Eventually he winked. “You should tell everybody you used to be a pirate.”
Oh, this boy and his weird coincidences. “That’s what my best friend told me to say, if anyone asked about the scar. I even did it once—during orientation.”
Jackson laughed. “What happened?”
A drunk guy had barely managed to slur, “How’d you get that scar?” When she’d answered, “I’m really a pirate,” he’d wobbled forward, said Aargh, and planted a sloppy kiss right on her mouth. Before she could get over the shock, he’d hobbled away like he had a peg leg.
Rather than tell Jackson this bizarre story, she dug out a Moleskine. She figured by now, the word had earned space there—plus, she needed something to do with her hands. She wrote piracy in a free place.
Jackson nodded his head toward the book. “What’s the story with those? You’ve always got one.”
“Just a mess of stuff, really. Song ideas. Notes that wouldn’t make sense to anyone but me.”
“When do I get to hear one of these songs?”
“I can play you Flem’s latest project—‘Pour Some Sugar on Me’ by Def Leppard. It’s horrendous—and a little bit genius, if I do say so myself.”
“Sounds like an intriguing combination,” he said. “But I’d rather have an original.”
“Oh. Um, I’ve never really played my stuff for anyone.”
“Isn’t that kind of required? If you’re a songwriter?”
“I’m still looking for the loophole.”
Jackson tipped his chair backward. “You are an enigma, Miss Fiona.”
Fiona gestured to herself as if she were a prize on a game show. “What you see is what you get.”
“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.”
FI
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.
DECEMBER
FIONA
“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.”
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