Who is Mackie Spence? (9 page)

Looking like he carries the crown jewels of the kingdom, Justin bows his way out of the kitchen. Justin the Court Jester. I have to laugh.

Within a few minutes, Dad and Justin return with a platter of grilled corn, cheeseburgers, and toasted buns. As usual, once our food hits the kitchen, all activity becomes focused. Meaning we eat without saying much. We really aren't so different than the rest of the animal kingdom.

“Jeremy. Jeremy? Do you have homework to finish?” Mom asks.

“Oh, yeah.” I respond in a deliberately casual manner. “Mackie and I are getting together tonight to translate a story for French.”

Mom sends me a questioning look. “I didn't know Mackie and you had French class together.”

“Yeah. I'll be home by ten.”

Mom and Dad look at me like they have questions stuck on their lips. Dad clears his throat. He gets a faint smile on his face. I've seen this look before, but haven't quite figured it out.

“Just don't be too late,” he says.

Justin reaches for an apple wedge and spills his milk. I could hug the little guy for his timely diversion.

After we finish, I take the stairs two at a time to my bedroom and pack my notebook. Then I race through a five-minute shower, put on a clean, dark blue T-shirt, and grab my fleece jacket. Moving at a fast jog, I arrive at Mackie's house at 7:22
P.M.

Mackie's fourteen-year-old sister, Noelle, answers my knock at the front door. She looks me up and down as if seeing me at her house is a special event.

“Hellooo, Jeremy, dear Jeremy” she trills like an opera singer. “I'll get Mackie.”

Noelle slips up the stairs, long blonde hair swinging, as I remain just inside the Spences' front door.

From where I stand, I look east to a bank of windows facing the Sound. It's a panoramic view of water and the Cascade Mountains. The Seattle skyline will become visible once I move further into the room. Inside, the house holds a lot of old furniture, antiques from Mrs. Spence's family.

The Spences' house has been like a headquarters for my friends since we were kids, and our families met there after the sailing accident. Until Mackie returned home from the hospital, there was a steady stream of homemade dinners delivered to their door.

I know Mackie's father, mother, and sister almost like extended family. Nick Spence likes to have big barbecue parties with lots of friends. Originally from Georgia, he uses words that I can't always follow. He calls everyone Bud or Bub. I've always liked him.

Mackie's mother, Caitlin, is from Seattle. My mom said Caitlin comes from a wealthy family and Nick wouldn't have to work if he didn't want to, though he still does, as a salesman for an organic coffee company.

Before Mackie arrives, Mr. Spence walks out of the kitchen with Gus, at his heels.

“Hey, Bud, how're you doing?” Nick Spence asks in his thick southern drawl. He is a big man, standing about half a foot taller than me, and built like a pro linebacker.

“Fine, thank you,” I reply. Has Mackie told her parents that we're studying together? Meanwhile, Gus noses forward for pats. I stroke his smooth coat and tickle his long jowls. He rewards me with grateful doggy slobber. Nick digs in his jacket pocket and hands me a paper towel for my hands.

“So you and Mackie are going to study tonight. I'm taking Gus here out for a little walk, but you make yourself at home now. Mackie will be right along. Gus, bud, come on! We got to get going.”

With that, I am alone.

I walk into the great room to the wall of windows, looking at the Cascades. Most of the snow melted during the summer, and the range looks dark and forbidding. That will change in a month or two when the temperatures drop, and heavy, moist air plants snow on the peaks.

I have turned away from the windows to look back into the room when I hear Mackie say, “Hi. We can sit in here. Do you want a glass of water or something to drink?”

My heart thuds as I take her in. She wears jean shorts with light-colored suede ankle boots that show off her legs. A white shirt hangs down to cover most of her shorts. Brown and turquoise colored beads are on her wrist. Her dark, shiny hair flows straight down past her shoulders and swings as she moves toward me. She motions to a grouping of couches and armchairs clustered near the windows. I've sat there many times before with our friends, relaxed and comfortable. Now, I feel a little strange.

“Jeremy? Do you want some water?” she repeats.

“Hi, yeah, water is fine. Thanks,” I manage to choke out.

Mackie moves into the kitchen and returns with two tall glasses of water and a plate of cookies.

“I like how you study,” I note, looking at the cookies.

“You can thank Noelle. We don't always have homemade peanut butter cookies. She surprised everyone today. It's our Grandma Unis' recipe.”

I nod, impressed.

We open our notebooks to a three-page story section for translation.

“We could write translations and then check each other's work,” Mackie suggests.

“Sounds good.” Great. It's already hard to stay focused. Sitting next to Mackie on the sofa reminds me of how it felt to hold her the night before. Bowing my head, I try to only think of what is in front of me on my notebook screen.

Mackie finishes the translation first and reaches for a cookie. I'm slower, but within a few minutes I do the same.

“Let's trade and use editing marks,” she says.

Stuffing the rest of a cookie in my mouth, I set my notebook on the coffee table in front of us and take hers. Then she picks up my notebook. For the next ten minutes we review each other's assignment. I only have one comment about her work. Mackie always scores near the top in our class, and I can't find anything wrong in her translation.

We exchange notebooks again. I see she's questioned my use of a few articles. In French, all nouns are masculine or feminine. Words, like “a, an, the, this” have to agree with the gender of the noun they modify. Six of mine are wrong.

Mackie giggles when she reads what I wrote on her page.

We'd translated a story about a boy and girl visiting a French art museum, making comments about historical paintings. I asked if they really knew what they were talking about.

She deletes what I wrote, but I'm happy. I've made her laugh, and Mackie's laughter makes everything right. Her even, white teeth flash, and dimples appear in the sides of her cheeks. Best of all, her dark eyes lock onto mine. They're full of mischief.

Next, we take turns reciting the story. My pronunciation starts out clumsy, but in the end, we both do pretty well. Within an hour, we're finished. Mackie's father returns with Gus during our recitation, and they move to another part of the house.

“Let's go outside, on the deck,” she suggests, picking up the cookie plate to take with us.

I slide the nearest set of heavy glass doors open and follow her out.

Dusk has settled. The sky has cleared, so the air feels a little chilly. Mackie sits near me on the outdoor sofa. I rest my arm along the top of the back cushion so she can snuggle in closer. She props her feet on the low table in front of us and I do the same. The contrast of cooled air to the warmth where we touch triggers an inner smile. Puget Sound water shimmers in front of us.

“Have you thought more about what happened last night?” I ask.

“What part of last night?”

“Yeah, well, it was all worth reviewing.” I grin a little, not wanting to say how very, very much I've been thinking about our time together when we returned to her house. “I was thinking of the orca.”

Her eyes blink like she's deciding how to answer.

“I still don't know why,” she says. “I wish I did, but I don't. Today it all seems unreal. The whale being so close to us and feeling energy moving from me to him. It was like watching him recharge his batteries. Have you heard of anything like that?”

“No. Nothing even close.”

“I went online and tried to find other people who have had this happen to them. I didn't find anything. Maybe people just don't talk about it. I mean, who would believe me if I told them what happened last night?”

“We don't have scientific corroboration for everything that happened, but I believe you accurately described what you experienced,” I reply carefully.

“Yes, but you were there. And you understand,” she says, sliding her left hand into my right so that our fingers entwine.

“Well, sooner or later, you'll know more. I think it's pretty big, whatever is going on.” I want to stay here all night with her under the quiet sky. Drifting breezes off the saltwater mingle with the fragrance of Mackie's hair, floating two of my now-favorite scents. We sit quietly for a few minutes, drinking it all in.

She turns to face me. “Jeremy, you're good about going to the dance with me. Right?”

“Yeah, sure, better than good. But I have to ask you something. Will Brody have a meltdown?”

“He shouldn't. We haven't gone out since my accident in June. I told him I needed space and he shouldn't wait.”

“It's not that I'm worried, but I'd like to know if he still thinks you have something going on,” I say.

“There never was an ‘us' really. Besides, he's seeing Jilly Parker now,” she replies.

“Okay, just checking. I don't want to get into a turf thing with him.”

“Has he said something to you? Because we're definitely over. I'm the one who ended it. If he has a problem, it's with me,” she says and lifts her chin.

“Uh-huh, I'm not sure he'd see it that way,” I mutter. “So do we have to get dressed up for the dance? I mean like fifties retro?”

“If we want to, but it doesn't matter. The Dance Club dresses up. You'll see some girls in wide skirts and some guys in skinny ties. I might put my hair in a ponytail. We'll have fun however we look.”

With that, she leans over, picks up the cookie plate, and holds it out to me.

“Well, if I must,” I say, and we both laugh. “These are really good. Noelle should bake more often.”

As if on cue, Noelle emerges from the closest slider door and struts out to stand in front of us.

“What's going on out here?” she asks in a no-nonsense voice, then breaks down in giggles as she reaches for a cookie.

“Hey, lamb chop,” Mackie replies in a teasing voice. “We just finished our homework,
ma petite
. What's up?”

“Nothing. What're you doing?” Noelle is full of phony innocence. I hope she doesn't plan on staying.

“We were having a little conversation about what a dear sister you are. How you have the best manners, and would never barge in on your sister when she's entertaining a young gentleman. La-dee-dah, you can't find sisters like you any more,” Mackie carries on in a hokey, Southern accent.

I recognize this as a kind of game they have played for years. “Suffering Southern Belle Theater” their mother calls it. Nick will occasionally correct their ‘Southern' dialect. The girls were born and raised in the Pacific Northwest and their father is the only true Southerner among them.

“Okay,” Noelle looks at me under her lashes as she switches back to her normal voice. “Jeremy you do know that I made these cookies?”

“Yes,” I answer in my best guy-gets-right-to-the-point voice. “Mackie told me.”

“Oh. Well, do you like them?” Noelle seems determined to stay with us.

“They are so good that we may have to take you down to the beach for a ‘thank-you' dunk,” I reply, keeping a straight face.

Noelle clutches her hands to her chest and pretends to be frightened. The girl loves drama.

“That's a good idea,” Mackie says, standing up.

Noelle runs, shrieking, into the house.

“Actually, going down to the beach is a very good idea,” Mackie repeats, looking at the door where Noelle has disappeared. “I'll be back in a minute.”

When she returns, she has a sweater on and holds my jacket out to me.

Much like the previous night, the moon lights the sky. It's nearing the end of September and our warm Indian summer days will soon be overtaken by chilly rain. Clear evenings like this are special. On nights like this, for the last three years, Mackie has asked our friends to her house for a moonlight paddle. I usually stay next to her on the water.

Mackie precedes me down the cement block steps to the beach, and I can't help but compare this night with the evening before. What if another whale needs her to go out in the water? How long can she keep this from her parents, or anyone else?

I don't have time to worry. When we move off the last step, Mackie puts her arm around my waist. I do the same with her. We meander through a course of dark, rounded rocks and smooth stones pushed in by the tide. She seems more relaxed the further we get from the house. We joke about Noelle's dramatic timing.

“Mackie,” I say, changing the subject, “you do know that everyone saw us leave Jen's together last night?”

“Yeah. When Jen called today she asked about it. I told her that I wasn't feeling well and you walked me home.”

“Okay, but what about the dance? Did you tell Jen we're going together?”

She frowns. “Not yet. Let's tell everyone at lunch tomorrow. I'll do it. Are you okay with that?”

“Sure. What about your mom and dad? Will they think it's weird that you invited me? I mean we haven't done anything like this before. You know, together.”

“They've always liked you. I know they'll be happy that we're going to the dance.” She pauses. “Are you worried about your parents? What they'll say about me asking you?”

“No. Well, my mom may get kind of excited. I think she might have been into dances when she was growing up.”

We're quiet for a few minutes and move past the Spence's property line. The tide is still way out so we continue. Sound tidelands aren't easy to walk, with wet, coarse-grained, spongy sand littered with small rocks and stones. Our progress is slow, in time with the distant lapping sound of the water.