| Act 3:: Vacation The reception center was sufficiently antiseptic enough for its purpose. A slow procession of inner- city families were checking in, eager to begin their escape from the pressures of modern day suburbia. The odor of chlorine was overpowering; leaving all whom entered in glassy-eyed stupor. An overly cheerful receptionist informed them that their villa wasn�t quite ready and that they ought to pass the time shopping at �one of the conveniently located plazas nearby.� They chose a dismal looking Shoprite some five minutes from the resort. It was grey, oppressive, cramped- a claustrophobe�s nightmare. Mackenzie pushed the shopping cart, only occasionally speaking to make a snide remark. She hadn�t wanted to go on vacation in the first place, but hadn�t a choice because her parents didn�t think it prudent to leave her home alone. Without her license, she had no excuse or reason to stay behind. �Family vacation and concentration camp exist on the same plane,� she had earlier confided in her father. He had coolly replied that things were only what one made of them, then went back to loading luggage into the trunk. Their spacious villa turned out to be nothing more than a glorified hotel room. It was sparsely furnished in the same manner as the reception center but in terrible need of a real cleaning. The odor of stale cigarettes and whiskey permeated the bedding, carpets, furniture- there was no escaping the dank stink. Ashes and cigarette burns could be found on all the carpets, much to the vexation of all. Mackenzie claimed the deck for herself; it became her outdoor shelter from pests, be they winged or familial. In her seventeen years of her limited existence they had gone on perhaps two vacations together as a family. She sat aloof, angry, bitter about being away from home and friends, and in a mild state of panic about the fact that she couldn�t escape. She tried to rationalize her retreat to the deck as sparing her parents her bad mood, that living in such close quarters exacerbated their differences. She secretly lamented not being able to see Marcus and tried to console herself by listening to the CD he made for her. When she tried to call his house with the calling card her mother gave her- a precious gem of a gift- she was greeted by his answering machine. At 12:30 in the morning that usually meant he was either asleep downstairs or at a friend�s house for the night. Though Mackenzie tried to sound cheerful in her message, she knew that once Marcus heard it he would see right through the fa�ade. He had a way of reading her moods, no matter how hard she tried to disguise them. It was one in the morning, the villa silent, save the scratch of Mackenzie�s pen across the paper. Her parents had gone to bed hours ago; but driven by her caffeine-high and angst, she had decided to stay up all night and write. Despite the balmy heat outside the villa was cold; the tiles felt icy beneath her bare feet. She sat at the kitchen table, huddled up in one of Marcus� old sweatshirts, trying desperately to write something eloquent; a piece that she could say was for him. Oddly enough, Mackenzie found the task, as frustrating as it was, extremely fulfilling. |