Everything That Makes You (14 page)

“Interesting choice of words,” he said, raising an eyebrow.

She rolled her eyes. “I had scars. I had surgery. Now no scars. End of story.”

“You got a do-over,” he said, shrugging. “New face, new town. You get to be someone totally different.”

“You'll have to take my word that I'm not.”

Fiona didn't consider herself scrupulously honest. She didn't sing her own songs. She never told Trent McKinnon how she felt. She never confronted her mother about the long list of grievances. She ran away from uncomfortable conversations with David. Before five minutes ago, she hadn't told a soul at Northwestern about her scars.

Even so, claiming that losing the scars didn't dramatically change her life was the least true thing she could ever say.

“You're a better person than me,” he said, with a little
salute. “Life-changing event and staying the same you. Pretty solid stuff.”

“The same happened to you.”

He held her in a steady gaze, his tone much quieter than before. “I've got the same life, it's just missing a chunk.”

Her heart froze in her chest, the rest of her just as paralyzed. She couldn't even open her mouth and pretend to know what to say.

Then her phone rang.

“I can't believe it. It's Ryan,” she said, staring blankly at the caller ID.

She looked at Jackson, apologetically asking for permission to abandon this awkward conversation and begin the one she'd been trying to have for weeks. He gestured to the phone—
go ahead.

Fiona put the phone to her ear. “Hey.”

“Hey, do you remember the Faulkner we read, in junior year? What's the thematic premise of ‘Barn Burning'?”

Fiona repeated the question back to herself, like it would make more sense that way. “Um, morality I think? No wait—free will?”

“Pick one. I've got to bang this out. It's due in half an hour.”

She exhaled all the stale air trapped in her body. “
This
is why you're finally calling?”

“Sorry. I know, I'm horrible.” There was a static-y sound on his end, some muffled conversation. “And we need an
analysis of the themes in ‘A Rose for Emily,' too.”

“Who's we?”

“Tony Miller. The sweeper.”

“Sweeper of what?”

A pause. “The soccer team, Fiona. You know, that little thing I'm doing down here.”

Fiona rolled her eyes, which caused Jackson to narrow his. “Excuse me for not
instantly understanding
your needs, Ryan. As I don't have mental telepathy, sometimes I need things explained. There's an easy fix for that—it's called the damn phone.”

“Lord, you, Mom, and Gwen need to form a club or something.” There was another static-y interruption. “No, you can't talk to her,” Ryan snapped.

“I can't talk to who?”

“Not you, Tony. So the thematic premise?”

Fiona began pulling the phone away as Ryan got louder and louder. “Where are you? The thematic premise to which?”

“The dorm. ‘Barn Burning.' Seriously, Fiona, I don't have a lot of time here.”

She was about to yell, or hang up, or cause some kind of scene, but with Jackson right there, it didn't seem fair complaining about her breathing brother. “I don't know. Go with the struggle between morality and loyalty.” She shook her head, grimacing. “It's been awhile. It's my best guess.”

“No, that's great,” Ryan said. “‘A Rose for Emily.'”

Fiona bluffed something about the mind being both
trapped and free. He repeated it to Tony Miller the Sweeper. After a brief scuffle, a strange voice came on the other end. “Hey, thanks.”

Fiona raised her eyebrows. Tony Miller the Sweeper's voice came through the phone so loudly, the girl one table over gave a dirty look. “Uh, you're welcome.”

“I'm Tony.”

“I figured.” This insanely long breakfast was exhausting. She wanted a remedy for the awkward. She wanted her brother back on the phone and possibly a nap—not this Tony person.

“I play soccer with your brother,” he said.

“Yes, I got that.”

“Your picture popped up on Ryan's phone. You should come visit. Cheer us on.”

Fiona narrowed her eyes at Jackson, as if to ask
What the heck?
Jackson just smirked and shook his head.

Another scuffle, punctuated by “Dude, that's my sister!” and Ryan returned. “Don't come visit. They're all pigs.” More shuffling. “Hey, I gotta go. Sorry I can't talk longer. I'll call later, I swear.”

Fiona gave a skeptical “Okay,” but he'd already hung up. “So that was my brother.”

“He sounds busy.”

She wanted to cry. Flirting with this boy. Learning about his amazing brother. Dealing with her inconsiderate one.

“You're upset,” Jackson said.

She put the phone away and looked anywhere but at him. “It's fine. I'm fine.”

Third awkward silence.

“I still say you're an enigma.” With just the smallest smirk, he leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “But I like a challenge.”

The coffee shop was packed full. Everyone who was home from college for Thanksgiving break was laughing and hugging and catching up—while Fi sat at a corner table, trying to milk as many extra credit points as she could.

Jackson sat across from her. He'd lost weight over the summer, but his face was looking fuller again. He looked healthier. The girls at the table behind them were blatantly checking him out, but he didn't notice. Either that, or he didn't care.

She was getting used to it. To him. They'd been meeting at Otherlands a few times a week now, ever since that first run-in in September. The company was nice—but they still treaded carefully with each other.

“I can't believe I still have work,” she said, sinking in her chair. “Everyone else here gets to relax.”

“No rest for the wicked.” He looked from his book long enough to nod at the blank paper in front of her. “Anyway, it
doesn't look like you're doing much work.”

She flicked the edge of the paper. “I'm stuck.”

“What's the assignment?”

“Creative writing,” she said. “Describe something ugly and find beauty in it.”

He frowned a little, kind of sideways. “Like Marcus's urn.”

The memory came suddenly—the ornate silver urn centered on the gleaming dark wood altar. “Ugh, that's the opposite. A beautiful thing that's nothing but ugly.”

Jackson shrugged and looked back to his book, leaving her to stew in another memory of Marcus. These moments were sneaky little things. They could switch her on and off without warning.

She grabbed her mug and headed up front for a refill, melding into the loose line behind the register. That's when she made eye contact with the last person on earth she wanted to see.

“Hey, Fi.” Lucy Daines looked exactly the same. Tall and skinny, even taller with that out-of-control hair and those thick-soled, vintage boots. She acted the same, too, acknowledging Fi only
after
getting ahead of her in line.

Fi took the place behind her. “Lucy.”

Lucy ordered three coffees and stepped aside to wait. Fi handed her mug forward and asked for a refill.

“I heard about your boyfriend,” Lucy said. “That sucks.”

Fi nodded, watching the tattooed barista take his own sweet time with her refill.

“So you're at Milton?” Lucy's voice went higher than normal, and she tilted her head sympathetically.

Fi hated when people did the fake-concern thing. It was even worse coming from Lucy Daines. “Yeah.”

“Do you like it?” Lucy asked. She looked uncomfortable, like the small talk was creating some physical constriction.

“It's okay.”

“I'm at NYU.”

“Cool,” Fi said, hoping her jealousy didn't show.

“Yeah, it really is.” Lucy got her drinks and used her head to gesture to the back of the room. “Well, I should bring these over.”

Fi followed the nod's direction and squinted. “Didn't that guy go to school with us?”

“David Wright. Yeah, we were on the paper. And that's his girlfriend, from UT. She came home with him for the holidays.”

After another awkward moment—like neither knew how to relate now that civility had been established—Lucy eventually said, “See you later,” and walked away.

Fi returned to her table and nursed the coffee for a few minutes. Then she got her stuff.

“You're done?” Jackson asked.

“Yeah,” she said, not sure how to explain her mood change. Not sure she wanted to. “I need to get home.”

“Well, have a good Thanksgiving.”

“You too,” she said, but by his look, she knew that
Thanksgiving at the Kings would be pretty bleak. Jackson had had a tough time with
Halloween
. He'd told her how he and Marcus used to match their costumes.

On the drive home, she kept replaying that conversation about the urn—and then the one with Lucy Daines—wishing she could pinpoint why they bothered her so much.

Seconds after her car keys hit the front hall table, Fi's mother called, “Fiona, come in here, please.”

Fi tensed. No good conversations ever started with her proper name.

Lowering her bag to the floor, Fi took cautious steps back to the kitchen. Her mother stood at the kitchen counter, flicking through mail. She held up a single white piece of paper. “This came from school.”

Fi took the piece of paper, which read
Student Evaluation: Pre-Probationary
. It looked like a report card of sorts, but finals were three weeks away.

All of her courses were listed, but the writing class was the only one without a note. It was also the only A. Sociology and Spanish were low Cs. Calculus was a D.

From the sociology professor:
From the single time I've seen her during office hours, I could see that Ms. Doyle had the potential to master this material. As we approach finals, I hope she'll show more dedication to the subject and improved timeliness and thoroughness in completing work assigned.

From Spanish:
Fi began the class with an appropriate grasp of the language for the course level. However, as the term has progressed she
appeared to lose ground. I encourage her to make better use of the lab facilities, as well as the optional study sessions offered.

From calculus:
There have been several optional tutoring sessions available to Ms. Doyle during the semester. I believe her grade would improve should she attend these in the future.

Fi kept staring at the paper, even though she was done reading. The stalling didn't work. “Do you have an explanation?” her mother asked.

Fi handed the paper back. Her mom took it like it might spread infection. “Um, it's been—you know, ever since Marcus—”

She held up a hand. “Don't blame this on heartbreak.”

“It's been a hard semester. What do you want me to say?”

“I want you to do better.”

“I've been trying.”

Her mother arched her perfect brows. “Not enough, apparently.”

“I have an A in the writing class.”

“And a D in calculus.”

“You know I can't do math.”

“All the more reason to use the tutoring.”

Fi wanted out of this conversation. The never-ending criticism was exhausting. “My boyfriend is dead!” she yelled, startling herself as much as her mother. “I live with my parents, play for a terrible lacrosse team, take classes I don't care about. I'm just barely treading water here!”

“So grab a vest, Fi,” her mother said levelly.

Fi threw her hands up. “A vest. Perfect. That's helpful.”

“It's a metaphor.”

“I
know
it's a metaphor. I'm not stupid.”

Her mother pointed at the grades. “Prove it.”

Every part of her body clenched. No matter how hard she worked, she would never,
ever
be enough for this woman. “What do you want from me?”

“I want you to live up to your potential.”

“I
had
potential. I was the best lacrosse player in this state in high school. You didn't care about
that.
”

“That has nothing to do with these grades.”

“No, but it was
something.”

“Not enough of a something. You can't make a career out it.”

“You sound like Dad.”

“That's because I agree with him,” she said. “This is your main chance to decide what you want, Fi. After college, things just happen, you can lose track. Before you know it, you're forty and—”

“You're leaping from college to
forty
?”

“It's not that big of a leap, trust me. If you don't plan
now,
you might not get another chance.”

“Are we talking about me or you now?”

“Watch the tone,” her mom said, pointing to the grades. “We both know you are smarter than Cs and Ds.”

“I have an A!”

“One A, Fi. Just one.”

Fi sank onto a counter stool, head in hands. “I'll never measure up. You want too much.”

“All I want is for you to have the best life you can.”

“Well, that life died.”

“Then get another one,” her mother said—and then she walked away.

“You only just got home,” her mother said, standing at the kitchen counter, wrapping her annual Christmas banana breads into pretty cellophane packages. An artful snack plate sat on the kitchen table, with decorative rings of sliced apples, cheese, olives, and crackers.

Just to annoy her, Fiona took an apple slice right from the middle.

The doorbell rang. From the front of the house, her dad yelled, “It's David.”

“We won't be late,” Fiona said, popping an olive.

“You aren't going out in that?”

“What's wrong with this?” she said, looking down at her long-sleeved tee and favorite black jeans. “I'm just going to the coffee shop.”

“It's freezing out, Fiona.”

“It's, like, fifty degrees.”

“I hope you don't wander around school like this, hardly dressed.”

“At school, it's actually
cold.
” When she got in from the airport, Fiona's bed was layered in enough thermal gear to overheat a Sherpa. Fleece was the new frill.

Her mom grabbed Fiona's denim jacket from the back of the chair and shoved it at her. “At least wear this.”

David walked in the kitchen before Fiona could shove it right back. He kissed her long on the lips—her mother was standing
right there
!—before wrapping her in a hug. “Hey, you.”

Her mother's heels clicked away down the hall, thank God. “Hey,” Fiona said, hugging him back. It felt good pressing against this familiar chest, feeling those arms around her back, breathing in his fabric softener smell. There was relief, too, that it still felt good.

Leaning away slightly, she asked, “Did you get taller?”

“A little, I think.” He smiled. His hair was longer, falling over his eyes. “You look great.” He rubbed the back of his fingers along her new cheek. She felt only the pressure, not the touch. “The scar's so faint now.”

She drew his hand down from her face. “We should go.”

David looked at their hands knotted together. “You sure you want to go to the coffee shop?”

“I already promised Luce. And Ryan will be there. He wasn't here when I got in.”

“Didn't he get back yesterday?”

Why, yes he did.
“You'd think he could have at least been here to say hello,” she said. “I haven't seen him in months.”

“
I
haven't seen
you
in months,” he said with a little smile. “What about some time alone?”

She pecked his cheek. “Later. I promise.”

When they got to the coffee shop, they had to park down the street, there were so many cars already there. “Who the heck's playing?” she asked.

“Just open mic night, as far as I know.” He smirked, nudging her shoulder. “Maybe they're anticipating you finally getting up there.”

Fiona gestured to the empty place against her back, where her guitar wasn't. “Then they know something I don't.”

She'd gotten through the whole semester without having to play for anybody. Luckily, Flem wanted to hear himself more than his students. But from the description of next semester's music class, she doubted she'd get so lucky again.

David shrugged. “It's probably just people home from school.”

They found Lucy in the nook, sprawled across the futon, her battered boots clamped on the chair across from it. “Nice of you to finally get here,” she said, sitting up. “I'm like the cranky old lady saving seats on Christmas Eve.”

“A cranky old lady,” Fiona said, hugging her much-missed best friend. “Such a stretch.”

Lucy and David did a sideways, back-pat kind of hug before settling in. Because of the crowd, Fiona had to raise
her voice. “Where's Ryan?”

Lucy pointed to a crowd at the bar. A few people separated him from Gwen, who now stood on the customer side of the counter. Her back to Ryan, she appeared to be in an animated conversation with people Fiona didn't know. Ryan was talking with a neighboring clump of strangers.

She couldn't believe he hadn't waited at home for her. She thought of their dad and uncle, who spoke only three times a year; they exchanged birthday and Christmas cards. It hurt her heart that she and Ryan might end up like that.

“Who wants what?” she asked, leaving David and Lucy so she could go claim her brother.

She said hello to Gwen and her friends. Then she hugged Ryan and asked if he'd grown, it'd been so long since she'd seen him. He rolled his eyes and poked the guy next to him, whose back was to them both. “Hey, this guy goes to NU. He said he knows you.”

Oh crap, she
knew
that wrinkled button-down, those jeans, which looked so comfortable she'd considered stealing them on more than one occasion. Fiona's heart began to pound and would not listen to her commands to calm down.

The dark, wavy hair slowly turned. Jackson faced her, smiling lopsided. He pointed a thumb at Ryan. “I met the brother.”

“So I see,” she said.

“Did you really cry in the cafeteria last week?” Ryan asked, laughing. “When it snowed?”

“I did not
cry.
”

“Please,” Jackson said. “You were totally watery.”

“Watery is not crying.” The coffee shop guy handed her three mugs from his side of the counter. She picked up two, frowning at the third. “Ryan, help me with Lucy's.”

“A very fine hair to split.” Jackson stepped forward, picking up the third mug. “Point me toward this Lucy person.”

Ryan nearly spit out his coffee. “Dude, you don't know what you're getting into.”

“Now I'm really curious.” He leaned close, whispering conspiratorially. “It might be a clue to the enigma of Fiona Doyle.”

It was ridiculous how quickly her traitorous body reacted.

Jackson motioned her forward with his head. “After you.”

Fiona widened her eyes at her brother, hoping he would correctly interpret her desperate look, which said:
Grab that cup from him. Jackson belongs to Northwestern Fiona, not Memphis Fiona
.

Unfortunately, he did not correctly interpret. Instead he turned toward Gwen and asked, “Babe, are those two with the dueling harmonicas playing tonight? They're hilarious.”

Taking a deep breath, Fiona headed to the nook and tried to convince herself she was overreacting. When she handed David his mug, he looked to the stranger at her side—and back to her. She couldn't make eye contact with him. Instead, Fiona focused on her best friend. Lucy, too, was glancing between her and Jackson.

“So this is Lucy,” Fiona said. “And David. Y'all, this is Jackson King. He goes to Northwestern, too.”

Fiona cringed at the slow, totally inappropriate smile spreading across Lucy's face. “Well, Jackson King, it's nice to meet you. I've heard—”

Fiona coughed. Lucy caught her eye and let the rest of her statement fade away.

Jackson handed Lucy her mug and plopped down beside her. “Now,
you
look familiar.” He looked up at Fiona, who stood helplessly at the end of the futon. “How could I possibly recognize your friend and not you? It's so wrong, the world's off balance—like a cat with a bandanna around its middle.”

This was not happening.
“It's the hair,” Fiona said.

Jackson got another look at Lucy's wild, tall hair. Hair that “possessed its own soul,” Lucy liked to say.

“It is pretty memorable,” Jackson said, his eyes a little wider.

Fiona closed her eyes, took a breath, then opened them in David's direction. “He's sort of replacement Lucy. At school, I mean. It seems I'm a glutton for abuse . . . and strange metaphors.”

“Another clue!” Jackson said. Then his eyes moved between her, perched on David's armchair, and David.

Fiona gestured to her unhelpfully silent best friend. “Feel free to take over any time.”

“I don't have the heart, my friend,” Lucy said, staring past Fiona's right shoulder.

Fiona followed Lucy's gaze. If she weren't hovering near a meltdown, she might have laughed. Because
of course
this was the perfect moment for Trent McKinnon to walk over and say hello.

Oh, but college had treated him well. Trent filled out his shirt like the fine male specimen he was. Given the bronze color of his face, she figured he must train outside most of the time. Wide, natural swipes of light blond highlighted his hair. The boy was, indisputably, part god.

But he wasn't Jackson King, was he?

“Hey, partner,” he said, smacking Fiona on the shoulder. “Long time no see.” Trent nodded to the others before turning back to Fiona. “Man, you look
awesome.
”

“Oh. Thanks.”

Trent bent his knees and brought his face inches from hers. Their eyes lined up—and then he
looked
at her like she'd never been looked at before. Her attraction to Jackson notwithstanding, she wasn't made of stone. Trent McKinnon was her first love, and they were close enough to kiss.

She was The. Worst. Girlfriend. Ever.

However, as his eyes continued to rake from left to right, she stopped swooning—and started feeling like a science exhibit.

“Seriously. I mean, it's incredible,” he was saying.

David's hand tightened around her waist. Jackson leaned forward, his eyes darting between Trent and Fiona—not that they had far to travel. No one said anything for several long
seconds as Trent continued scrutinizing her face.

The other three interrupted him at once.

“Dude, how about you give her some air?” said Jackson. “All right, show's over,” Lucy said. And David: “Trent.”

Trent straightened, rubbing his hand along the back of his neck. “Sorry. It's just . . .”

“Incredible. Yes, we know,” Lucy said. “Hey, could you send Ryan Doyle over here?”

“Oh. Yeah,” Trent said. After an awkward second, he pivoted toward the bar. “See you later, partner.”

“Trent,” Fiona called, because despite the inspection, she'd always have a soft spot for him. “Don't lose touch with the soil.”

He smiled, fired a finger-gun at her, and disappeared into the crowd.

David's hand was still clenched around her waist. “I know you're friends with him, but Jesus, Fiona. That was ridiculous.”

“He was being nice,” she muttered.

“It was like you were a freaking science fair project.” His voice came out louder than normal. It made Fiona look at him twice.

Ryan walked up. “What's going on? Trent McKinnon said I had to come over.”

“I needed to give him an activity,” Lucy said.

Jackson's eyes hadn't moved from Trent. “That dude's an asshole, right?” he asked no one in particular.

Ryan and David said
yes
, Fiona
no
, and Lucy
meh.

“Okay, it's girl time,” Lucy said, standing and pulling Fiona up with her. “See you boys later.”

She dragged Fiona outside of the coffee shop, to the battered back porch by the parking lot. The night felt colder than when she'd left the house—and she'd left her jacket in the car, out of spite.

“He doesn't know, does he?” Lucy asked.

Sinking down onto the stairs leading to the parking lot, Fiona dropped her head in her hands. “The most awful thing is, I don't know which
he
you mean.”

“It'll be fine. Just tell him.”

“Tell
who what
?”

“Well, I imagine you'll have to tell both
whos.
” There was a pause. “Just to clarify, we're talking about David and Jackson, right?”

Fiona nodded into her hands.

“Do you like him? Jackson?”

“I don't know. Maybe?” But the answer was noncommittal. She buried her face deeper into her hands. “I'm such a bitch.”

“Why are you a bitch?”

“I don't want to be that girl. The
something better comes along
girl.”

Lucy snorted. “That's life, Fiona—just a strung-together series of abandoning one thing for another.”

“That's terrible! You'd just ditch me if someone better came along?”

“Best friends don't count,” Lucy said, nudging her shoulder.

Fiona shook her head. “Everyone counts—well, everyone important. Loyalty matters.”

“Does their loyalty matter more than
you
? Does what David wants—what he
deserves
or whatever—count more than what you want?”

Fiona looked away. The car directly across the parking lot had those silly stick-figure bumper stickers, one per family member—a mom, dad, girl, two boys, three dogs, and a cat. By stickers alone, Fiona knew the family's school, soccer and cheer teams, and that they didn't like the previous president. One sticker said
Mean People Suck.

Fiona wondered why people felt the need to advertise their lives, their politics, and causes. It was like what Jackson said that morning in the cafeteria back in November—you shouldn't fall back on catchphrases. You should speak your own philosophy.

Still, she couldn't look away from
Mean People Suck.
“David liked me when I was a mess, Luce. Breaking up with him after, once I've been fixed—how's it different from someone divorcing his wife when he gets rich? Or famous or whatever?”

“First off, you're eighteen, so the marriage comparison is a stretch. Second, what? You've got to stay with David the rest of your life because he
noticed
you first? Don't get me wrong—good for David—but seriously, Fiona. It doesn't give him lifetime possession rights.”

“It sucks, feeling like this.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“You do?”

Lucy gazed across the parking lot, too. “On the flip side. A girl I like at school likes somebody else more than me.”

“Why didn't you tell me?”

“It's weird talking about it.” Lucy shrugged. “It's just not me, the brokenhearted thing. Honestly, the whole fluttery-crush action isn't much better. All that up and down—it's too much emotional turmoil. I prefer to remain uniformly crotchety.”