Everything That Makes You

by Moriah McStay

  David smiled. “Want something?”

  Fiona shook her head. Rescuing her lukewarm coffee from the counter, she drained it and handed it over for a refill. Gwen and Ryan said they’d find a table, leaving Fiona and David to this awkward semi-conversation. As they waited for drinks, they talked about finals, what they’d been doing over the summer, plans for next year. Fiona didn’t know what they’d do once the coffee excuse was gone.

  The guy behind the counter called her name. Claiming her mug, she turned and nearly dropped it.

  Good Lord, could this evening get any more awkward?

  Just inside the door stood Jackson King, scanning the crowd. It had only been a month and half since she’d seen him. Still, he looked different—straighter in his bones and more relaxed in his skin. He wore the same soft, worn jeans as always and a plain navy T-shirt. He was all olive skin, black hair, and green eyes.

  Eventually his wandering eyes found Fiona. He smiled—smirked—as he made his way over. Smelling just the slightest bit of cantaloupe, he stood beside her and leaned close. “This is pretty public for our second time, don’t you think?”

  David pivoted around on the spot. He and Jackson shared a look that seemed equally surprised, annoyed, and uncomfortable. Fiona fought the Caroline Doyle impulse to make sure everyone knew each other—David, you remember Jackson? You found us holding hands in the common room. And Jackson, David’s the one I was dating the whole time we were inappropriately flirting.

  More than anything, Fiona wanted to hug Jackson, hold his hand, take a deeper breath of him. Anything to ground her the slightest bit for what she was about to do. But as David stood beside her, all the things they still hadn’t said floated around her like a vapor—something intangible but present nonetheless. It felt so suddenly real, Fiona worried it might follow her onstage like a muggy, stifling cloud.

  “Um, Jackson, could I catch up with you after?”

  Jackson’s eyes flitted off David to Fiona. He slowly nodded and walked away.

  Fighting a primal instinct to follow him, instead Fiona turned to David, who regarded her skeptically. She had no idea what to do. But as much as she did not want this conversation, she owed it to him.

  David cleared his throat. “So, you two are . . .”

  Fiona shrugged, biting her lip. “I’m not sure.”

  “And at school?”

  “Nothing happened at school.” She felt a strong need to set the record straight here. It was the one bit that didn’t reflect horribly on her. “Nothing’s happened at all. It’s just been, um, talk up to this point.”

  “Right. I got a good look at the talking bit.”

  Okay, maybe a little horrible. “David, I’m so sorry.”

  David sipped from his mug, studying her over the rim of it. “Yeah, I know.”

  Fiona wasn’t sure where to go from here. She knew David wanted more, but she hadn’t been able to give it to him the two years they’d dated. With open mic night starting in five minutes, she certainly wasn’t going to be capable of it now.

  Pointing to her guitar, he said, “Don’t you need to get in tune or something?”

  Letting out a grateful breath, she nodded. She gestured over her shoulder to Ryan and Gwen’s table. “I should sit.”

  They hesitated a moment before sharing an awkward hug. David picked up his mug and headed to a table on the other end of the coffee shop. Fiona plunked herself by Ryan. “That looked painful,” he said.

  She groaned, letting her head loll on the table as the Otherlands guy walked up to the open mic corner, thumped the microphone a few times, reminded the audience to be polite, and told the performers they had eight minutes.

  Fiona looked up when the second performer tried to clog dance while playing the harmonica. At least the bar’s being set nice and low.

  It felt too soon when the guy announced, “Okay, looks like next we’ve got . . . Fiona Doyle.”

  Taking a deep breath, Fiona stood up. Ryan held out her guitar. She took it with a stretched smile and walked to the front of the coffee shop. A few strangers gave polite applause while Ryan and Gwen whooped.

  She smiled at her parents as she passed their table. Scanning the crowd she spotted Jackson leaning against the coffee bar, one elbow propped on the counter. From the distance, she couldn’t gauge his expression.

  Once on the stool, she retuned her guitar. She was taking too long but any change in her very deliberate pace might send her screaming for the door.

  The perspective up here was different from what she expected. She didn’t feel much higher than the people in chairs. The plants felt like curtains, blocking her from a full view. “Thanks,” she said, adjusting the microphone. “This is a song I wrote.”

  She started with her eyes closed, feeling the strings against her fingers. Concentrating on her voice and her words, hearing how the amp inflated everything about them.

  Turn me inside out / You’ll see a heart beating.

  Turn me upside down / There’s my head aching.

  Her voice rolled out of her, traveling away until it bounced off the concrete walls on the room’s other side. The song returned a little mellower from the journey.

  But turn me right side up

  And you get what you see.

  When she opened her eyes, it seemed like the audience had morphed from the individual to the communal—a single, organic mass held together by her song.

  Unzip me / Undo me

  Expose me / See through me

  Fiona let her head fall, focusing on her guitar. Her left fingers moved up and down the frets while her right fingers picked out the melody and strummed in between. She smiled at how the unexpected key change she added in—just here—made it all come together.

  You blind me / You fry me

  You tempt me / You bind me

  The dimmed lights made it hard to see distance. Looking to the place she assumed Jackson stood, she sang the last verse.

  Now you’ve got me inside out / My heart barely beating.

  And you got me upside down / My head truly aching.

  Turn me right side up?

  Please. Please, keep me right side up.

  Fiona strummed the final chord, letting herself drift off with it for a second. It wasn’t until the last reverberation utterly died away that she realized no one had clapped. Clearing her throat, she shifted on the stool, wondering if she should play her second song or just slink away.

  Ryan was the first; she’d recognize the hoot anywhere. She laughed, not even really caring that no one else clapped. She’d done it. She’d gotten up in front of these people—not just the strangers, but, maybe more importantly, the people who knew her—and given herself. She had put it all out there, not for the reward, not for the praise, but because she had to.

  This was who she was.

  So when everyone else started to clap—when they rose from their seats, whistling—it was just gravy.

  She played three more—the last one unplanned but the crowd had scolded her when she got up after the third. After a final, self-conscious bow, she said, “Seriously, y’all, that’s all I’ve got right now.”

  Since she was the last performer, the lights went up and, as she walked back to Ryan and Gwen’s table, she scanned the crowd for Jackson but couldn’t find him. Ryan beamed at her then held up the phone. “Lucy’s been on speaker.”

  Fiona took the phone. “Hey.”

  Lucy sounded quieter than normal—her edges softened. “That was really lovely.”

  Fiona smiled. “Thanks.”

  “Sorry I couldn’t make it.”

  “It’s fine. You’ll have other chances.”

  Regular Lucy was back. “Damn straight.” A pause. “Is he there?”

  Fiona looked over her shoulder, checking the empty coffee bar once more with a frown. “Well, he was.”

  “What the heck are you talking to me for? Go track that boy down.”

  With that, her best friend hung up. Fiona scanned the co
ffee shop, squinting into corners, but couldn’t see him anywhere. She slunk into her chair with a sigh. Gwen pointed toward the door to the back patio. “He’s out there.”

  Fiona spun so fast her neck popped. “Really?”

  Gwen smiled and nodded.

  Fiona walked through the shop toward the door. Strangers patted her on the back and said things like “Great job” or “Awesome set,” which probably would have made her cringe were she not looking for Jackson.

  He sat by himself on the rickety back porch, gazing at the crappy old parking lot like it held answers to something. When the door slammed behind her, Jackson turned his head, watching her walk across the patio. She sat beside him on the steps.

  “You sounded like you’d been trapped underwater and just came up for breath—but you sang instead.”

  Fiona fiddled with her fingers. “Is that good or bad?”

  “Good. It’s good.”

  They sat in silence a few moments, staring at the parking lot. A few cars pulled out, temporarily highlighting them both in the unflattering glow of taillights.

  “The lyrics . . .” Jackson trailed off, taking a deep breath. “They were about him?”

  Fiona sucked in a surprised breath at this question. “About David?”

  “Yeah.”

  She pivoted, tucking one leg under her so she could face him. “No. They weren’t about him.”

  His knees still forward, he turned his head to look at her. “Who then?”

  “You, dummy.”

  The relief in speaking this out loud surprised her. For months it felt like Fiona and Jackson had stood side by side, staring at a closed wooden door blocking their path. While both may have touched the wood at one time or another, neither had turned the knob and pushed. Finally speaking this truth—of her head and her heart—felt like a rush of cool air blowing from just beyond the threshold. Stepping through seemed awfully tempting.

  A slow grin gradually transformed Jackson’s face. His eyes looked lit from within. “I blind you?”

  Fiona could feel the blush all up the right side of her face. She bit her lip and shrugged.

  Undeterred by her embarrassment, he leaned a little closer. “And fry you?”

  She laughed. “Definitely that one.”

  He brought a hand to her chin. “Tempt you?”

  It felt like her heart was beating everywhere. She nodded.

  Looking tall, dark, and smirky, Jackson opened his mouth again. Fiona put her fingers to his lips, to feel him as much as to quiet him. “No snide comments about binding.”

  Warmth poured out of him as he laughed against her fingers. “I think I’m done talking, anyway.”

  He drew both of her hands in his and gently pressed her backward. He leaned closer and closer until Fiona’s back was on the wooden deck. He hovered over her, his body blocking her view of the stars.

  And then they kissed under the hot, summer sky.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I always read authors’ acknowledgments, but not until writing my own did I realize what a challenge they are. There are so many people who have supported me and touched this book. A few, brief words doesn’t seem like enough, but since I can’t send everybody cookies, it’ll have to do.

  Firstly, I’d like to thank you, the reader. There are so many ways you can spend your time and money—I’m deeply grateful that you chose me. And while I’ve got your attention, let me clarify that Fiona’s story is a fictional one. While I researched burns and transplants, I took poetic license with many of the details. To the best of my knowledge, no surgery can erase such significant scarring. I look forward to the day when medical science catches up with my imagination.

  Jill Davis, thank you, thank you, thank you for loving this book as much as I did—and then making it better. You’ve held my hand all the way, and I can’t imagine going through this process with anyone else. I am a better writer because of you.

  Steven Chudney, you took a chance on me and have been in my corner ever since. I cannot express how much you have changed my life.

  I want to thank everyone at HarperCollins and Katherine Tegen Books, especially Katherine Tegen; Laurel Symonds; my copy editors Veronica Ambrose and Alexei Esikoff; artists and designers Erin Fitzsimmons (who created the art on my beautiful cover), Barb Fitzsimmons, and Amy Ryan; marketing and publicity gurus Alana Whitman, Lauren Flower, and Rosanne Romanello; Margot Wood and Aubrey Parks-Fried at the Epic Reads team; and everyone else who’s helped get Everything That Makes You on the shelves.

  Thank you to those writers who’ve helped me through the rough patches. Ashley Elston, you’ve been a vital critique partner since the beginning. Katherine Brauer, your Crits for Water feedback was the last push I needed. Genetta Adair and Megan Basham, our weekly “Plot Walks” keep me sane.

  Thanks to Class of 2k15 and the Fearless Fifteeners, who’ve made this debut novel experience less overwhelming, and to SCBWI Mid-South and the Memphis SCBWI group.

  Thanks to the staff—and other coffee drinkers—at Otherlands, where most of this book was written. It’s real and pretty much just like I described, garage sale chairs and all. If you’re ever in Memphis, grab some coffee there and maybe write a book.

  I’m so grateful to all the friends and family who became my consultants: Anne Andrews, my Ole Miss fact checker; Dr. David Laird, who talked me out of one disease and gave me another; and my father-in-law, Dr. Yong Hae Lee, for answering all my plastic surgery and transplant questions. And to those who read earlier stories—Melissa McStay, Anita Arbalaez, Lori McStay, and Robbie Weinberg, I’m looking at you—thank you for not laughing at me. To my face, at least.

  I thank my family, especially Mom and Dad, for supporting me, always; Melissa and Jared; the GoStay clan; and all the Lees and Williamsons.

  And now, for the people who need the biggest thanks of all (and who actually might get cookies, albeit the organic kind they won’t want to eat): Claire, for reading everything I’ve written with openhearted enthusiasm; Samantha, for giving me ideas when I’m stuck; and Madeleine, for tolerating my random texts, like “Would you ever use the word angst?” Thank you all for being my guinea pigs, supporting this journey, and loving books as much as I do. In return, I promise a lifetime supply of fake Oreos—and even that cruise, one day.

  And Sam. Every crazy, random choice I’ve made, you’ve supported me. Of everything that makes me, you are the better parts. Thank you. I love you.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Photo by Daniel Frederick

  MORIAH MCSTAY attended Northwestern University and the University of Chicago. Two graduate degrees and seven jobs later, she’s finally figured out what she wants to be when she grows up. Now she lives in Memphis, Tennessee, with her husband and three daughters. She’s happy with all the choices and chances that brought her there.

  Everything That Makes You is her first novel for teens, and she’s probably at home right now working on another one. You can find her online at www.moriahmcstay.com.

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  CREDITS

  Cover photograph © 2015 by Emily Soto

  Cover hand lettering and design by Erin Fitzsimmons

  COPYRIGHT

  Edna St. Vincent Millay, “Never May the Fruit Be Plucked” from Collected Poems. Copyright 1923, 1951 by Edna St. Vincent Millay and Norma Millay Ellis. Reprinted with the permission of The Permissions Company, Inc., on behalf of Holly Peppe, Literary Executor, The Millay Society, www.millay.org.

  Katherine Tegen Books is an imprint of Har
perCollins Publishers.

  EVERYTHING THAT MAKES YOU. Copyright © 2015 by Moriah McStay. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

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  ISBN 978-0-06-229548-4

  EPub Edition © February 2015 ISBN 9780062295507

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