Who is Mackie Spence? (5 page)

“You?” he asks.

Grinning from pain and happiness, I gasp out my time, “17:10.02.” Ryan whistles and raises his fist for a bump. He knows what shaving thirty seconds off my best time means to me, and to the team.

As I search for our jersey colors in the crowd, I notice Brody doubled over, his hands on his upper legs. He looks ready to puke. We usually run close in our placement, though I didn't see him during the race.

Coach approaches Brody with a First Aid kit in hand. He sprays some disinfectant on Brody's leg above the front of his ankle. So Brody probably got spiked.
Too bad.

I walk back to where our drivers' chairs are clustered and fish around in my gear bag for a water bottle. Others from the team drift over, looking spent, like there is nothing left in their leg muscles to keep them upright. I catch Ben's eye, and he gives a thumbs up. He must have done okay. Cole hangs with some girls just a little beyond the registration table. He travels with an entourage even at this hour of the day? If he's hit his average time or better, our team has a shot at the top spot.

Coach urges Brody to move. When he motions for help, Ben and I hurry over, put our shoulders under Brody's arms, and help him. If he can't walk it off, he'll stiffen up and feel even worse.

“What happened?” I ask, eyeing the four-inch square bandage just above his ankle.

“What does it look like?” Brody snarls, but I don't take the bait.

Ben and I haul him around until Coach waves us over to join the team.

“We did very, very well.” Coach reads our unofficial times out loud from his clipboard. “Very nice numbers, gentlemen. Very nice! I'll have the postings when the finals are certified.” Then he turns serious.

“On the down side, Brody got spiked on the last turn. I want everyone to stay here while I get the decision.” He starts to leave, turns, and adds, “Start hydrating now, if you haven't already.” With that, Coach hurries off to the officials' table.

Ben turns to me. “I heard what happened,” he says in a low voice. “At the beginning of the fourth turn, Brody was making his move in a pack. He was behind someone from Lakewood and actually ran into the guy's spikes. I think if he gets disqualified, it'll be for what he said after he was nailed.”

All runners are tired near the end of a race, so it would have been easy enough for Brody to bump into someone on a turn. Still, using foul language can be grounds for immediate disqualification. It depends on the circumstance, what was said, and who heard it.

Coach stands with the Lakewood coach and two officials who do all the talking. Then both coaches say something to each other and shake hands. Coach has a look on his face that my dad calls “inscrutable.” This could go either way for Brody.

“I have good news, and I have bad news,” Coach says, looking a lot less pleased than he was only minutes earlier. “The good news is that we won the meet.” He grins as everyone roars and jumps up and down! A five-team invitational win is big for us.

Coach waits until we calm down. “The bad news is that Brody has been disqualified for language. A Lakewood runner was also disqualified for responding. Now listen to me: I don't want this to ever happen again. Not ever.” He glares at Brody who slides a finger along his pressed lips and pretends to throw away a key.
Yeah, right. Like that will so happen.

Then Coach's lopsided smile returns. “Most of you guys bettered your times today. I really like what I saw out there. You ran smart. Okay, let's move. I'm buying ice cream on the boat, so don't be late.”

The storm has passed. But I wouldn't want to be in Brody's shoes at Monday's practice.

• • •

It's just after noon by the time we return to the island. Ben drives us to my house. My dad comes over to the car, still holding the shears he's been using to trim the front laurel. Ben turns the Honda off, and we give Dad the meet highlights. He smiles and claps his hands over his head when he hears our improved times.

Ben and I lean against the car as Dad asks Ben about the classes he plans to take at the U in January. My mind slides to Mackie and our previous evening. As Ben climbs back in the car to leave, I manage to get it together. “Hey, thanks for the ride. It was good today. Yeah?”

The corners of Ben's mouth turn up. Even his eyes crinkle upward. “Very good,” he replies.

In the house, I head for the kitchen and open the refrigerator door. I am assessing the food on the shelves and trying to decide when I should call Mackie, when Justin walks in.

“You making lunch?” he asks, a hopeful note in his voice.

“Yeah, sure. Mom's gone until dinner, right?”

“That's what Dad said.”

“How 'bout we grill hot dogs. This could be our last chance,” I add, thinking about the months of impending winter rain. In October, a damp wetness usually begins that can last until the end of June.

“Did you run this morning?” Justin asks, eyeing my warmups.

“Yeah, we won.”

“Cool.”

Justin is the cool one. Nothing fazes him. He can laugh about almost anything. In that way, he is different than me.

I pull out a few slices of cheese to nibble on before lighting the grill on the outside porch. As we move outside, Justin swipes a slice and I pretend to chase him.

“Food Monster!” I yell at him. “Don't make me come after you, monkey boy.”

I grab Justin by his shoulders and wrestle him to the ground, but my being forty-five pounds heavier calls for at least token handicapping. Justin laughs and tries to pin me. He's always pleased to prolong our roughhousing. We don't play for long though, as my thoughts return to Mackie.
What is she doing? What happened at the shelter today?
And there was that first kiss . . .

Dad approaches the grill, nodding his approval.

“Hey, add a couple of dogs for me,” he says.

I slap two more hot dogs on the still-heating grill, return to the kitchen, and dump a can of baked beans in a pot. Justin takes out mustard, ketchup, relish, and plates, and sets them on the table. Dad pulls a large pitcher of lemonade from the fridge and pours three full glasses.

We demolish the food. When Justin emits a bullfrog-worthy belch, I laugh. Dad gets the hiccups. Justin begins belching in time to Dad's hiccups. That sends us over the edge. I laugh up tears.

Justin eyes my half glass of lemonade and makes a big ‘Food Monster' face. He gives his best fake-evil laugh, “Heh, heh, heh.” I drain the rest of my lemonade in three swallows.

After we clean up, I climb the stairs to take a shower.

“Justin,” I hear Dad call. “I'd like some help putting those branches I cut in the truck.”

I decide it might be a propitious (thank you, Mrs. Littlejohn, for that highly useful word) time to call Mackie. With Dad and Justin out of the house, my call will be private.

Lounging on my bed, I pick out her number on my phone.

“Hi, Jeremy,” she answers in a melodic voice that makes me melt further into my mattress.

“Hey, Mackie. What's up?” It feels great just to hear her voice.

“How'd it go this morning?”

“We won. Ryan came in first, Cole was fourth, and I ran my best time,” I almost add that Brody got spiked, but check myself.

“You do sound happy. Are you going to Jen's party tonight?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“It's a sleepover for us girls, but you guys are invited for awhile.”

“What time?”

“Around eight.”

“Okay, see you there. And hey, it was nice last night. Good. On the porch,” I say.

“Yes. It was.”

After talking with Mackie, I shower and put on a pair of old warmups. Then I sneak in a nap on the canvas hammock on our back porch. While daydreaming about Mackie, I drift off to the fuel-deprived sputtering of our neighbor's lawn mower.

When I wake, it's to the touch of Mom's hand on my shoulder. The sunlight has grown dim.

“Jeremy, dinner's ready.”

“Okay.”

“I heard you had a big day.”

“It was so fine,” I mumble.

“Come in.”

I walk into the kitchen. The table has been set and Mom and Dad are busy at the counter.

“Would you find Justin and tell him dinner's ready?” Dad asks when he sees me. I climb the stairs to the loft landing, legs feeling a bit stiff. Justin pops out of his room.

“Hey,” I say.

“Are we having dinner now?” he asks, working on untangling his earbud wires.

“Yeah. Chicken.”

Justin makes clucking sounds and then grabs his neck as if choking.

I trail him down the stairs. Once we're in the kitchen, the smell of baked chicken and garlic bread has us both focused completely on the food.

I pour glasses of milk for my brother and myself. Then, with very little conversation, we eat.

Mom is quiet, typical for her on a Saturday after she's taught most of the day. But midway through dinner, she asks, “Are you celebrating with the team?”

“No. Brody got spiked. Nobody wants to be around him tonight.”

“Are you staying home?”

“No. Jen's asked everyone over.”

“Who's going to be there?” Mom questions.

“The usual. Erica, Jon, Ty, Wes, Wendy, Mackie . . . maybe some others. I don't know. It's a sleepover for the girls.”

“Who's driving?”

“Not sure. I'll probably catch a ride with Wes.”

“Let me know who's driving before you leave, please.”

I nod.

“Will Jennifer's parents be home?”

“Yeah. What's with all the questions?” I snap.

Dad answers. “After Spooner's last party, we want to know who's going to be at Jen's. You know some of the kids who were at Spooner's when the police showed up.”

“So?” I ask, not following his point.

He looks at Mom then turns to me again. “Your mom and I don't want any surprise calls from the police. Not ever.”

I shrug. They don't have to worry. I'm not going to end up like Spooner.

“It won't be that kind of party. The worst that might happen is that Jen and the girls will want us to dance.” I grimace.

Mom raises her eyebrows.

“She has electronic games and we'll play cards. Don't worry, there won't be any drugs or vile alcoholic spirits,” I add.

Dad sends me a look that says he'll hold me to every word. Can I ever reassure them enough?

“Do we have any dessert?” Justin asks, and the mood at the table shifts.

Mom nods. “Carmen gave me some peanut brittle today at school. She makes the best.”

Justin seems interested but I shake my head, and pull out my phone to call Wes.

“Wes, can I catch a ride with you to Jen's tonight?”

“Hey, no problem, I'll see you around eight,” he responds.

I tell Mom Wes will drive.
When will Mackie arrive at Jen's party?

• • •

There's never any mistaking Wes' arrival. The low growl of downshifting as he approaches the house and slams to a fast stop on our gravel drive is a dead giveaway. I walk out to meet him, admiring his car, a hand-me-down, 5-speed, dark blue BMW from his mother.

“Hey.”

Wes bobs to the music radiating from his speakers. He lives to listen to music. “
Hola!
Hey, you missed a great session last night. Fist was the best. They played about halfway through and everyone was up. Lots of girls, too. Yeah, it was good.” Wes blisses on about a battle of the bands he went to hear in Seattle.

“Was anyone there from the island?” I ask.

“Couple of seniors with Spooner. They looked pretty messed up. Seemed like Beardsley's little brother was taking care of them.”

“What do you think they were doing?”

“Who knows? Who cares?”

I shift in my seat. Wes has a point. Who cares? Drugs aren't our thing. They never have been.

After driving south for a few minutes, we turn at a numbered marker into Ty's driveway.

Ty has been Wes' and my good friend since grade school. He waits for us on the front porch of his parent's shrub-encircled home with Bouncer, a two-year-old bull terrier with an attitude. Ty and Bouncer run to Wes' car.

“Hey, Bounce, you can't come with us,” Ty says as he opens the back door. Bouncer advances like he's going to jump into the car, but Ty heads him off and picks him up. Ty goes through the same routine whenever we pick him up. He explains that we're leaving and Bouncer is staying, as he gently carries his dog inside the house.

Ty jogs back to us and sits in the seat behind me. He's my height, so he has to fold his legs into his chest.

“Hi. Sorry. You know how much he likes to go for rides.” Ty says in a rush.

“Yeah, we know,” Wes says as he eases the car into second.

Ty nudges the back of my seat with his knee. “Jer, how'd it go today?”

“I got my best time,” I reply, trying to keep the sound of boasting out of my voice.

“Yeah!” Wes says.

“What about the team?” Ty asks.

“We took the meet. Brody got disqualified for using foul language.”

Both Wes and Ty hoot. Brody hasn't scored many ‘friend' points with the underclassmen.

For the remaining eight minutes of our drive to Jen's house we mourn our school's dismal football prospects. Our team plays in a Seattle league that includes some big-name schools with lots of All State players. Soltrice High's football teams don't win very often.

Wes pulls off the road onto a dirt-packed drive marked by a red mailbox. Thick fir woods surround Jennifer's parents' home. It's lit up like a glowing ball in the cool evening. As we approach the porch, there's a shriek of laughter above the music, followed by Jen's voice encouraging everyone to dance. We head in anyway.

Inside we stand in a room that's about fifty by thirty feet. At one end is a kitchen, where soft drinks and snacks have been set out. But the main room is dedicated to old editions of Dance Station. Some of our friends gyrate, bounce, and laugh to the high-energy music. Girls and guys cluster near the music and screen, cheering the competing dancers.