Who is Mackie Spence? (17 page)

I shake my head. Ryan is kind of a loner and Jen is, well, she can be really out there. But he doesn't look nervous, and Jen has quieted down, reining in her big personality

The musicians test their mics. “Hello, I'm Drew and this is my brother, Bob. I'm pleased to say that with us tonight is a third member of the Snape Shakers Gypsy Jazz Band, the man who keeps our beat rocking, Otto Millard. Otto's going to cook things up for us on string bass. And that's what we're here to do. Get you all warmed up with some hot gypsy jazz. The hotter the better, right, Bob? Otto? Okay, boys. One! Two! Three! Hit it!”

During the first song, Mr. Davenport and his wife move to the center of the riding ring and begin dancing. Others soon join them. By the band's third number, almost everyone dances or stands swaying to the music.

Mackie smiles at me slyly, pulls me by my hand off our hay bale, and says, “I know you can dance!”

As we make our way to the edge of the dancers, I see Jon and Erica already on the floor. Jen has pulled Ryan out to dance, too. I find myself using some of the same steps I learned at Sadie One. It feels just right to hold, push, and spin to the music.

Mackie looks really sweet. Her hair flares out when she twirls, and her eyes glow with excitement. She wears a shirt that shows the curves in her hips. The colors in her rings throw off sparkles in the light as we twirl around the dance circle. We both have on blue jeans and boots, which turns out to be a smart move because people stomp down hard on the sawdust-covered floor.

Kyle's uncles and Otto play for about forty-five minutes before announcing a last song before they take a break. Mackie and I stay on the floor the whole time. The last dance is slow. Fast is fine, but slow dancing with Mackie has to be my favorite. She leans into me and rests her head on my chest. I hold her hand and tuck my elbow. As Mrs. Walton at the shelter likes to say, we are “just lovely.”

During the band's break, we walk outside to the sound of recorded fiddle music. Most of our last year's soccer team has arrived, including Brody. He's with Cole and a couple of other seniors. Jilly isn't with him.
Where is she?
Mackie leaves to find some water for us to drink. Recalling what happened at Sadie One, I keep a lookout for her return. Just when I start to get worried, she strolls up, hands me a bottle of water, and links her arm through mine.

That's when I see Jilly. She's about twenty feet away from Brody with her eyes on Mackie. More accurately, with her shooting-daggers-eyes on Mackie. Glancing at Brody, our eyes meet and he sneers. Mackie and I have an audience.
A hostile audience.

Wes, Angela, Jon, and Erica join us, laughing about something.

Wes says, “Drew and Bob told us about the Snape Shakers' southern California tour. In January, they'll be playing in sun and seventy degrees. Man, I want to be there.”

Kyle joins us and asks, “What do you think?”

“Get your uncles back in the barn because I could listen to them all night!” Wes crows.

Knowing Wes' affinity for music, he isn't exaggerating.

Then, with no warning, the Soltrice Island police show up. A blue and white car with overhead flashing lights works through the crowd outside the first barn.

Everyone stops talking. Fast. Mr. Davenport steps down from the house porch to meet them.

“Officers, what can I help you with?” Kyle's dad asks, his voice strained but polite as the police exit their car.

“I'm Officer Schmidt. This is Officer Clary,” says the tall policeman with his hand on the butt of his holstered gun. “We got a call from one of your neighbors about noise. They'd like you to turn it down.”

“Okay. I'll ask the boys to lower their volume. Anything else?”

“Nope.”

Officer Schmidt squints at the tables on the house balcony.

“I see you're serving. Of course, no one under 21 years of age has had a drop. Right?”

“There's been no underage drinking tonight,” Mr. Davenport says. His polite smile is gone.

“Sure. I'd be mighty careful if I was driving home tonight,” Officer Schmidt says loudly. He screws his mouth into a twisted smile as he scans those of us standing near the porch.

Mr. Davenport now has a frown on his face.

After the police climb back in their car, Jon turns to me.

“Once again, Soltrice Island's finest investigate criminal activity. What do you guys want to do?” he asks.

“Let's go back and listen to more music,” Wes says. Angela nods. So that's what we do. But the buzz is all about the police showing up at the party. After playing for another hour, the band puts their instruments away. Wes picks me out of the crowd and waves me to him.

“Time to go. Where's Mackie?” he asks.

“She was just here,” I say. I look around, but can't find her. “I'll look for her. You know every cop on the island will be on the roads waiting for us when we drive out of here,” I say.

“Right, a perfect night for a little head cracking,” Wes says.

He's over stating things, but the police have a reputation of bullying high school students. And adults aren't out of their reach, either. We had seen that tonight.

I finally see Mackie and Angela and wave to them. The girls have been talking with Jennifer and Ryan. Mackie nods to me and they join us. We leave the warm glow of the barn for the cool night air and Wes' car.

Mackie doesn't say much on the ride back to her house. When we arrive, we say our goodnights to Wes and Angela. Mackie looks worried as we stand on the front porch.

Placing my hand on her shoulder, I ask, “What's wrong?”

“I can't find my phone. It's not like it can't be replaced, but I have everyone's numbers and some saved messages on it. Photos, too.”

“Where do you think you lost it?”

“It must have been in the barn. I turned it off when we sat down and didn't use it after that.”

“Maybe someone found it and will call you. Or maybe they gave it to Kyle's parents.”

“Yeah, this is really bugging me.” Mackie looks tired.

“Let me try Kyle,” I offer, sending him a message asking whether Mackie's cell phone has been found. The answer comes back fast:

“Don't worry. Someone will find your phone. You should call Kyle tomorrow to find out if anyone found it. Or maybe his parents already have it,” I say.

I tell her the number. Mackie repeats it back. Then she yawns.

“See you tomorrow at the shelter,” I say, feeling a sleepy yawn-echo roll inside me.

“No. Olivia shifted my schedule because some new volunteers signed up. Since I already work weekdays, she's not assigning me any more weekend days.”

I'm disappointed. Working with Mackie on the weekends has been great for two reasons: I can be with her, and I can observe how the Mackenzie Effect works on animals. How else will I figure out how and why she can do so much for them?

Mackie takes my hand and, with a smile, says, “It's not like I can just tell them that the animals will heal faster if I'm around. Maybe something will happen and Olivia will put me back on weekends with you.”

I feel a little better.

I know I have to go, but I want to be clear about something. “I like dancing with you,” I say. “Tomorrow, after I finish at the shelter, do you want to do something?”

She nods.

“Okay, I'll call you. Hey remember, they're releasing Number 26 tomorrow.”

“I know. I'll be there,” she responds with sleepy eyes.

With that, I bend down, kiss her, and run home to make my curfew.

Saturday morning, I rise from bed early, around seven thirty, and wander down to the kitchen. Justin and Mom sit at the table eating breakfast. Mom will leave soon, to teach her weekend class.

“Jeremy, I heard there was a problem last night,” she says.

So my mom heard about the Davenports' busted-up party through her own network.

“Well, not really. The police showed up for a few minutes,” I say, trying to unknot my woolly brain.

“Why?”

“I guess one of the Davenports' neighbors thought it was too noisy. Kyle's uncles and this Otto guy had amps plugged in, so maybe the music was loud. I don't know. It seemed okay.”

“Were kids drinking alcohol?”

“Mom. Nothing happened other than the police came in and busted up an outstanding party. It doesn't seem fair. It was only music,” I say, as I pull out yogurt, milk, and orange juice from the fridge.

“Well, judges don't necessarily go by what's fair. They go by what's legal.”

Point to Mom.

“Yeah, I know,” I say. “Something can be illegal and not be fair. And what's legal might not be fair, either.” Fairness and legality have become hard for me to figure these days.

Mom nods, but it's too early for this conversation. My brain feels frozen in space, or maybe I just need more sleep.

“Jeremy, you know that if there's a citation concerning alcohol or drugs on your high school record, the people who award scholarships won't consider you,” Mom says.

She is really upset!

“It's okay. They didn't write my name down,” I say, trying to soothe her. “Really, I think the cops are bored. Wes said Shawn Fielding was stopped on the highway after school yesterday, and he wasn't doing anything wrong. He didn't even get a traffic ticket.”

“Did people dance?” she asks.

The shift in subject relieves me.

“Yeah. It was fun. People were up. Even Ryan danced. With Jen.”

“Well, Jen's a nice girl. I'm glad you had a good time. Did Mackie have fun, too?”

“She said she did. We're supposed to do something tonight, but I'm not sure what.”

I can't tell if Mom can hear me over the cereal bowls' clattering as she places them in the dishwasher.

Justin, meanwhile, adjusts his earbuds and moves his lips with no words coming out. He's been listening to a book on tape while Mom and I talk. When he stands, it hits me that he's taller. My tadpole of a brother is growing legs.

I trudge upstairs. Propping my feet on my desk, I review my homework assignments. I have about four hours of studying to do over the weekend. After reading for about two hours, I go back downstairs to make lunch using leftovers foraged from the refrigerator and freezer. Dad walks in and asks if the Davenports called their attorney when the police showed up without a warrant. I say I don't know. We leave it at that.

When I arrive at the shelter, someone has attached bright blue balloons to a post at the top of the driveway. Certain areas in the building have signs posted that read ‘Restricted, No Admittance' and an outside table has been set up for food and beverages. Best of all, there are five additional volunteers on hand for the afternoon.

It's all about Number 26's release. Her shoulder has mended completely, a Fish & Wildlife officer tagged her for tracking yesterday, and an announcement about the release has gone out to volunteers and the public. The shelter is ready to celebrate setting Number 26 free.

Beth, already in work coveralls, waves to me. “Hi Jeremy,” she says. “We'll do some cage cleaning before the release and show our new volunteer, James Monroe, what to do. He's only had four hours of orientation and training.”

I wonder if he's related to James Monroe, the fifth president of the United States.

Beth organizes us to first clean the coyote cage, then the inside birdcages. Close to three o'clock, we will join the other volunteers and guests outside to watch Number 26 fly away.

I worry because I haven't heard from Mackie, but she told me days ago, and again last night, that she plans to be at the ceremony.

We work on cleanup and feeding chores until around two forty-five, when people begin showing up for the release. Because Number 26 has been with us for about a year, and because she is a bald eagle, a protected bird, this event is a big deal. Fully recovered, it's likely she will fly back to her nesting territory, near the shelter.

I see Mrs. Walton speaking with Olivia and join them.

“Hi Mrs. Walton. Olivia. Looks like a good day for this,” I say.

“Right you are, Jeremy. Number 26 certainly deserves it. She's worked hard to get her wings back.” Mrs. Walton twinkles at me.

After many months of work, Mrs. Walton has forged a tight bond with Number 26. She straps into the heavy padding that will allow her to carry the eagle outside of the cage. I doubt that Number 26 would ever try to hurt Mrs. Walton, but eagles talons are strong and sharp, and the shelter has a responsibility to keep volunteers safe. So, she has to wear the protective gear.

At last we are ready. It's three o'clock and about fifty people stand in front of the Large Flight Cage in leaf-dappled afternoon light. I can't see Mackie. Is she somewhere in the crowd? Mrs. Walton walks out with Number 26 folded down and cradled in her arms. Thick padding covers Mrs. Walton's arms and chest. Everyone becomes quiet.
This is an important moment.

“You've been a fine patient, Number 26, now be a proud, soaring eagle,” Mrs. Walton says, as she lifts her arms and pushes Number 26 away from her.

At first Number 26 unfolds her wings, but only jumps away from Mrs. Walton and lands on the ground. She looks back at those of us standing near the Large Flight Cage. She doesn't fly.

Mrs. Walton encourages her by slowly raising her own arms up and down at her sides. “Fly, go on now, fly. Fly.”

Then, with only three steps for momentum, Number 26 lifts off the ground with her wings flapping and soars into the woods. A cheer goes up. Everywhere I turn, I see people with glistening eyes. My own eyes are wet, too! That's what makes everything so bright and shiny.

After the ceremony, Gabe shakes Mrs. Walton's hand, and everyone talks and eats cookies and cake brought by volunteers. A Fish & Wildlife officer explains that Number 26 will be tracked constantly for about a month. That way, if she has any trouble, someone can retrieve and help her.