Everything That Makes You

by Moriah McStay

  “Oh, I’m from here,” he said.

  “No, son. Schools.”

  Ryan choked down his steak, and David’s whole face bloomed pink. “Um, Dad’s pushing Ole Miss, but I think I like UT Knoxville better.”

  “Those are both a long way from Chicago,” Gwen said, looking between Fiona and David. “What are y’all going to do?”

  David’s eyes darted over to her dad before giving Fiona a smile. “We’ll work it out.”

  Fiona smiled back—then refocused on her steak. It wasn’t like a line of boys would be waiting for her at Northwestern, anyway. To her mother’s—and, inexplicably, Ryan’s—growing frustration, she still hadn’t committed to the surgery. Yes, getting fixed excited her, but wearing someone else’s skin freaked her out more.

  So she stayed off “the list,” even though Dr. Connelly kept reminding her that “the list” didn’t guarantee a match. She could end up on it for years—which seemed almost as awful as staying scarred. Imagine finally deciding to cut away this piece of herself—to admit that the real Fiona wasn’t acceptable—and then have nothing come of it? She’d live the rest of her life feeling even worse than she did now.

  “That’s why Ryan and I applied to schools near each other,” Gwen was saying. “No matter what, we won’t be more than four hours apart.”

  “Clemson. Totally Clemson,” said Ryan, over a mouthful of food. “That coach loves me.”

  “Don’t talk with your mouth full,” their mom said. “And we still haven’t agreed about that. If you play Division One, you won’t have time for anything else.”

  “I can handle it.”

  Ryan had grown six inches over the past year, morphing from a thinnish, five-foot-six guy into a six-foot man. It was like all his bones stretched outward, pulling skin and muscle with them. He looked really big and really skinny all at once. He was fast as ever but harder to knock down. The scouts loved him.

  “I just think you shouldn’t take a good Division Two team off the table,” their mom said. “That one we saw in Virginia looked perfect for you. It had a great business program and a good class size.”

  “Wrong state,” Ryan said, shaking his head.

  Their mom dismissed this with a wave. “It’s not that much farther.”

  “Gwen and I already decided.”

  “Sometimes you have to be flexible, Ryan,” she said. “Life doesn’t get handed to you in exactly the package you want. Right, Fiona?”

  Everyone at the table looked at Fiona, who fought the urge to roll her eyes.

  You mean, not the package you want, Mom.

  “So . . . ,” Lucy said, breaking the awkward pause. “Which schools are you looking at, Gwen?”

  “Well, Art Institute of Charleston would be great. It’s about three and a half hours from Clemson. Furman has a great painting professor, and it’s only thirty miles.”

  “Wow. You really thought this out,” Lucy said, a little wide-eyed.

  Fiona bit back the sarcastic comments. She knew she wasn’t fair to Gwen, who was nice and smart and funny and adored her brother. She was edgy enough to hang with Lucy, sweet enough to get along with David. If Fiona had met her any other way, they’d have become friends.

  But Ryan met her first. And ever since, he belonged more and more to Gwen and less and less to Fiona, which was simply unacceptable—and totally out of her control.

  Fiona couldn’t remember the last time he came into her room to talk. She missed him. Even though she saw him every day, she missed him.

  “Fiona? The scholarship?”

  Fiona blinked herself out of her fog and focused on the table staring at her. “I’m sorry, what?”

  “The scholarship,” David repeated. “Are there requirements or anything?”

  “Oh. Um, I’ve got to keep a 3.5. And take at least one music and creative writing class each quarter. Publish something in the literary magazine.” Fiona looked at the ceiling, trying to remember. “That’s it, I think.”

  “That shouldn’t be hard,” her dad said. “Those classes are why you’re going.”

  “The grades,” she pointed out.

  He waved her off. “Piece of cake.”

  “Publishing.”

  Lucy snorted. “Just take something from the Moleskines. It’s not like you don’t have the material.”

  Good Lord. “Yeah, well, we’ll see.”

  Her mom announced it was probably time to get going, and her dad paid the check. Ryan took Gwen home. Lucy ruffled her hair and said she’d see her tomorrow. Fiona walked with David to his car, to say good-bye.

  “I can’t drive you home?” he asked.

  “You live the other way. I might as well go with my parents.”

  “I’m pretty sure your dad thinks I’m an idiot,” David said, looking across the parking lot, where her parents were waiting by their car. “And he terrifies me.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Our first date, he was cleaning his shotgun in the living room.”

  “That’s nothing,” she said. “For the guy before you, he was washing fake blood off the golf clubs.”

  He laughed, pulling her in for a quick kiss. “So there have been other guys.”

  “Oh, so many. Couldn’t list them.”

  “Speaking of which . . . we should have that conversation. Like Gwen was saying.”

  One of the great things about David was how laid-back he was. They could talk for hours about nothing terribly important. And there wasn’t a point to this conversation, anyway.

  “I don’t think I can keep up with the mileage calculations,” she said.

  He frowned. “Fiona, we need to get going,” her dad called.

  David dropped his hands from her waist.

  “Who’s the chicken now?” she teased. After a light poke in the ribs, she kissed his cheek. “Thanks for coming.”

  “Of course,” he said, smiling. “You got into Northwestern.”

  She smiled back. “I got into Northwestern.”

  On the drive home, her father griped that the dry cleaners kept shrinking his waistbands. Her mother laughed but didn’t complain herself, since she probably hadn’t gained a pound since she was eighteen. Even after two children, Caroline Doyle looked infuriatingly good.

  “I can’t believe my baby’s going to college,” her dad said, looking at her through the rear-view mirror.

  “Both your babies,” Fiona said.

  “Too many changes,” he said. “Now that I think about it, everyone should stay home.”

  “Too late,” she replied. “Early decision. It’s a done deal.”

  Her mom turned to face her. “Speaking of changes.”

  All the air went out of her—and took her good mood with it. “God, Mom—”

  “I just think that now’s the time to make this decision.”

  Fiona gestured at the dark night sky out her window. “Now?”

  “I want you to be happy,” her mom replied. “And I think you’d be happier—”

  “It’s late, Caroline,” her dad said as they pulled into the driveway.

  “Bruce,” her mom said, looking at her dad now. “We have to decide on this.”

  “Well, it’s not going to be tonight,” Fiona said, getting out of the car before either of them could stop her.

  In her room, she walked right up to the mirror over her dresser, putting her fingers on the scars and leaning in close. Turning her head, she studied all the angles. She inspected her flaws just like she imagined her mother did.

  The woman had no idea what it was like to be imperfect. If Fiona went through with this surgery, would it matter? Would it fix her—her skin-deep problems, at least—enough that her mom would finally back off? That alone might make it all worth it.

  But did she really have to get part of her cut away? Go through months of pain? Someone had to die before Fiona could finally—finally—get a portion of her mother’s approval?

  What a terrible trade-off.

  Even worse
for the dead, skinned person.

  FI

  When she got to the school gym, Fi found a sweaty Trent grunting under the Smith machine. He got up, wiped the bench off, and pointed Fi toward it. “Where have you been?”

  She sat. “Coach Dunn intercepted me.”

  “What’d he want?”

  “To harass me.”

  Trent squinted at that last piece of information but didn’t pursue it, thank God. She was sick of everyone’s opinion on the subject. So what if she was looking at Milton? Looking, not committing, people! Wasn’t this what her parents had wanted, for her to widen her sights a little?

  Anyway, Milton was a good school, not too big, not too small. It was in Memphis. True, the lacrosse team was club—that part pretty much sucked—but you couldn’t have everything.

  Trent slid four fifty-pound metal disks off the bar, leaving just fifteen on each side. “Do two reps of twelve,” he said. Sitting on the bench across from her, he bossed her around, saying things like “Bring it lower” and “Don’t push up so fast.”

  She would have fought back, but it took too much effort.

  Three weeks ago, the doctor had given the all clear for these extra, after-school workouts—which, okay, she needed. The season started in a month, and she was sadly out of shape. The sooner she sucked it up and got started, the better.

  Still, overcoming ten solid months of couch potato wasn’t easy. It had been push versus pull. Train hard! Get back to the sport you love! vs. Ah, what’s the hurry?

  So far, couch potato had won.

  “I’m upping your weight,” Trent said, sliding another ten-pound disk on the bar.

  “You upped it last week.”

  “That’s what personal trainers are for.”

  “You. Are. Not. A. Personal. Trainer,” she managed to grunt out.

  “Three times a week, I am. Doctor approved, too. So shut up and do fifteen curls.”

  Trent was in his glory, watching her suffer. These workouts had been his idea. Frustrated with “Lazy Fi-Fi,” he’d actually lobbied her parents to get the orthopedist’s okay.

  They moved between weight machines, hit the treadmills for a fast mile, and looped back through for another circuit. Trent was healthy and six foot two, but still didn’t alter his workout for a girl, five foot six, with an injury. They’d talk a little, but Fi was out of shape. She tried not to waste breath.

  After two minutes in plank, she finally collapsed face-first to the ground. “You’re going to kill me.”

  “Well, we’re done.” He snapped her with his towel. “Anyway, Milton’s club team is killer. Wouldn’t want you to get cut.”

  “We’re not getting into this again.”

  “Just never thought you’d give up lacrosse for a guy.”

  “I’m not giving up,” she snapped. “And it’s not like I want club.”

  “So why do it?”

  “I’m doing the best I can with my choices,” she said, grabbing her bag.

  No, her dream college experience didn’t include Milton. But priorities change—and you can’t have everything.

  “Anyway, what if he gets hit by a bus?” Trent said. “You could end up with no lacrosse and no Marcus.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  Trent shrugged. “Need a ride?”

  “No, I’ve got the car.” Remarkably. “I’m going to Marcus’s house.”

  “Like that?” Trent said, pointing at her sweaty clothes.

  “I’m going to shower first.” She could just imagine what Marcus’s parents—or, God, Jackson—would say if she showed up like this, dirty and covered in germs.

  “You should just move in,” he said. “You’re over there enough.”

  “Can we not do this?”

  “I’m not doing anything,” he said, pulling on a sweatshirt. “Run tomorrow. At least two miles.”

  “Two?”

  He held up two fingers. “Later, Fi-Fi. Have fun with the boyfriend.”

  Fi grabbed a quick shower and drove to Marcus’s house. She’d managed to get the car today, but it was rare. Trent dropped her off most of the time. Generally, he had been pretty decent about Marcus. He seemed much angrier about lacrosse and Milton.

  She’d called Trent the night she and Marcus had met—right after she sent Ryan to the attic, to find the Lord of the Rings books she never finished.

  “I met someone,” she’d told him, probably grinning like an idiot.

  When he didn’t respond, she’d remembered their unresolved kissing issues. “I’m sorry . . . I just, well, he was really great. And you were the first person I wanted to tell.”

  “Why?”

  “You’re my best friend.”

  She’d heard him sigh deeply. “Okay,” he’d said eventually. “Tell me.”

  For the next few weeks, Trent had teased her some—that mean kind of teasing that really didn’t suit him.

  Fi-Fi, you’ve got bigger biceps than he does. You sure you didn’t get a concussion along with that broken ankle? You really think that pale, skinny guy can handle a jock for a girlfriend?

  “If I’m so unappealing,” Fi finally snapped, “why would you want to date me?”

  “Good question. You’re probably not my type, anyway.”

  “So go find your type and stop picking on Marcus!”

  “I’m not picking on him. I’m being honest!”

  “No, you’re being a spoiled brat! You didn’t get me so now no one can.”

  “Don’t flatter yourself, Fi. I’m not heartbroken.”

  “Then stop acting like an ass.”

  “Well, you stop being all sappy. You’ve got the most amazing boyfriend in the whole world! We know!”

  “I don’t do that.”

  “Oh my God, if I hear one more Marcus says I’m going to punch someone in the face.”

  It was their worst fight ever. They stood there, staring each other down and breathing hard, until Fi just deflated.

  “I hate this,” she said. “I hate fighting with you.”

  “We always fight,” he said, but he was slumping a little, too. “Ask Ryan.”

  “Not like this. I want to go back to normal.”

  “Yeah, me too.”

  They hugged until Trent had noogied her.

  After that, a new girl—and another and then another—grabbed Trent’s attention. “I’m trying to find out my type,” Trent told her. “Like you said.”

  She was pulling up to Marcus’s house when her phone buzzed.

  A text from Trent: 2 miles. Finish in no more than 15 mins.

  And right after, from her brother: I need the car in an hour.

  She rolled her eyes and rang the bell.

  Jackson opened the door, frowning. “I didn’t know you were coming today.”

  “Sorry I didn’t clear it with you. Is Marcus home?”

  A rhetorical question—of course he was home. His overprotective family hardly ever let him out of the house.

  “He’s not feeling well,” Jackson said.

  “You say that every time I come over.”

  “It’s true every time you come over.”

  “Look, I haven’t eaten peanuts. I didn’t roll in flour. Let me in.”

  He kept his place in the doorway. “Does he know you’re coming?”

  “I can just text him, Jackson.” She held up her phone.

  Finally, he stepped aside. “He’s upstairs.”

  Despite the weirdness of the King house, the Girlfriend in the Bedroom policy was a big perk. The whopping five times Marcus’s parents let him come to her house, her parents didn’t let him up the first step.

  Jackson followed her as far as the kitchen, where Marcus’s mother stood elbow-deep in some mysterious concoction. She wore latex gloves and a hairnet. “Well, hello, Fi,” she said, like it was a surprise to see her there.

  “Hi,” Fi said, pointing toward the stairs. “He’s in his room?”

  Mrs. King nodded. “Might be sleeping, though.
” With her hands immersed in the mystery pot, she nodded toward the pill divider on the kitchen table. “Could you bring up his four o’clocks?”

  “Sure.”

  “Don’t forget—” Jackson said.

  “I know,” she said, trying to keep her tone pleasant in front of Mrs. King. “Wash my hands and count to fifty. I only did it wrong one time.”

  “It only takes one time,” he said.

  Good Lord, he is PARANOID. Fi soaped her hands while singing—in her head, twice—the alphabet song. She used three paper towels to thoroughly dry. Then she filled a glass with water and picked his three pills from the “evening” box in the twenty-eight-slotted pill case and went upstairs.

  “Hey,” Marcus said thickly, turning to his side and opening his eyes.

  “Little late for a nap, isn’t it?” She sat on the bed, holding her pill hand out.

  He scooped them from her palm, swallowing them down with a quick drink of water. Wrapping his hands around her waist, he pulled her down beside him. After a long kiss, he said, “You’re a great way to wake up.”

  He looked pale. “You don’t look that great,” she said.

  “You’re so good for my ego,” he said, rubbing a thumb along her jaw.

  “Seriously. Are you not feeling well? Should you call your doctor?”

  “Just how it is,” he said, giving an easy shrug.

  She hated how Marcus was never fully well—hated it more than he did. She remembered that fight with her parents, when her dad told her to stop whining about her broken ankle. He was right—things could have been so much worse.

  She’d never forget the first time he vomited in front of her—well, on the other side of the door. Marcus tore into the bathroom, and she listened to him hurl. It was a gut-wrenching sound.

  He came out a few minutes later, pale and embarrassed. “You okay?” he asked, keeping a distance like she might spook.

  “You’re asking me?”

  “I’ll understand if you want to leave.”

  She felt like she might vomit. “Do you want me to leave?”

  “No. Not at all.”

  Then he hugged her. He smelled like mint toothpaste.

  Now, Marcus picked up her hand and put it on his head. She ran her fingers through his hair, and he bent into it, closing his eyes like a cat. “Don’t worry, I’m fine,” he said.