A/N: Another Mac chapter, back in 2004. Thank you so much for all the reviews, including all the wonderful guest reviewers who I haven't been able to thank in a PM, I appreciate each and everyone of you for taking a couple minutes to tell me what you think of this story. And of course thank you to everyone for reading and continuing to read this story, and for the favorites & follows. Much appreciated! Hope you enjoy this next chapter...Lot's more Mac-as-Madison hi-jinx to follow. As always a BIG thank you to my wonderful, patient beta-cainc3!

Obligatory disclaimer: Nope, don't own a thing. I love playing around with Rob Thomas' wonderful VM 'verse though!

Chapter 9—On Tiny Gossamer Wings

Mac was thinking about butterflies when a sudden, jarring, jerk and the sound of metal scraping metal brutally brought her out of her ruminations.

She hadn't been thinking of butterflies in a concrete aren't they beautiful kind of way, instead she was thinking of them in more abstract theoretical terms. Mr. Humphrey, her physics teacher, had started lecturing on the Chaos theory, also known as the more poetic butterfly effect, which, to nut-shell it, was the belief that one little minute thing could disrupt the harmonious balance of the universe. Basically a ripple of butterfly wings could cause a hurricane a half-world away. The Earth was such a delicate balance, that one little thing out of alignment could knock everything off kilter. It seemed like a lot of weight to lie upon tiny gossamer wings, but the core of the theory intrigued her.

Mac couldn't help drawing parallels between those theorems and her strange new existence.

It was going on two weeks now since she'd landed back in her junior year of high school and she still had no clue how long she'd be stranded on this new/old plane of existence.

In the immediate aftermath, Mac looked up in shock to see that she'd T-boned a big tank of a cream colored car, a relic from the late 70s. It barely had a dent, her Cadillac, on the other hand didn't fare as well. It had crumpled in, right at the point of impact. Her head hadn't fared very well either. She felt the start of a vicious migraine building; she'd been getting those with more frequency since she'd received the concussion that had landed her back in time to begin with. She knew the signs by now.

Mac was also intimately familiar with the car she'd just smashed—it was the one she'd driven originally, only this time the screaming, snarling driver was one Madison Sinclair, known now as Cindy Mackenzie. She was actually glad, in this dimension, that Madison, who had been cast into her old life, went as Cindy rather than her own nickname, and identity really, Mac. That would have made things worse, somehow.

Her headache buried itself even deeper. The line was blurred though, was the aching head just merely a souvenir from this new accident, or was the incessant screaming and theatrics of Cindy making things worse. She was certain it was an equation of both factors in nearly equal measure.

Cindy had gotten out of her car, and was now walking around to the driver's side of Mac's car yelling and ranting the whole way about not watching where she's going, right-of-way's, yielding, and stupid '09'ers buying their driver's licenses instead of earning them.

Through the haze of pain from her pounding head, and Cindy yelling, Mac was having trouble concentrating on anything, but she became vaguely aware of the horn honking of the line of cars behind her, classmates eager to leave school grounds and begin their Thanksgiving break.

Soon people started getting out of their cars, embracing the fact that they weren't going to be able to leave anytime soon. The drive was too narrow for most of the SUVs, trucks, and other student owned vehicles to safely pass the accident scene. The crowd was a mix of curious onlookers, concerned friends and acquaintances, and a few people who seemed to take malicious joy in other people's misfortune.

Mac saw her door open. She looked up to see Dick's concerned face peering down at her. Things had been awkward between them since the kiss a week ago. The avoidance phase of their stalemate had ended, but she was still actively thinking up ways to avoid being alone with him. She suspected he had a vague idea of her plan, the way he smirked as he would propose one date idea after another, giving tell to the fact he knew he'd be going down without that blaze of glory.

He reached in and helped pull her up and out of her car after she had assured and reassured him several times that she was okay. She clenched her eyes shut to ride out the tremor of pain that shot through her not yet fully recovered brain.

"What?" Dick barked.

"Nothing, just a little headache, no big deal."

"Actually, it is a big deal if you're still recovering from a concussion to begin with," Dick corrected. "Stay here, I'll be right back."

Then he turned his focus to Jackson who had been hovering on the perimeter, too, standing with an entire little '09'er collective who were busy watching the show. "Watch Madi, make sure she doesn't collapse, or shit," he ordered.

Jackson nodded.

"You don't have to babysit me, I'm fine."

"I know you are, it wasn't anything more than a tap, but just sit here anyway," he guided her to the steep blacktop curb that divided the bank of grass outlining the perimeter of Neptune High and the entrance road. "You know, just in case."

"Are you afraid of Dick?" Mac teased, a twinkle in her eye, despite the pounding in her head.

"A little," Jackson confessed with a smirk. "So, what the hell happened?"

"Butterflies," Mac said.

"What?" He was confused.

"I don't know what happened," Mac said honestly. "One second the space in front of me was clear, I'd just turned onto the main drive from lot B, there was this big gap between me and the next car in front of me, then next thing I know I'd hit a car that, apparently, appeared out of nowhere."

"A car owned by that skank Cindy," Jackson clarified. "So, what do butterflies have to do with anything? Did a giant one fly in front of you and cause you to crash?" He hypothesized.

"I was thinking of butterflies. It's not important, just one of those random things you think about until life crashes into you, literally." Mac said in what she hoped was a dismissive tone. She looked up, scanning the area looking for a flash of shaggy blonde hair.

Dick was by Cindy's car speaking quietly, but obviously heatedly, based on the anger she saw bleeding through his actions. He pointed a finger at her; he leaned inwards a little menacingly. She couldn't hear what he was saying until he yelled the last bit.

"Okay, Cindy, fine, call the cops. I think Balboa's Finest should be involved. Even those inbred idiots should know enough of the law to back up what I've been telling you."

Cindy raised her voice to match Dick's. It was just as whiny as she'd always remembered. "She's the one that hit me."

"That's only because you pulled out in front of her."

Some girl with shoulder length, mousy, brown hair and glasses came up to them, stepping in between Dick and Cindy, as though providing body guard services. The look she shot Dick was full of censure.

"Who is the newcomer?" Mac whispered to Jackson.

"Hadley Klein, I think. Some white trash bitch that shadows Cindy around," he explained.

Oh yeah, Klein, that was the last name that had been tugging at Mac's memory. Hadley Klein was the one she'd fought freshman year, on the bus, for calling her trailer trash. Her mom, Nat, had always said all bullies were just insecure little kids projecting their own issues onto the people they bullied, but she had always thought that was Dr. Phil psycho-babble. Maybe there was a bit of truth to that, after all.

Watching the three of them continue to go at it, Mac half-expected a fight to erupt, but the arrival of Mr. McCormick—Corndick as everyone called him—the Neptune High security guard, put a halt to any possible violence.

At his summons, Mac got up off the curb and walked over the group. Cindy was pointing to the damage on her antiquated tank, glorified scratch that it was, while Dick was still cutting in and correcting every other thing she said. Corndick—a stupid '09'er moniker that just stuck for some reason—was obviously getting pissed, no one was paying any heed to what he was saying. Mac tried to interject a few times. Cindy and Hadley kept honing on the bare fact that Mac was the one that hit her car and ignoring the fact that it was only because she'd pulled out in front of her in the first place.

Finally, bargaining for some kind of stalemate from both sides, Corndick was able to get to the job he truly shined at, directing traffic, which when talking about student drivers, wasn't an easy job. It took Tetris mastery really, angling the cars through the narrow driveway, avoiding the damaged cars.

Mac watched as the crowd slowly dissipated. Since the show was over, and there obviously wasn't going to be a fight erupting, everyone was eager to get home and enjoy the well-earned long weekend.

About five minutes later, a Balboa County Sheriff car pulled up to the now practically empty lot.

Deputy Sacks got out of the car, obligatory government-issued notebook in hand, with his on the case demeanor shining through. Mac had always liked Sacks, he was on the force for the 'right' reasons, because he truly wanted to serve and protect, making him a minority in the rankings of Balboa County's Finest. At least in the real world he had never really been the type to be "bought and paid for", she hoped that was still the case. Though a little voice inside reminded her she was the one in this scenario with the deeper pockets, a fact that still wasn't second nature to her. She couldn't help wondering if it ever would be…She truly hoped not.

Yet again, Mac insisted that there weren't any cars in front of her until suddenly she merged with Cindy's bumper. Dick collaborated with her story, though honestly she didn't know if he really was a witness, or if he just said he was. Cindy upped her protests, adding eyelash batting and pouty lips to the equation, hoping to really sell things, but the gestures fell flat with her audience.

Next, Deputy Sacks did his due diligence with this investigative work, whipping out a ruler and a piece of graphing paper to chart the scene by hand. Mac watched him work, a little surprised by his old school ways, it seemed like a waste of energy to her, but a lot was personally riding on his result, so she bit her lower lip as she studied his technique.

The big investigation ended with the best possible scenario, in Mac's viewpoint at least. Cindy, however,was less pleased with the ruling. After Deputy Sacks had left the scene, Dick lingered on the scene with Mac, and Jackson, they were congregating by the Caddy. Cindy and her shadow, Haley, on the other hand, were by Cindy's car.

"No fair, that bitch and her family ruin everything. It's always been that way," Cindy was wailing.

Mac didn't try to peel her eyes away from the image of Hadley comforting her pissed off, nearly-hysterical friend. She was dramatically gesturing with the hand holding the ticket for failure to yield.

Mac didn't know what she could've meant by the comment about her family ruining everything, but she didn't really want to waste anymore time on anything Cindy said. The only thing that really mattered was that nobody was hurt and neither car was seriously affected. The only real collateral damage, of whatever the hell that "staged accident", was her still achy head and a small dent in the new Caddy. Cindy's car was fine, Mac would have said no worse for the wear, but there was a lot of wear on that car way before the "scratch" happened.

After squeezing out her parting shot, Cindy and her token bestie piled into the ancient marvel of automotive know-how and drove off very slowly as though convinced the car would spontaneously combust if driven over 25 MPH. Truthfully, Mac suspected that was a distinct possibility.

Dick drove Mac's Caddy home with his minion, Jackson Douglas, following them in his prized yellow jeep. She launched a litany of complaints the entire drive, to which he first countered them, and then later began to ignore when she started recycling most of her arguments in an infinite loop.

"So, how are you going to hide the evidence?" Dick asked as he pulled into the Sinclair's driveway. He pressed the button on the garage opener, tracking it as it began to slowly rise u[.

The blue Honda Civic Ellen provided for the maid's use—namely to do grocery shopping in—was parked under the basket ball hoop on the opposite end of the drive. Dick had barely avoided hitting it as he angled the car into the courtyard style garage.

"Evidence?" Mac asked, biting her lip as he pulled his gaze back in her direction.

"Uh, the dent, you know, from your accident, which is the only reason I'm driving your crappy piece of American automotive engineering." The garage was otherwise empty. He turned off the engine.

"Crappy American engineering!?" Mac asked incredulously, while simultaneously wondering why she was bothering to defend the Cadillac which was hopefully just a loaner of sorts anyway while she temporarily dwelled in this plane. She wanted her Beetle back! "Isn't that yellow monstrosity hovering on my driveway, probably dripping oil, an example of American engineering, as well?"

"Yes," Dick admitted, "but not of the crappy variety. Jeeps are awesome, and it's certified leak free."

"Certified? Certified by whom?"

"By me," Dick said cockily, like he was automotive savant.

"I think you mean certifiable," Mac corrected with a smirk.

He matched her smirk, and then upped the ante.

They stayed in the car talking for a couple minutes. He'd declined her offer to come in. It seemed to Mac that this was actually the least weird things had been between the two of them since their kiss exactly one week ago, not that she was counting or anything. They talked mainly about people they knew, shared classes, surface stuff, nothing of real consequence, but it was a start, or perhaps in this dimension, a re-start.

After one more brief check in on her headache—still there—he made move to get out of the car, placing his hand on the door handle. Then he shifted a bit, leaning in slightly and Mac expected another kiss, but it never came. Did he change his mind or had she just misinterpreted things? They said good-bye.

Mac got out of the car, but then paused on the steps leading to the house to watch as Dick made quick strides towards his still idling Jeep. As Mac pressed the button to close the garage door, she watched Jackson slid over to the passenger side as Dick gracefully hopped into the driver's side through the window. It was an art he had perfected.

The door closed with a resounding thud, ending the show. Mac sighed, and briefly touched her temple, then entered the house. The smell of freshly baked cookies greeted her. She made her way to the kitchen, where Lucille was diligently kneading some dough, no doubt preparing for tomorrow's Thanksgiving feast.

Mac smiled when she saw Lauren sitting at the table with a half-full glass of milk and a plate of mostly cookie crumbs in front of her.

"Hey, Lauren, hello Lucille," she greeted.

The housekeeper looked up from the dough, and jerked her head in the direction of the stove behind her where a big baking tray of cookies was cooling; Lauren's sampling hadn't even put a dent into it. "Help yourself, doll. They're from a new recipe I found for vegan cinna-melts."

Mac gulped, willing herself not to cry. Finally she croaked out a weak "Thanks," and plated up a few cookies. A wave of homesickness once again broke over her, it was an emotion she was becoming intimately acquainted with these days. Cinna-melts were the exact cookies her mom always put in her lunchbox growing up.

Apparently she didn't do a very good job of hiding the evidence of the nose-dive her mood had taken because, as she took her snack to the table, Lauren studied her face for a long moment before inquiring what was wrong.

"Nothing, and everything all at once," Mac admitted. "Plus, I might have got into a slight fender bender on my way home."

"Mom will kill you," Lauren said not-very-reassuringly.

"Are you alright, Madi?" Lucille gasped and put aside the dough she was still working on.

"I'm fine," she huffed a breath, and then continued, "some bit…" stopping herself just in time to render Lucille's preemptive look of censure unnecessary. "Some bad driver pulled out in front of me, and then tried to act like it was my fault. Dick backed me up to the cops."

Lauren made kissing noises at that last comment. Mac bit her lip to keep back the genuine smile pushing through. She lived for these real-live sisterly bonding moments. It was confusing though, because while mostly she longed for her Mackenzie life back, there was pleasure in the moment, too, those simple times spent with Lauren where it felt like they'd always been sisters, and they always would be. However, to go back to her old life meant giving up Lauren and these little moments.

She forced an older sisterly-stern expression on her face.

"Mom really is going to kill you," Lauren reiterated. "Can I have your room? It's bigger than mine."

Mac wondered how she could know that for sure; it seemed to her that when you were talking rooms the size of the ones populating the Sinclair's McMansion then a difference of like 10 square feet didn't make that much of a difference at all. The degree of big-ness didn't really matter—big, after all, was still big.

She worked her way through the plate of cookies, chatting with Lauren about school, Scooby Doo villains and just the minutiae of junior high life in general. It was eerily similar from the after-school snack sessions she shared with Ryan the first time around, minus the hovering maid frantically preparing a feast for the next day, however. Mac was focused on Lauren's description of her favorite class when her attention was suddenly diverted.

"Madison Grace, what the hell happened to your car?"

Startled, Mac looked up to see Ellen glowering in the doorway, waves of anger all but shimmering off of her.

"Fender bender, mom," Mac said, cringing slightly at the meek tone her voice took on. The headache she'd had since she first rammed into Madison made its presence known once again; it had just started to recede into the background.

"Looks like a fender crusher to me," Ellen corrected. "That's more than a mere tap."

"Cindy pulled out in front of me; there was nothing I could do to avoid her."

"Cindy?" The questioning tone in Ellen's voice was faint, but there. She strode into the room, stopping to grab a cookie from the tray before joining her daughters at the kitchen table. Mac watched her mom take a bite of the crunchy cookie and, yet, somehow, manage not to rain crumbs everywhere.

"Cindy Mackenzie." Just saying her name in regards to someone else was surreal, she felt like she was speaking in second person. Where was Rod Serling when she needed his voice over talents?

Ellen finished chewing and swallowing the cookie before pursing her lip. Mac could see the anger leaving her face. "None of those bloody people can drive evidently." It was just a mutter.

"What does that mean?" Mac tried to keep the irritation out of her voice. She didn't like Ellen's insinuation, labeling the Mackenzie's that way.

"Nothing, dear," Ellen's tone was dismissive, as she popped the rest of the cookie in her mouth.

She wasn't convinced, but before she could question Ellen further, conversation had moved to other more pressing topics like plans for the annual Sinclair feast.

*******/*******/*******/*******/*******

Mac woke up the next day hot and heavy with the knowledge that it was her first holiday as a Sinclair, and Thanksgiving no less. Fortunately her headache from the day before was gone; she didn't have anything slowing down her processors.

Things in the Mackenzie household on Thanksgiving were always chaotic. No matter what her intent was, her day always seemed to begin before 8AM as the kitchen noise rose up to her second floor bedroom. Natalie was not a yeller, but her voice seemed to take on a frantic edge to it that crept higher on the acoustic scale on times of stress like preparing holiday dinners. Her mom didn't buy "extravagances" like Tofurky, but she did make a point to make vegan versions of every other classic dish.

Things were still quiet in the Sinclair house; however, the kitchen was so far removed from the bedroom wing that it was possible that there was a marching band practicing in the breakfast nook and Mac wouldn't hear even one note from the French horn section.

Her philosophical dissection of butterflies once again circled around her thoughts as she started to shake the sleep that was still clinging to the recesses of her mind. The powerful effect of what even the most miniscule change to conditions could cause had been demonstrated time and again by various experiments. However, they were mainly laboratory conditions, the field she was talking about was vaster, and, at the risk of being dramatic, it involved her very existence. Even if she could figure out a way to exact changes in this reality, would it actually bleed into her original "future" life? She just needed to mull it over a little while longer.

Reluctantly, Mac got out of her warm nest of blankets, the 1,500 thread count cotton sheets, and the cloud-like mattress that already contoured perfectly to her body. The bed was definitely one luxe that hadn't taken long to get acclimated to in this new lifestyle.

She went into the massive closet, quickly grabbing a pair of jeans and a tee shirt from the acres of clothes bunched in there. After slipping them on, Mac finger combed her hair so she'd be presentable at least.

When she entered the kitchen she'd expected to see chaos; debris from potato peelings, a trail of gravy splatter on the stove, a garbage can overflowing with burnt rolls. Instead Lucille was humming along to the radio, which was tuned to an Oldies station. She was peeling sweet potatoes, but she was doing it in the sink, and everything was neatly piled together.

They exchanged greetings and Lucille interrupted her work flow just long enough to indicate to Mac that her breakfast was waiting for her at the table. A box of her usual vegan cereal was perched beside an empty bowl and a carton of soy milk. Murmuring a thank you, she set to work pouring a cup of coffee, before settling down to eat.

"So, where is everyone?" Mac asked, over a big bite of cereal.

"Lauren is still sleeping, your mom is out getting a few last minute items, and your dad is taking his traditional pre-turkey run."

"Traditional?" Mac asked, and then mentally kicked herself.

"His theory is exercise before you eat primes your metabolism."

"That's ridiculous. It sounds plausible, but there's no science to truly back that up."

"I know, you tell him that every year," Lucille said with an indulgent smile. She didn't appear to think it seemed strange for Mac to not remember all their little Sinclair traditions.

Lucille went back to her task at hand while Mac focused again on eating her breakfast.

The meow coming from the door fractured her attention again. Fritz entered the room, no doubt following his nose. They'd been bonding lately; he even came up to her occasionally for a pat. After doing his due diligence in making sure the floor by the food prep area was completely clean, Fritz made a quick detour over to Mac. She sneaked him a couple of pieces of cereal to make it worth his while, and he purred his appreciation.

After breakfast, Mac offered her assistance and food prep skills in the kitchen only to get, politely, shoo'ed out. Refilling her coffee cup first, Mac went into the adjoining family room and found an episode of The Family Guy, a show Dick was always trying to sell her on. She sipped on her coffee carefully, not wanting to spill a drop on the precious couch 'Mom2' was so protective of.

As the morning made its creeping progress towards the afternoon, activities in the kitchen picked up, and Mac turned off the marathon of baby Stewie and his usual brand of sarcastic rejoinders to join in the madness. Sinclair madness wasn't a bleep on the Mackenzie Richter scale, however.

The entire family was pitching in. Most of the meal was already either fully finished and just cooling on the counter, or was languishing in the hot oven. Despite the fact that it was less than an hour until all the guests arrived for the biggest meal of the year, Ellen's demeanor was calm. She was not muttering about time getting away, or how they'd have to move because this would be an epic disaster, like Natalie always did. Obviously having live-in help took a lot of stressors off a person.

"I have one more dish to prepare, and then I think everything is set, dears," Lucille finally announced, politely waving them out of her domain. She made the appropriate accompanying hand gestures. "Go relax before the guests arrive. The table has been set since last night, the food is almost finished cooking, and dinner will be on the table twenty minutes after the last guest arrives."

"Thank you, Lucille. As always, I do not know what we'd do without you," Ellen said gratefully.

"Starve," Lauren joked, then laughed as her mom tickled her. She skipped out of the room.

Mac smiled when she turned around briefly on her way out the door and saw the housekeeper taking out a box with a Tofurky roast in it. Her plate had always seemed bare without the traditional representation of a Thanksgiving feast, but, of course she wouldn't nor couldn't violate her moral code on any day—veganism didn't take a holiday. Now, however, she could have a balanced plate, and not violate her dietary lifestyle either. The vegan roast wasn't even a splurge in this family; it wouldn't even put a hairline crack in the Sinclair's food budget.

After getting kicked out of the kitchen, they all settled down in the library. 'Dad2' started a fire, and Fritz proceeded to plop himself in front of it. Ellen opened a bottle of red wine, pouring herself and her husband a generous amount. It made a cozy holiday scene. They talked about the guest list, it was shaping up to be a smaller than the usual grouping, according to Ellen.

"Who is on the guest list this year?" Mac asked, though she knew none of the names would mean a thing to her.

Ellen swallowed the sip of wine she'd just taken then, using her fingers' started listing them. "Aunt Alice and Uncle Bill, Ed, Grandma Cole, and…"

Just then the doorbell rang and Lauren hopped up to get it.

"Well, looks like the party will be beginning a little early," Ellen continued, abandoning her earlier thread of conversation.

"Come in," Mac heard Lauren say from the entry way.

"Thanks, Lauren," was the reply.

Mac knew that voice, Dick Casablancas.

"What's he doing here?" She hissed at her mom. "You didn't tell me Dick was coming."

"Keep your tone down, dear. I was about to," Ellen corrected. She got up off the settee and reached out a hand to pull Mac up, too. She walked out the door to greet her guests, always the gracious hostess. Mac followed suit.

"Hope you don't mind that I brought…" Dick was saying.

Mac turned the corner and locked eyes with Cassidy just as Dick finished his sentence. She felt the blood pooling in her face as, once again, thoughts of butterflies flitted through her mind.

TBC…

***Seemed like a good stopping point to me. There will be lots of more of the Sinclair Family Thanksgiving dinner in the next chapter. I decided to split this one in 2 parts, pushing the rest of my plan back a chapter, so that means this story will be at least one chapter longer than I'd originally planned, and I have a LOT more chapters planned! But I want to know what you thought of THIS chapter. Reviews as always are appreciated. Thanks for reading!