The Quintessence of Macy Jensen

For the rest of the day my face was flushed crimson, and I couldn’t really tell you why. Maybe it was because being caught staring at Brett Marston wasn’t a high point in my life-or maybe it was the fact that all of a sudden my stomach knotted whenever I even glanced Brett’s way. It was an odd feeling I never really experienced, other than the occasional celebrity that didn’t even know I existed. But that was it, I never felt this way before and for the first hour it occurred I thought I was about to be sick. But as the day wore on and I was pushed further into the shadows, the feeling slowly dissipated and I felt like my normal self by the time I pushed open the front door and placed my book bag on the threshold.

I swept my tired eyes over the living room and noticed no one around, so I let a smile creep to my chapped lips. I ran to my room, tossing off my shoes, and fell to my bed, dragging my laptop to my lap. I basked in the night without homework and took this sweet solitude in- a day without me busting my butt to finish an essay of some sort. I was grateful for it rarely occurred, maybe once every month. With ease I flicked on the machine that kept me updated in current events and began to open the websites I enjoyed, none of which were actually informative about current events. But then again, I never really cared much about our failing society.



I thought I was still in a dream when I awoke to low lulls of baby birds and a steady stream of light. But then the outline of my bedroom filled my vision and I realized it was just another Saturday morning. What a pity. The mornings were never my forte, whether it was on weekends or Mondays; they were all dreadful. I didn’t want to get out of bed, that I knew, as my body ached to stay cushioned in my duvet.

“Macy Jensen get your butt down here!”

My mother was the brute of the family, that was a known fact to anybody who ever lived with her for more than a day. I, on the other hand, was still “on the pussy-wagon,” as my older aged - but adolescent mindset - sister would say as she balanced a basketball on her slim finger. But that was back when my sister was always home, never taking a weekend to herself, always busying it with college applications and mother-daughter time. She was the saint out of the two of us and the daughter who was destined for greatness. She was Notre Dame bound the minute she dunked a basket at age five. Granted Notre Dame was mainly a football school, there was still a basketball team and that was still her favorite school.

The cold floor greeted me as I arrived in the kitchen with my robe wrapped lazily around my figure. My mother was located in front of the stove, cooking something on the stove-top. She smiled as she heard my light footfall and I smiled in return. What I smelt wasn’t anything in particular; an array of melted cheese and Aunt Jemima pancakes. So far it was a normal morning; as normal as mornings could get, that is. I didn’t expect, that later in the day when I was dressed in a summer dress and a flower-pelted headband made by hand, grabbing milk per my mother’s request, I would see Brett Marston with a small girl on his hip, her hair in tight ponytails and his enclosed in just another beanie-this one the shade of my lips. I dared to keep my gaze on him for longer than I should have and I felt my heart buzz in warning, as if it was saying “don’t get caught again you dummy.” But I ignored the warning with a breath and continued to walk down the isles, peeking behind my shoulder as Brett advanced to the frozen isles. It was odd, as I pretended to busy myself with picking the right percentage of milk, that Brett hadn’t noticed me yet.

To be frank I didn’t know if I really wanted him to notice me either; pick up his head and see his blue eyes stare into mine. But at the same time it was something I wanted more than anything. I wanted Brett to look my way, notice I was a somebody, and wave. But I knew what was fantasy and what was reality - for Brett, if he did look my way, would scoff and turn away, his eyes cold and malevolent.

I finally detached my eyes from Brett and gathered the milk in my frail arms, turning to walk to a cash register that didn’t have a very big line. As my boots smacked on the linoleum floor and my hair flowed around my shoulders, I could hear a light giggle follow behind me, and I dared not to look, afraid of who I’d see. I made it to a register with efficiency and my mothers time-line, her expecting me back no less than one, considering I left the house at twelve-thirty. It took less than a few minutes for the cashier to ring me up, for me to pay, and to listen to the elderly woman ramble on about her newborn granddaughter named Delilah.

I turned to check the time, and forgot all about the time-restriction when I came eye-to-eye with Brett, the girl on the ground and he shoveling items from his cart onto the belt. He looked up at the moment I did and then lowered his eyes, not before nodding slightly. I was taken aback, sure; it wasn’t an everyday occurrence that the captain of the football team would nod at you, nonetheless acknowledge you. Especially to me, Macy Jensen, the freak show of the high school. “Hi Brett.” I mumbled, hoping that would be a nice response to his gesture. Whether or not it was something teenage boys did often didn’t matter.

He hesitated with his lip between his teeth before he responded. “Hi Macy.” I smiled lightly, trying to be discreet. I prayed he couldn’t hear my heartbeat over the tacky music, for it was beating to it’s own rhythm, one of fast paces and no actual rhythm at all. “Who’s that?” I asked as I pointed to the little girl who was now hidden behind Brett’s jean clad legs. He frowned slightly before sighing. “Amelia, my….sister.” He hesitated before he said sister, as if he had to think about how she was related to him. I found it odd but brushed it off as I turned to leave.

I pondered a certain thought as I drove back home in my white Toyota; and the thought was that, well, Amelia resembled Fay McGovern-a girl I shared History with- quite a lot; and he said she was his sister.