Everything That Makes You

by Moriah McStay

  “Stats, people! That’s why the stats matter,” Fi yelled, throwing her arms in the air. “I lead the city in goals. I’m ranked one in the state.”

  “You play women’s lacrosse, Fi,” her father said, leaning forward. “You can’t make a career out of it.”

  “Dad, I’m sixteen.”

  “Lots of kids know what they want to do when they’re sixteen,” said her mom.

  “I want to play lacrosse!”

  “Well, I want to be independently wealthy and summer in France,” her dad said. “However, that’s unlikely to happen, so I better revise my expectations.”

  Fi glowered at her parents. How could they not feel even the slightest bit bad for her? “You want me to give up?”

  “Not necessarily,” said her mom. “But maybe this injury will let you explore some other possibilities.”

  Fi slumped back on the couch. For the past four years, she’d had one, singular goal: play lacrosse for Northwestern. All the work she’d done in middle school and varsity—training, camps, summer leagues, competitive teams—had been with that one goal in mind.

  It had only taken five minutes to lose the thing she loved more than anything.

  Fi pulled Panda in and spoke into his patchy head. “This sucks.”

  Her mom grimaced. “Language.”

  “This is so not fair.”

  “Life’s not fair, Fi,” her father said.

  “Can’t you, like, feel sorry for me for two seconds? I’ve got a compound break in my ankle, which hurts and itches and just”—she looked directly at her mother—“sucks. I’m stuck on this couch when I could be on the field. I’ve got SATs and ACTs coming up, on top of all the stuff the teachers are loading on me . . .”

  Her father closed his eyes. “Let’s try to keep it in perspective, shall we? We’re talking about a broken ankle. If this is the worst thing that ever happens to you, count yourself blessed.”

  Ryan walked in, looking beyond sweaty. He leaned on the doorframe and wiped his face with his jersey. “What’s going on?”

  “Just learning how blessed I am.” Her eyes narrowed at her parents as she pointed at her able-bodied brother. “What about him? Does he get the same lecture?”

  Ryan’s expression said Dear Lord, help me. Her dad replied, “He’s not the one whining, Fi.”

  “Because he doesn’t have a broken ankle.”

  “He also has a 3.5 and volunteers with the church youth group,” her mom said.

  “And plays second-string to a freshman,” she shot back.

  Ryan flinched, and she regretted it immediately. Brother-sister issues notwithstanding, it wasn’t fair to drag him into this.

  It was true, though. She was better at lacrosse than he was.

  “Enough!” her father barked, standing up. “You will not finish the season. You will do all the physical therapy prescribed. You will make whatever grades you need to get into Northwestern—or whatever school offers an acceptable alternative. And you will stop feeling sorry for yourself.”

  He stormed from the room, followed by her mother. Ryan stayed in the doorway.

  She should apologize. After all, he couldn’t help that he was the smallest guy on the team—and men’s lacrosse made hockey look civilized. She wondered if he regretted switching from soccer to lacrosse. With his speed and moves, he’d have been an incredible soccer player, even at five six.

  Still, she wouldn’t—couldn’t—apologize for doing this one thing better than he did. “I didn’t mean to bring you into it,” she said instead.

  Shaking his head, Ryan turned and walked away. She was alone with her misery—until her phone buzzed.

  “What?” she snapped, recognizing Trent’s number.

  “Whoa. Easy.”

  “Sorry,” she mumbled. “Unless you’re calling to make me feel bad or guilty or whatever, in which case I’m hanging up.”

  “Guilty about what?”

  “Not being grateful my freaking ankle’s broken.”

  There was a pause on Trent’s side. “I’m assuming I’ve missed some key points.”

  Despite herself, Fi laughed—because Trent was the only person who got her most of the time. Who knew the right thing to say and how to say it—when he wasn’t insulting her, that is.

  “It does suck, though,” he said. “When can you get off the couch?”

  “Another week—maybe two.” She glared into the kitchen. “Probably two.”

  “But the cast will be off before States, right?”

  Fi groaned. She’d totally forgotten about States. They’d won last year for the first time ever. They were going to defend their title. Shaking her head, Fi told Trent the news before she could tell her teammates—no more lacrosse for her this year.

  She heard him suck in a breath. “Man. That bites.”

  “Finally. Someone who understands the total suckiness of this situation.”

  “I’m sure Ryan gets it.”

  She didn’t fill Trent in on how bitchy she’d been to her brother, just moments before.

  “We worked on a cool play today,” he said. “You should see it.”

  “You’ll have to find some other girl to beat up. Nothing I can do with it.”

  “But you could still see it. It’s pretty awesome.”

  She stared at a hairline crack in the plaster wall across from her. It looked bigger than yesterday; she should probably tell her mother. “Hmm, sitting on a chair and watching someone else drill,” she said. “Think I’ll pass.”

  “It’s a double slide you can run from either crash or near-man.”

  “Are you listening to me?” she snapped. “I’m out for the season! Can we talk about something else?”

  “What, you’re just going to pretend lacrosse doesn’t exist?”

  “Because I don’t want to watch you run a stupid play?”

  “You wouldn’t have said it was stupid yesterday.”

  “Yesterday, I still thought I could play.”

  “Just because you can’t play doesn’t mean it’s not there.”

  For years, lacrosse and her dream of Northwestern had been as much of her as her bones and skin. One freak second—one bad play—and it was gone. How pathetic that even her best friend didn’t understand. “Can you just stop shoving my face in it?”

  “I’m not—”

  “Forget it. I gotta go.” She hung up, flung the phone to the floor, and glared at the crack in the wall. Who knew how long she’d have to exist on this god-awful couch and in this vile cast—while lacrosse went right on without her.

  APRIL

  FIONA

  Fiona was sitting in Otherlands, biting her fingernails to shreds and staring at the stool. It sat right underneath the spotlight. Some girl sang Radiohead a cappella—off-key, but hey, she was up there. She had those holes in her ears, and the lights shone through them. It was impossible not to stare right at them.

  “Only one more to go,” said Lucy, pointing to the blackboard list on the wall.

  Fiona chewed on her thumb.

  I don’t want the glaring lights / Blazing down on me.

  “Where is Ryan?” Fiona said.

  “With Gwen.” Lucy nodded toward the bar. “He walked in about ten minutes ago.”

  Fiona looked over her shoulder. Ryan and Gwen the Blue-Haired Coffee Shop Girl leaned across the counter toward each other. Gwen glanced in Fiona’s direction and smiled. Fiona didn’t smile back. The blue-haired girl was stealing her brother when she needed him most.

  Finally, Ryan left Gwen and walked over to Fiona and Lucy’s table.

  “Glad you could join us,” Fiona said, when he sat down beside her.

  Ryan held up his hands in surrender. “Calm down. I was just saying hey.”

  Lighting up my fears and frights / For all the world to see.

  “Whatever.”

  He leaned forward, nearly knocking his forehead against hers, and spoke quietly. “You’ll be fine. No one’s even paying attention.”
<
br />   “So they won’t notice if I don’t go.”

  “Ona, you can do this.”

  Give me the cold and dark / A little cave for me.

  She felt like she was drowning. Well, if she was going under, she was going to drag her brother down with her. “I can’t believe you’re making me do this, Ryan.”

  He gave her the same, pitying expression she’d get from everyone else tonight. Like she was some poor, ravaged, special needs girl. And her lyrics, why did she have to make them all so personal? She may as well go up there naked.

  The girl onstage said, “Thank you very much,” and clunked away in battered clogs. Lucy gave a bored clap, looking past Fiona toward the door. Her eyes got huge. Ryan followed her gaze, and then his eyes got huge, too.

  “What?” she asked, craning to see why they were gaping.

  Lucy gripped Fiona’s chin, so she couldn’t turn to look. “Nothing. Just somebody . . . dropped coffee.”

  “So, Fiona, what are you thinking about playing?” Ryan asked. Loudly. He scooted his chair closer.

  “Why are y’all acting so weird?” Fiona pushed Lucy’s hand away and looked across the coffee shop. Trent McKinnon waved.

  Lit up by the single spark / That your smile sets free.

  Fiona waved back numbly. “No way. No. Freaking. Way.”

  “What’s he doing here?” Lucy asked, just as dumbstruck.

  Fiona pulled her hair in front of her face. “I can’t sing in front of him. Half the songs are about him.”

  “They’re about him?” Ryan said.

  Lucy scowled at Ryan and grabbed Fiona’s hand. “He’ll have no clue. He won’t know.”

  “I can’t do it.”

  The three argued back and forth, two against one. Lucy and Ryan threatened, pleaded, encouraged, but Fiona held firm.

  Ever since this stupid bet, Fiona had waffled back and forth about playing tonight. There was something to be said for finally doing it. Maybe her anxious panic would disappear if she just sucked it up and played. Now, she’d never know. Trent McKinnon may as well have had the words Don’t Play, Fiona tattooed all over his glorious body.

  The coffee shop guy took the microphone, looked at the blackboard, and said, “And now, the musical stylings of Fiona Doyle.”

  Fiona shook her head. Lucy tried to shove her up, but Fiona grabbed her seat with both hands.

  “Laryngitis. Can’t do it tonight,” Ryan called out. The coffee shop guy shrugged and called the next name on the list.

  With a lump in her throat, Fiona watched a guy and girl with flutes take the stage. Self-disgust and relief coursed through her, to a soundtrack of fluted bluegrass.

  Five performers later, the coffee shop guy called for one more round of applause, thanked everyone, reminded the crowd there’d be another open mic night in two weeks, and told the person with the white Honda Accord they were about to be towed.

  “There’s always two weeks from now,” Lucy said.

  Fiona folded her napkin into increasingly smaller squares.

  “You lost your voice?”

  It was Trent. Fiona’s eyes widened in panic. She nodded.

  “That’s so weird. You sounded fine earlier today.”

  She fiddled with her bangs and shrugged.

  Trent said “hey” to Lucy and turned to Ryan. “Great game last week, man. Wicked goal in the second half.”

  “Thanks,” Ryan said. He gave a quick nod toward Fiona. “You came to hear her sing?”

  “Yeah, sure.” Then he smirked and pointed his thumb at the counter behind him. “And to ask out that girl. I’ve been scoping her out for weeks.”

  For a moment, Fiona lost the power to breathe. When she finally sucked in a meager bubble of air, it felt like her lung had been punctured by an old, dirty nail. Her air simply seeped out, rustier than when it came in.

  Ryan stood up, his full puffed-up height nearly five inches less than Trent’s. Was this him being the “protective brother”—or was he just jealous about Gwen? “Already beat you to it, dude,” he said to Trent.

  Trent raised his eyebrows and took a step back. “So you’re the reason she told me no. No harm trying, right?” He gave Ryan a cautious look before speaking past him to Fiona. “Hope you feel better. And don’t lose touch with the soil, Doyle,” he added, with a thumbs-up.

  He walked away, gathered up the lacrosse players who’d come in with him, and left the coffee shop.

  “What the heck did that mean?” Ryan asked, looking down at her.

  “Hemingway,” Fiona said, waving away the explanation.

  “Well,” Ryan said, mad again, “he’s an asshole.”

  “No, he’s not,” Fiona answered. “You’re just pissed he wanted to ask out your girlfriend.”

  “That is not why I’m pissed,” he said, shaking his head. Then he headed over to Gwen.

  As Fiona watched him go, David came over and sat in Ryan’s abandoned chair. “You have laryngitis?” he asked her.

  Fiona nodded yes. Maybe she could pretend to have it the rest of her life.

  “She just froze.” Lucy snorted and got up. “Be back in a sec. I need coffee to wash down all this drama.”

  Fiona fiddled with her mug, trying to breathe past her leaking, rusty lungs and broken heart. David drummed his fingers on the table. “Sorry,” he said. “About tonight.”

  She shrugged. If she opened her mouth, she might vomit.

  She’d been an idiot to think her pathetic self could wind up with Trent McKinnon. And she was a coward. Her fear of everyone’s judgment, of their pity, mattered more to her than her music.

  All those notebooks and calluses, those hours spent playing and writing—what the hell was she doing it for? In the cruel space of three minutes, she’d lost Trent McKinnon and music. And really, what else did she have?

  Scars, damn it. She still had the scars.

  “I mean, I know it’s not my fault or anything,” David was saying, still drumming his fingers. “It’s just too bad, that you panicked or whatever.” He scooted his chair closer and cleared his throat. “But it worked out for me.”

  “How’s that?” she asked quietly.

  “Well, you’d probably have been swamped with adoring fans, and I wouldn’t get the chance to talk to you alone. It’s a rare opportunity.”

  “We were editing the paper all yesterday afternoon.”

  “Mr. Phillips was there. That’s not alone.”

  She shrugged at the logic. She was too emotionally drained to debate the point.

  David leaned closer, looking a little nervous. “So, now I’ve gotten past step one in my strategy—”

  “What strategy?”

  “I’ve taken Ryan’s advice to heart, come up with a plan to get the girl to notice me.”

  “David, what are you talking about?”

  “Like I was saying, step one was to get her alone. So that’s checked off. Now I just have to ask her out.”

  “Ask who out?”

  “Wow, and you’re not helping. Like, at all.” David took a deep breath and straightened up. “Would you like to go out with me sometime? A movie or something?”

  Fiona stared at him. “Me? You want to go out with me?”

  “Would that be okay?”

  She forced herself to look at David, to see past the friend. And the averageness. It was the least she could do.

  He’d looked past all the below average of her.

  He wasn’t uncute. He was fair-skinned, like her, but freckled and dirty blond. He had the lean frame of a cross-country runner. His eyes were a pretty, light brown. They reminded her of an amber pendant her mom sometimes wore.

  What would a date with him be like? Probably like everything else she did with him, but with popcorn. After the movie, they’d drink coffee and talk about the school paper.

  Which wouldn’t be terrible. She liked talking to him. He was smart and funny. Nice.

  She had once told Lucy that if Trent McKinnon was ice cream, he’d be roc
ky road covered in sprinkles. David might be more vanilla, but nothing was wrong with vanilla. She always took some when offered.

  Vanilla could never break anyone’s heart.

  “Um, yeah,” she said. “Sure.”

  David smiled. It was a nice smile. He had very straight teeth. “Awesome. What about tomorrow?”

  She laughed and shrugged. “My calendar just happens to be free.”

  “Great. I’ll pick you up at seven.”

  The chair on the other side of her made a screech as Lucy pulled it back. “Where are we going at seven?”

  Fiona glanced from David, who looked stricken, to Lucy, who looked clueless. “Not you. David and me.”

  “David and you what?”

  “Are going to a movie. Tomorrow.”

  A slow smile spread across her best friend’s face, and Fiona gave her an anticipatory kick under the table. Lucy grimaced and leaned forward to rub her shin. “Sounds delightful.”

  “Okay. Well. See you tomorrow,” David said. “Sorry, again. About tonight.”

  She shrugged, rediscovering her laryngitis.

  “Are you kidding me?” Lucy shoved her in the shoulder. “You’re going out with David?”

  “What’s wrong with David?”

  “Nothing, I guess.” Lucy’s eyes glazed over a moment as she considered. “He’s nice. And . . . I don’t know what else. I never thought to notice. Since he’s not Trent McKinnon.”

  Fiona felt the tears brewing. She hated to cry, and now she was going to do it in the coffee shop.

  “Hey,” said Lucy in a rare, gentle voice. “It’s okay.”

  “You’re right. I couldn’t play. I am a chicken.”

  “Are you really that scared you’ll suck?”

  She shook her head, sniffling. “I’m kinda good, actually.”

  “Then what’s the problem?”

  “If I get up there, no one’s even going to listen. They’ll see the scars. That’s all I’ll be.”

  “If you don’t get up there, the scars are all you’ll be.”

  “The songs are so personal.” Just thinking about it, her hands were shaking. “To just throw them out there, for anyone to dissect, it’s terrifying.”

  “So are you worried about the songs or your face?”