Who is Mackie Spence? (4 page)

Within a few minutes we hear a car nearing. Jake has turned his headlights down to dim. He pulls up near the front entrance and exits the car, not bothering to close the front door.

“Damn. Did he hurt anyone?” Jake asks, walking to us and shaking his head when he notices his brother.

“No. I'll help you get him in the car,” I offer.

Jake grimaces, nods to Mackie, and eyes Brody like he doesn't particularly want to claim him. Shaking his head, he turns to me. “Get the back door, okay?”

Walking to the car, I say, “I don't know what his deal is, but he tried to mess with an eagle that could have shredded him.”

“He's lucky,” Jake replies.

Then Jake, a former 170-pound high school wrestler, half-carries, half-shoves his brother to the car. We lay him on the back seat. Brody's still totally out of it.

Jake frowns, again, as he climbs into the driver's seat.

“Thanks,” he says. “He probably won't even remember this.” Jake turns back for a quick look at his younger brother before starting the car. Then they leave.

Mackie sits on a bench near the front door, her shoulders slumped forward.

“Mackie, you okay?” I ask.

“Maybe I'll get some water,” she says, standing. We re-enter the building. “Should we report this?”

“If we do, they'll never let anyone our age work alone again,” I answer.

She shoots me a question with her eyes.

“What's Brody going to do? File a complaint against us for interrupting his trying to steal an eagle? Anyway, how did he get in the cage?” I ask.

“I don't know. He was already inside when I saw him.”

“It should have been locked,” I mutter.

Mackie fills a cup at the water dispenser. Her face has become pale, and she trembles. This maybe isn't a good time to ask her more questions. Still, after what I saw and heard tonight, I know she can come up with better answers.

We finish putting the day's used towels and linens in the washer, and are making some final notes on the daily Report Sheet when the next shift arrives.

Mackie and I toss our hoods into the laundry basket and return our coveralls to the hanging pegs. After putting our goggles and gloves away, we walk out the front door. It closes behind us, with a self-locking click.

Pausing outside, Mackie touches my arm. “Jeremy, could I ask you something?”

“I have a flashlight and reflector to loan you . . .” She smiles down at the ground like there's some inside joke.

Then she looks back up, more serious, and asks, “Would you walk me home?”

That irritating sound, the buzz of my alarm clock next to my ear! Groaning, I reach for the off button. I was having the best dream ever, and want to stay in bed.

Then I sit up, fast. It wasn't a dream, or a fantasy. It actually happened. Yesterday. But, Ben will be in our driveway any minute. We have a cross-country race to run this morning.

I dash into the bathroom between Justin's and my room. It's early, so brotherly competition for the facilities isn't a problem. I slap cold water on my face and put on my tank, shorts, and school warmups. Picking up my gear bag, I smile, thinking about what happened the night before, after Mackie and I left the shelter. It began when she asked me to walk her home.

“Sure,” I said. Then I noticed she was shivering. “Mackie, here, put this on. Really, I don't need it.”

She slipped into my jacket and zipped it up. Mackie's over a half-foot shorter than me, and my jacket hung almost to her knees. Then she reached over and put her left arm behind my back at my waist, resting her hand on my hip like it was something she did every day.

To steady myself, I put my hand around her right shoulder. At that moment, I couldn't think of any questions to ask her. I was speechless as we moved away from the building, walking in step with each other.
My arm was around Mackie!
She'd been my friend for years. But now she was grown-up Mackie, who spun my head around every time she walked near me.

I handed her my flashlight and pulled out my reflector to give us more visibility, since it was a star-masked night.

“What did Brody mean when he asked about your hanging out with me?” she asked.

“Who knows?”

“Why do you think he went after Number 26?”

“He's Mr. Adventure. Didn't he mention that when you guys were together?”

“Brody has a lot of problems,” she said.

“Like more than drinking too much?” I asked.

“Yeah.”

“Did he ever do anything around you?”

“He asked me if I wanted to try something once. I didn't.”

We fell silent. Brody was trouble. But with Mackie next to me I didn't want to talk about him. Her hair smelled like vanilla and oranges and her body warmth felt fantastic against me.

When we arrived at her house, she turned toward me. “Will you wait while I tell Mom and Dad I'm home? We could sit on the porch for awhile.”

Still stunned from the walk, I nodded obediently, like a third grader. I had a new numb feeling: a vacant spot where my brain seemed to have left my head.

Mackie returned, handed me my jacket, and wrapped a red fleece blanket around herself. She motioned for me to sit next to her on the porch swing.

I'd been on that porch hundreds of times since I was a kid, but never had my heart hammered so hard. Mackie took my hand in hers. Then she moved closer to me, so that her head rested on my shoulder. I reached up and brought my arm behind her neck, pulling her hair braid over her shoulder. Then I cupped the loose, silky ends of her hair.

I could not breathe.

“Jeremy, have you read the story of the man who wakes up in bed and believes he's become an insect?” Mackie asked.

“Kafka.
The Metamorphosis
.”

“Is it real or is it a dream? Or maybe it's an explanation of how life is lived,” she said.

Mackie paused. “I'm telling you this because you have questions. But I'm still trying to figure things out myself.”

I nodded, wanting her to explain more.

“After the accident this summer, I've felt different. What's important to me has changed so much that most of our friends would be surprised. I don't think you would, though.” She stopped and our eyes locked.

As if some invisible force guided us, we moved our heads closer. We kissed! I'd kissed three other girls in my life, once on a dare when I was thirteen, then there was my ninth-grade crush Robin Pembroke, and last year a couple of times with Cat Morley.

But this was different! It was a really sweet kiss, like we were taking each other's lips' taste and temperature. Her lips felt warm and soft; their taste, a little salty. As the kiss lengthened, I felt an electric shock run through my body. Finally, I adjusted my arm because it started to ache. I moved so that I could sit closer to her and our second kiss lit me up inside. I could have spent the rest of the night exploring her lips.

Hearing a noise at the front door, we quickly parted. Mackie's dad, Nick Spence, stepped out on the porch and asked if we wanted to come in for popcorn and a late movie.

I heard Mackie sigh. “No thanks, Dad. It's a nice night to sit outside.”

“Okay, but it's a thriller.”

After Mr. Spence left, Mackie laid her head on my shoulder again. “I've wondered what kind of a kisser you were. Definitely worth the wait. Who knew you'd be so hot after all these years,” she added, grinning.

“You think I'm hot?”

“Yeah. You don't know how many girls are crushing on you.”

She said it very matter-of-factly, but it was hard for me to believe. I've never seen myself that way. I was the “average” kid.

I laughed a little. “I think you're talking about the wrong person. Do you know how many guys practically self-combust when you're around?”

She smiled and shifted to look at me. “I hope we can see more of each other,” she said.

“Yeah, I'd really like that. I mean, I like being with you.”

Mackie grinned.

Uh-oh. Saying more could get me in trouble.
I was suddenly aware of the time. “Hey, Ben's picking me up at a quarter of six tomorrow. Maybe I can call you in the afternoon?” She looked pleased. “After I get back?”

“Cool,” she said.

I jogged home, with my flashlight bobbing and my head spinning. A soft breeze tickled at my nose. Who knew it was possible to feel so happy? Even my feet felt lighter. And I managed to return home before my parents.
Outstanding!

• • •

I stand in the cool morning air on our front porch, my mushy memories interrupted all-too-soon by the sound of Ben's Honda crunching down our gravel drive. He looks tired, and I probably look far worse. I had six and a half hours of sleep last night, more like five factoring in the time I spent in bed trying to calm down after returning home.

Ben pulls into the school's courtesy lot, next to our teammates whose cars are parked in a tight pack by the main entrance. We haul our gear bags from the back seat. The guys bounce on their feet to keep warm as they huddle around Coach. Everyone's together, except for Cole Pinchot and Brody. Cole is a senior, our Number Two runner, and a real morning person. He stands close to Brody, jabbering. Brody looks ready to smack him.

Brody.
I will probably have to deal with him about what happened last night with Number 26. To my relief, he doesn't even look in my direction. Could Jake be right, and Brody doesn't remember being at the shelter?

“Okay,” Coach is wide-awake and in charge. “These kind ladies,” he beams at the moms and Mrs. Showalter, a history teacher, “are your chauffeurs today. When you're in their cars, I expect you to behave like the gentlemen I know you can be. No cussing, no fighting, and no sass. It's a beautiful day for a morning run. Pick up your gear. Find a car. Let's move.”

I like Coach's attitude about racing: “A beautiful day for a morning run.” If he only knew what makes it so exceptional for me. I still feel stoked from being with Mackie.

I climb in Mrs. Showalter's car with Ben and Ryan Long. Ryan's our elite runner who finished second at State last year as a junior. He runs a 15:40.00 5K. Today, we hope he will be number one in the individual competition, and put us over the top for the meet overall. Ryan pops in his earbuds. He has his tunes and race plan prepped. It will be a quiet ride.

Mrs. Showalter greets us. “Good morning. You have splendid weather today. I heard on the radio that it's fifty-three degrees and dry in Seattle. And the pollution index is very good. Okay, does everyone have his seat belt on?” In a few minutes Mrs. Showalter eases down the road, and we pay at the ferry ticket gate. Then we line up for the six-thirty boat.

Once we're on the ferry, everyone seems to relax. Ben rests his head back against the seat. Rumbling sleep sounds escape from his mouth. As she opens her door, Mrs. Showalter turns back in and asks if we want anything from the galley. I shake my head no. Ryan nods his head to his music, oblivious to the question. After Mrs. Showalter leaves, I close my eyes to better picture my running inspiration:
Mackie.

• • •

We roll into Seattle's Riley City Park. Coach has arranged for us to meet in a parking lot near the course, and everyone congregates around him.

“Hey, listen up,” Coach yells. Fifteen excited voices get quiet in a hurry.

“We have fifty minutes before the start. Three things I want from you before this race: First, leave your gear with your drivers. As you can see, the ladies are setting their chairs up near the start. Second, check in at the registration table and get your numbers. Now, very important, put your number cards on the front and back of your tank immediately. Third, I want all of you to walk or jog this course. I know, some of you ran it last year, but check it out again. Take your maps and follow the flags. There may be some changes.

“One more thing: Pay attention to the time. I'll be very disappointed if I see anyone still on the course or running out of the Port-a-Potty when the start horn sounds.

“After the race, pick up your gear bags. We'll take the ten-forty boat home, leaving this parking lot at ten o'clock. Anyone not in a car will be left behind. We're not waiting around. Is that clear? Good. Ribbons will be sent to me at school. Any questions? Now, I know every one of you guys can better your times today. Remember your race strategy and stick to it. We went over that last week. Right? Okay, have a good race. Let's get it!”

Coach claps his hands. An East-coast runner in his college days, his eyes are fired up. For an old guy, he still feels race day.

With arm-pumping and hand-clapping, we follow our pre-competition routine. Just the way it does before every race, my stomach turns cold and jittery. To warm up and stay loose, I make myself jog and try to memorize the race flags on the course. The damp air feels cool in contrast to the heat under my skin. Anything is possible. Completing my practice loop, I have one thought:
I am going to kill this course!

Five minutes before the start, Ryan pulls his earbuds and drops his music in his gear bag. He looks detached, his race face. With my teammates, I maneuver into a swarm of thirty-five varsity runners as we position ourselves within the wide start box. I suck in a big breath and let it out when the horn sounds. I'm running the first straightaway. This race is mine to win!

• • •

I cross the finish line in what seems like slow motion, pushing against the air. Heat sears my lungs and muscle contractions shoot through my legs. Ugh! My legs. They're like two burning sticks of lactic acid. I know that I've run a much-better-than-average time. At just over seventeen minutes, it's a full thirty seconds lower than my former best. Panting, I coast over to Ryan, who breathes hard but somehow still manages to move fluidly.

“How'd you do?” I gasp. He puts up an index finger. Ryan brought us a first-place finish! That will be really great for our standing in the team tally. And of course, he's pulled out a big individual win for himself, too.