The Quintessence of Macy Jensen

It was cold; that was the first thing I realized as I awoke from my sleep. I didn’t like the cold, and maybe that’s why I loved those Christmas sweaters. And Knee-high boots. And anything that covered your entire body and left people guessing, wondering what was under those layers. I liked being mysterious, sue me. I stood from my bed and let the blue sheets cascade down my bare legs like waves, my body shivering in the immense bitterness. I had a schedule for my mornings, a certain time to do certain tasks. Ten minutes to get dressed, with my outfit planned the night before and folded over my chair, ten minutes to brush my teeth and whatnot, and finally thirty minutes to eat breakfast.

It was a tight schedule that never failed. And I took pride in it, like I took pride in the small things in life; like what color socks I wore and how good some television shows could be. Today my socks were flamingo pink with white silhouettes of deer, covered over by my knee-high fur boots, casual and knock-offs. Covering my torso was a sweater that hung to mid-thigh with an array of yellow-stripped tigers on the material. And then my jeans came next, dark and plain, just how I liked it.

Once I seemed perfectly ready for the day, I left my room in hast and flicked off the light switch on my way. I multitasked by tying my hair in a messy bun atop my head and placing a butterfly pin at the base, to hold it all together like a neatly wrapped Christmas present. That homely aroma of blueberry pancakes filled my senses as I entered the kitchen. My mother was spinning in place, humming to herself a tune she heard on the radio. My lips turned into a half-moon with white teeth. I sat down on a chair and waited patiently for a plate to be placed in front of me. And soon it was, and after twenty-five minutes I was washing my plate in the sink. I had five minutes to spare, which rarely happened, so I took solace in this time and sat on the couch, catching the ending bits of an infomercial.

They weren’t the most interesting programs on the TV, but they were occupying and for some odd reason I always got sucked into them, like the actors selling the products were luring me into a deal with the devil. I watched the clock as the hands came closer to seven A.M, the time my bus screeched up to my driveway and picked me up. I didn’t enjoy my bus, or any school bus, for that matter. They were all filthy; chewed gum stuck to the bottom of leather seats that your legs stuck to on a hot day, hand prints and fogged windows that barely pulled down, and a AC system that rarely worked without a sputter or two. Call me a pessimist, sometimes I even convince myself I only see the bad side of things, the glass half empty.

“Time for school Macy, have a good day!” My mother called on queue, right as I was shutting the door behind my retreating form.

“Bye mum!” I called back. I liked mixing British words with my American accent, for I always yearned to be British - with their amazingly brilliant accents and all. Maybe it was my recent obsession with Doctor Who-who knows. As I made it to my destination, which was the top of my gravel driveway, the daisy-yellow bus pulled up, grazing my mailbox with one wheel propelled over the curb. I sighed quietly and walked up those metal steps once the door was flung open. I waved to the driver, who grunted in response, wiping his greasy hands on his also greasy t-shirt. Watching as kids of all shapes, sizes, and mental capacity followed me with their scrutinizing eyes, I walked down the isle and fell into the back seat on the left, the lone seat with room for only one person. And that one person was always me.



The crowd of sweaty kids and neon backpacks flooding into the double doors was intimidating, and so that was the one reason I hung at the back of the crowd. Anyway, I had no one to meet up with and converse about how much we missed each other over the weekend. I was just a ghost in the shadows, that one person between “oh yeah I think she goes to school with me,” and “who the hell is that?” I was an unknown, and somehow I became okay with the fact that I would never get asked to homecoming, I would never be invited to sit with the “popular” kids at lunch.

My eyes focused on the oddly tiled floors as I made sure to not knock into familiar but unknown faces, but of course nobody minded knocking into me, nerdy Macy Jensen who wore stupid sweaters all the time. I flicked the combination lock open after I punched in those three letters I had remembered since I first got the locker in ninth grade; 21-0-21. I tossed in my books to be swallowed by the black abyss and held onto the one book I needed for my first period. I shut my locker warily and pressed the book to my chest, dispersing myself into the sea of hormonal teenagers and harsh words. I weaved and bobbed through the waves of kids, all being too busy in conversations to bother where they walked.

While my eyes were trained on the back of some tall blonde in front of me, my books were abruptly knocked from my grasp and I fell to the floor with a thud. I looked up threw my brittle bangs to see none-other than Brett Marston sprawled in front of me, no more than two feet away. He grumbled profanities under his breath before standing up and wiping his hands on his jeans, not bothering to look my way other than to see who he ran into. He scoffed once he realized who I was and dropped down to grab his books, his friends and teammates gibing him.

“Fucking Macy Jensen, watch where you’re going next time,” He grunted as he simultaneously growled at the men flanking him.

“Sorry,” I muttered, also leaning down to collect my book, which luckily none of the papers fell out of. “You’re a fucking hipster Macy, learn to act like a normal human being for Christ sake and watch where you walk.”

And that was Brett and I’s first confrontation.