braided rug. Mom's clay, raku, and stoneware pots are everywhere. Dad calls it Lodge-Chic. Mom wrinkles her nose at him when he says that. I like the place just fine, especially the woodsy smell from the overhead cedar beams.

I flop down on the couch for a quick nap. Later, treading in my socks down the creaky, wood-floored hallway to the kitchen, I wonder who will be on rotation at the shelter. Three volunteers always work one shift.
An adult will be with us, but who?

I could text Mackie to ask if she wants to walk to the shelter together. That might come off as too pushy. Her family lives nearby in a waterfront home that overlooks the Puget Sound to Seattle. They have views of the city, the water, and the Cascade Mountains.

Remembering Mom's dinner instructions, I microwave and slam down two burritos, then eat a mashed up fistful of leaf lettuce. I examine my teeth in the glass door of a kitchen cabinet, and gulp some water to rinse my mouth, but decide not to chance a hanging green erratic. I sprint upstairs, brush my teeth, and pull an old fleece-lined jacket from my closet.

Skipping down the stairs, I snatch my set of keys from the kitchen peg, and flip my phone, flashlight, and bike reflector into a small gear bag. Finally, I put on a pair of old training shoes, and take off at a trot.

The western sun feels like a spray of heat on my face. Keeping to the soft road shoulder, I breathe in a mixed scent of sweet cedar needles and leaves. Yeah, late summer is my favorite time of the year. I need to store this up for January and February. That's when the Northwest becomes dense green with gray-grim skies.

I find the white entrance post to the shelter. The Olympic Wildlife Shelter is partially hidden behind a stand of tall Douglas firs. The one-level, ranch-style building holds an administrative office and rooms for animal recovery. To the south of the building, open-air cages let animals in advanced recovery stages build and test their strength before release back into the wild.

I enter through the main door, see Mrs. Walton, and smile. She's our adult volunteer for the shift. An ex-Navy nurse, Mrs. Walton is also a grandma, and someone I've always liked being around.

She looks up brightly at me. “Hello, Jeremy. Looks like it's you, Mackenzie Spence, and me tonight. I've been working mornings, so I haven't met the Spence girl.”

“She just started this summer. We're friends.”

“Good. We should be able to easily handle what's here. Most of the critters only need feeding and cleanup.”

As she speaks, I reach into a locker and pull out a men's large, olive drab work coverall. Stepping in and zipping the coverall over my clothes, I hear the door open.
Mackie.

Her long hair is pulled up in a braid that begins at the top of her head and trails down her back. She pauses just inside the doorway, slightly flushed. Maybe she ran, too?

“Hey, Jer,” she says, removing her sunglasses and tucking them in her shirt pocket. Then she notices Mrs. Walton and goes to her with a hand extended, speaking in an out-of-breath voice, “Hi, I'm Mackie Spence.”

Mrs. Walton checks her out, shakes Mackie's hand, and says, “Winifred Walton. We're the team tonight so let's get to it. We'll look in on surgery patients first, then do feeding and cleaning. It's the usual drill.”

I nod as I lock the front door. The shelter is now closed for the evening.

Mackie has climbed into her coveralls. The three of us move quietly into the Recovery Hall, the smell of disinfectant and animal urine in a seventy-two-degree building hitting me in a wave. Like always, I flinch from that particular combination of odors and heat.

“Two of my grandchildren are coming to visit me tomorrow morning so I'd like to leave early tonight if at all possible,” Mrs. Walton says.

We put on hoods, masks, and gloves that protect recovering wildlife from identifying humans as non-threatening. We want to look like aliens, something the animals will never see again.

“Okay,” Mrs. Walton says as we pause outside the first doorway off the Recovery Hall. She reads from a clipboard that contains medical notes from Doc Kemp, our on-call veterinarian. “Hmm . . . we have a young fawn. A car hit her. Looks like she has a fractured front leg, set yesterday, and some nasty road-rash cuts.”