Everything That Makes You (16 page)

He rolled his eyes before looking at his watch and holding it out to Fi. “Not that this impromptu playdate isn't the highlight of my day, but shouldn't you be getting back home? It's at least an hour drive.”

Fi frowned at the pitch-black winter sky. “Ugh. That's going to suck.”

“You could sleep here.” He frowned at his roommate's bed. “Though I couldn't swear how clean those sheets are.”

“That's nasty.” Fi pushed herself up, stumbling over Trent's legs as she got off the bed. “I have an early class tomorrow anyway.”

Trent stood and opened the door. “I'll walk you out.”

“Maybe I should ruffle up your hair. In case Lindsey's lurking.”

Trent paused to look at her. “You're awfully concerned about Lindsey.”

“I'm not concerned,” she mumbled.

He studied her another moment or so before taking her hand and dragging her down the stairs behind him. Once outside, both hunched over, drawing their thin sweatshirts further up their necks. Trent pulled her a little closer, wrapping an arm around her as people do when they're cold. At the car, Fi fumbled with her keys, her fingers stiff and shaky. She popped the door and slid in, cranking the heat. Trent squatted just in front of the open door, his face nearly the same level as hers. “If I make the slob wash his sheets and throw his crap away, will you visit one weekend? I could show you around.”

“Um, maybe.” Fi looked away from Trent to the steering wheel, her hands sliding up, down, and around it. It surprised her that the idea sounded good, suddenly. “Yeah. Okay.”

“You'd have to shower. It's not required—I know you have an aversion—but I recommend it.”

She smiled at her hands. “I think I can handle a shower.”

Trent put his fingers under her chin, gently turning her face to him. “I'm glad you came down.”

“Me too.”

“It's going to be okay,” he said, still crouched in front of her. Still holding her face so she couldn't look away from this heartfelt Trent McKinnon who made her uncomfortable and awkward and not sure what do with her hands. “You'll be okay.”

Fi swallowed a sudden lump in her throat and nodded.

He dropped his hand and smiled just barely. “It's because of you, you know.”

“What's because of me?”

“My evolution past the fart joke. And if you can wield that sort of magic on a dumbass such as myself, then it's only a matter of time before you pull yourself out of this funk.”

They stared at each other a long moment. Trent slowly leaned forward—probably to hug her, she was sure it was just to hug her—but Fi immediately tensed, gripping the wheel. Trent paused, his eyes leaving her face to take in her rigid posture. He took a slow breath, shook his head, and slowly placed his lips on her forehead.

Fiona hadn't taken a word of Lucy's advice. All break, she had avoided Jackson—and real conversations with David. Now back at school, she had a new semester with new classes—and the same old problems.

For example, she
should
be thrilled about her music class. Professor Weitz was a published jazz composer, played guitar beautifully and—unlike Flem—she'd yet to bow to anyone's clarinet. However, the class had One Major Flaw—or
opportunity
, as Weitz called it.

“Each of you will perform an original composition,” she had said in the first class. “And benefit from the feedback of your peers.”

“So,” Weitz was now saying. “Who's up?”

A tall, pretty blond girl—Fiona recognized her from the dorm—walked to the front, oboe in hand. She sat on what Weitz called the
individual critique stool
. “I call this Interlude in
D,” Oboe Girl said.

She played about five minutes. The piece was a little old-fashioned, but man, the girl's fingering was crazy good.

“Comments?” Weitz asked, when the girl finished and rested her oboe on her lap.

Fiona braced herself. The redhead held up her hand to go first—of course.

“Isn't the point to bring classical elements to modern compositions,” she said. “Not the other way around?”

Redhead always went first. She had been the first to play for the class—cello—and had therefore escaped the bloodbath that these critiques had slowly descended into.

“It didn't sound very original to me,” Flute Guy was saying, nodding toward Redhead. “It was just Brahms and Mozart squished together.”

“Three hundred years later,” Yankees Hat added.

And the ball was rolling. Oboe Girl sat up there, enduring the “helpful feedback” free-for-all, while Fiona broke into a sweat.

If she couldn't handle someone else being criticized, what was she going to do when it was her turn? Where was Flem and his eighties covers when she needed them?

After class, Fiona merged onto the path back to the dorm, biting her nails and wondering how to
“divide one of her existing melodies into phrases, making sure the cadence in the second phrase completes the incomplete cadence in the first.”

She called Lucy to whine. “It's negative ten outside. My
coat is freaking enormous.”

“And I was just wondering about the weather in Chicago. And your coat.”

“Sorry. Bad class.”

“Let me guess,” Lucy said with a sigh.

Okay, Fiona might have complained about this class a few times already. “Those people are
insane.
They'll eat me alive.”

“It's only opinion. You don't have to listen to them.”

“I just can't do it.”

“Fiona Doyle,” Lucy said. “You are the most ridiculous person I've ever met.
What kind of singer doesn't want to sing?”

Fiona wished she knew. In theory, her fear should have been cut out of her, left on the operating room floor with the scars. She was fixed now. She should be able to do this.

“I know. I know, it's crazy,” Fiona admitted. “I just don't know how to, you know, fix it.”

“Well, you could always just
sing.
”

“They'll all be looking at me.”

“And lucky they will be, my non-scarred friend.”

“I'm not
un
scarred.”

“Oh. My. God. Get over yourself and sing a damn song.”

“I can't.”

“Why not?”

“None of them are ready.”

Fiona had to pull the phone away from her ear, Lucy's exhale was so loud. “Right. New rule à la Tough Love. You can't call me again until you've sat someone down across from
you, looked them in the eye, played your guitar, and sung one of
your
songs.”

“What? That's not fair.”

“Oh, it's totally fair—and a requirement for my sanity.”

“But, I
have
played for people. I've sung for you.”

“Amy LaVere covers don't count.”

Curse Lucy and her Tough Love. “Okay. I'll sing one of mine for you. Tonight.”

“What, over the phone?”

“Yeah. It'd be better anyway. Baby steps.”

There was a painful pause. “Nope,” Lucy finally said. “I've waited six years to hear an original Fiona Doyle. I want it in person.” Fiona heard another deep breath. “So this is where I tell you good-bye and say I truly hope to hear from you soon.”

“Lucy—”

“Hanging up now.” And then she did.

Fiona stared at her disconnected phone—then trudged back to the dorm, numb. She didn't notice the biting cold or the slippery path or the ugly gray-white snow.

She was Lucyless. She felt like a cat with a bandanna around its middle.

She was almost to the top of the dorm steps when she looked up. The person she wanted to see most—and least—stood on the landing, looking down at her.

This was the first she'd seen Jackson since the disaster that was Otherlands. He'd texted a few times over break—asking
her to meet him at the coffee shop, to help him spend his Christmas money at Shangri-La, to come with him to the Harry Potter marathon at the bargain theater. She gave lame excuses each time—rather than saying,
I have a boyfriend but I like you more, which makes me feel like the most horrible person ever.

“You look like you lost your best friend,” he said.

“What a perfect summary.”

“What happened?”

“Something with Lucy. Music assignment thing.” She shook her head. “Nothing.”

Jackson opened the door and followed Fiona up the interior stairs.

“So,” he asked. “How was the rest of your break?”

“Good.” This was such a lie. “You?”

“Kind of sucky, really. First Christmas without Marcus.”

Fiona drew in a long breath, looking at Jackson. “Oh, I'm so sorry. And all those texts—you needed a distraction.”

“Looked like you had all the distraction you could handle.”

So much for hoping the Coffee Shop Awkward hadn't been obvious. “Your schedule's good?”

He stopped and looked at her with that Jackson-y smirk. “What a lame subject change—you're as transparent as a well-dressed preacher.”

“I have no idea what that means.”

He laughed. “Yeah, classes are fine.”

A few dark curls escaped his hat. She wanted to tuck them back in—or tug off the cap and wrap her hands in his hair.
She got them walking again, instead.

“What else are you taking?” he asked.

“Statistics, which is
ridiculous.
”

“Why?” he asked, looking adorably baffled. “It's just common sense.”

“Uh, no. I'm very sensible—and I still get the alternative and null hypotheses mixed up.”

“Null assumes that the event you're hypothesizing has no effect. Alternative assumes the event created some change.” He rattled this off like
everyone
had this information memorized. “Just remember null means no.”

“Okay, math genius. Explain Bayes' Rule, then.”

“The conditional probability of event A given event B—and then the other way around. It links the degree of belief in a proposition before and after accounting for evidence.”

“Can you pretend you're me and take the tests?”

“Miss Fiona, really!” He laughed. “I can help you study, though.”

Fiona reached her floor but stopped just outside the door. She adjusted the strap on her guitar case and took a deep breath. “Can I ask you a favor?” she said.

“Sure.”

Fiona pointed toward her room. “I need an audience. For practice.”

“An audience?”

“It's a requirement for one of my classes—to perform one of my own songs. I'm kind of freaking out.”

“You weren't kidding, about not singing your own stuff?”

“Nope. I have a serious hang-up about it in public.”

“Because?”

“I don't know, just because. But my grade—and scholarship—depend on it, not to mention Lucy won't talk to me until I do it.”

Jackson wagged his eyebrows. “So I'd be your first?”

Oh my.
“Forget it.”

“No. No. I want to. Please. Please let me be your first.” He knelt right in front of her, clutching his hands together in front of his heart.

“Let's get this over with,” she mumbled and led him into her room.

Pointing to the chair by her desk, Fiona assumed her usual guitar-playing position—cross-legged on the bed. She took a few moments—longer than she needed, really—to tune, humming herself into pitch. She took a deep breath, hit the first chord, and sang.

            
If I'm inside out / And upside down

            
When I'm piece by piece / And pound by pound

            
How do I measure the melted?

            
How do I know what's left is enough for you?

Now came the instrumental part. As her fingers picked out the melody, she glanced up. Jackson was watching her with an intensity that made blood thrum in her ears. She looked back
to her fingers and promised herself she wouldn't look back up again. She even closed her eyes, for extra security.

            
When I'm inside out / And upside down

            
When I'm piece by piece / And pound by pound

            
After the stitches have faded.

            
How will I know what's left is enough for you?

She kept her eyes closed nearly a full thirty seconds after she finished. Slowly, she opened one eye then the other, too stressed out to glory in the fact that she'd done it. Finally done it.

Jackson leaned forward in his chair, elbows on knees, hands joined in front of him. “You wrote that?” he asked, quietly.

Fiona nodded.

“Is it about that guy in the coffee shop?”

Ugh,
this
was why she didn't sing. “No, it's not about him.”
It was about her, damn it.

“It was really good,” he said.

“You don't have to do that.”

“Do what?”

She pulled her hair from its ponytail, dragging it over her face out of habit, and studied the pattern of her bedspread. “Compliment me or whatever.”

“I'm not really a false praise kind of guy.”

The lump in her throat made it impossible to speak. She
felt like a biology frog, flayed out and pinned down, all her insides open for inspection. She swiped her hands over her eyes, hoping he hadn't noticed the tears welling up.

He sat beside her. “I get the feeling I'm handling this wrong.”

“It's not you,” she said, shaking her head. “I don't think I was ready.”

“You did just launch into it. No foreplay at all.”

She looked sideways at him. “Why does it always feel like a double entendre with you?”

“Well, I'm not that subtle.” He sat up and tucked her curtain of hair behind her ears, left side, then right. His fingers lingered on the skin of her neck while his eyes lingered on the scar.

“Seriously, let me make it up to you,” he said. “Play something else. I'll be better this time.” He leaned in and whispered dramatically, “More attentive to your needs.”

Performance jitters flowed away, like someone had opened a tap—but stomach flutters immediately took their place. Her heart pounded like it might break through her ribs.

Surprising herself, she picked up the guitar and smirked right back at him. “They say it's never good the first time, anyway.”