Everything That Makes You (18 page)

She began backing away. “We shouldn't talk about this . . . we can't . . .”

In two steps he closed the distance and grabbed her hand, holding her still. Quieter now, like he was forcing himself to stay calm, he said through clenched jaw, “When did you get the call?”

Eyes wide, Fiona shook her head back and forth. She felt the tears—only on the one cheek, though she was certain both were damp. “There are rules,” she choked out. “We're
not supposed to know.”

Jackson let her go. His eyes did not leave the right side of her face as he began walking backward. Fiona stayed in place, watching him retreat farther and farther until he eventually turned and walked away.

Trent jogged into the lobby, rounding the corner less than a minute after Fi gave her name to the check-in counter guy. His wet hair had dripped a dark ring along the collar of his shirt, which clung to him unevenly. Even so, he grabbed Fi up into a damp hug. “I thought you'd bail.”

Fi hugged him back. She couldn't remember the last time she'd really
leaned into
someone. This proximity to skin and smell, body and life, was a surprising comfort.

He let go first, and Fi pulled back quickly, embarrassed by her clinginess. She gestured to herself. “I even showered.”

He took a step back, getting a bigger view. “Yes, you did.” Then Trent grabbed her hand, dragging her behind him as they went upstairs.

In the common room on his floor, mostly guys, a few girls—including Lindsey—sat on battered couches or perched on beat-up coffee tables. Plastic cups and an assortment of
glass bottles littered the few open spaces.

As Fi and Trent passed the gathering, maybe half looked up. Pausing in the hallway, Trent gestured to Fi with his free hand. “Y'all, this is Fi, a friend from home.”

There were a few “Hey, Fi's,” and she waved in response before Trent pulled her onward to his room. She sat on his bed as he rubbed a towel through his hair and frowned at his dampened shirt. “I was still getting dressed when you got here,” he said, pulling his shirt over his head and tossing it on the bed before rummaging in his closet for a fresh one.

Fi looked away from Trent's half-nakedness. She'd seen it a million times before—even so, it felt weird all of a sudden.

He'd buttoned up by the time she turned back. The mattress dipped from his weight as he sat beside her to pull on socks and shoes.

“So, what's the plan?” she asked.

Still bent over his feet, Trent gestured back toward the common room with his head. “We can hang in the lounge if you want. You can meet some people. There are a couple of parties later.”

“How much later are we talking?”

Trent raised a single eyebrow. “You going to turn into a pumpkin or something?”

“She didn't turn into a pumpkin, her carriage did.” Fi looked at her watch. “I just don't know how late I want to drive home. Highway and all that.”

Trent looked at her with a long, steady eye before saying,
“Just see how it goes. We can always come back.”

“All right.” Fi stood and straightened her top—one that Caroline Doyle had picked, no less. When she left the house, her mother actually froze for a second, as if seeing Fi in cute clothes—with makeup! And blow-dried hair!—caused her temporary paralysis.

Trent smiled and stood. Standing just in front of her, he actually leaned in and kissed her head before pulling back with a confused frown. “Did you get taller?”

Fi held up her right foot, showing off her boots. “Two-inch heels.”

“The world's gone lopsided,” Trent replied with a laugh. “Come on,” he said, grabbing her hand again.

As she'd gotten ready that night, Fi had wondered why she was driving over an hour to go to some parties where she wouldn't last twenty minutes. But by the time everyone in Trent's common room started grabbing their sweaters and keys to head out, it was almost ten. She'd spent two hours having fun with strangers.

Chris, one of the lacrosse players Fi had met during her parking lot freak-out, gave her a hand, pulling her up from the couch. “You coming?” he asked with a smile.

“Oh. Um—” She paused, not actually sure
what
she wanted to happen next.

On the one hand, she was having fun. Trent's friends were nice; hanging out with her best friend felt like the perfect kind of therapy.

On the other hand, as nice as this couple of hours had been, she felt . . . out of shape for it. Like the day when she met Marcus, just hobbling up the handicap ramp in a cast and
standing
for ten minutes had worn her out.

“No,” she said. “I should probably head out.”

Before he could speak, Lindsey passed, and, with a look Fi could only describe as feline, she idly dragged her fingers across Trent's chest and asked, “You're coming though, right, Trent?”

Trent gave Fi what Ryan called “the look.
”
Both had used it over the years, and though it was just a glance, it communicated many things. Not the least of which was You Drive Me Freaking Crazy. “Guess so,” he said.

“I'll get my stuff,” Fi said.

Trent mumbled for them to go on ahead, he'd catch up. Trying his doorknob with no luck, she waited for him to come up the hall. “It's locked,” she said.

Fishing keys from his pocket, he held open the door. “Looks like the roomie didn't need to clean his crap after all.”

Fi decided not to point out that the room wasn't really
clean—
just mildly less disgusting. “I never promised I'd stay.”

“Whatever.”

She put on her jacket. “I was going to end up the third wheel anyway.”

“Wonder what that's like.” He took a sip from his plastic cup, watching her over the rim. “What are you talking about? Third wheel to who?”

Fi walked up to him, dragging her fingers across Trent's chest just as Lindsey had. Okay, it was snide. And her fingers lingered on the edge of his muscles longer than necessary. She pulled her hand away. “Sprinkle girl.”

“I don't care about Lindsey.” He watched her for a long,
long
moment. Fi couldn't decipher his expression—even so, her heart beat faster.

“I should probably get going,” she said, faking a lame yawn.

“Don't do that,” he snapped. “Just go if you want to.”

“It's not like I didn't have fun,” she said, sounding whinier than she meant to. While having the same best friend for nine years definitely had perks, the “seeing right through you” part could be annoying. “It's just, you know, I have to work up to it.”

Suddenly, Trent's whole body tensed. He yelled—growled, something—and threw his cup against the wall. Frothy liquid splashed upward, splattering against the painted concrete blocks, before the cup fell to the floor with a little
tink.
“That would have been more impressive with a glass,” he said, frowning.

Fi stared from Trent to the cup. “And just as crazy.”

“Since when are you Queen of Sanity?”

“Yes, that's helpful,” she snapped. “Tell me I'm crazy. Call me a hermit. Smugly look down your nose at me. While. I. Grieve.”

“Are you kidding me? I have listened to you whine for almost a year! Months longer than anyone else has been able
to. Your own
mother
is sick of it!”

“Oh no, Caroline Doyle is disappointed in me! What shall I do?”

“Right, because no one else's feelings matter anyway, do they?”

“No one else has a dead boyfriend in a jar!”

“I am
sick
of your dead boyfriend.” Trent's nose flared at the corners as he yelled. “And your crappy lacrosse team! And your stupid issues with your brother!”

“Just say you're sick of
me,
Trent. It's all the same thing.”

“Yeah, okay, sometimes I am sick of you. You're a hell of a lot of work, Fi.”

“And you're a horrible best friend!”

“I never wanted to
be
your best friend.” Scowling, he picked up the cup and chucked it into the trash can. “And if this”—he gestured between the two of them—“is what we are now, I'm not interested anymore.”

Fi's head snapped back like he'd hit her. “Are you breaking up with me?”

“I already told you,” he answered quietly. “You can't dump someone you never dated.”

“We dated,” Fi answered weakly, not sure what they were fighting about anymore.

“No we didn't—because
you never let us
. And
you
are always the one who gets to decide.
”
Trent watched her a long time, his chest pulling in big, heavy breaths. “This is the last time though, Fi. Last chance. Tell me what my role is here. Pick one.”

“I can't.” She wiped away the sudden tears with her fingers. “I can't.”

“Pick,” he demanded, his teeth biting down on each other.

Fi was full-out crying by this point. Mascara coated her fingers. Grabbing her bag, she wrenched open the door. As it closed behind her, she choked out, “Why bother? I never pick right.”

Fiona had not seen or heard from Jackson since he left her on the path. She'd stood there, watching him slowly disappear, and hadn't had a call, text, note on the door, or “accidental run-in” since. She'd brooded about going to his room, but couldn't stomach all the potentially awful outcomes. He might refuse to speak to her or slam the door in her face. Or demand back what was his brother's.

Or might be his brother's.

They would never know. The big question—
Did Fiona Doyle wear part of Marcus King?—
would never get answered. Even if she
wanted
to find out, which she very much did not, the hospital wouldn't tell her. As she heard over and over before the surgery, the anonymity of donor and recipient was nonnegotiable.

She'd thought about calling her parents, just to double-check. But then she'd have to deal with her mother, and she
had enough major life crises at the moment.

Because today was February 27—the day nothing good ever happened. The day she would perform an original song in public for the first time ever. The day she may or may not be going on a date with a boy who may or may not despise her.

She procrastinated in bed as long as she could—counting the ceiling's acoustic tiles, attempting to find a pattern in the floor's linoleum speckles. Each minute wasted was one less to worry about.

When the phone rang with Ryan's programmed ringtone, Fiona hesitated. Of course he'd pick
today
to finally call. After three rings, she answered. “Hey.”

“How you doing?”

Fiona stared at the ceiling.

Ryan tried again. “I got the message about the critique. I was calling to wish you good luck.”

“That was days ago.”

“Sorry. It's been busy.”

She did not say
We're all busy, Ryan
or harass and scold him like their mom—she didn't reply at all.

Ryan sucked in a big gulp of air and exhaled the statement, “I'm dropping off the team.”

Fiona shot upright. “What?”

“It's too much—my grades are mediocre, I'm constantly canceling on Gwen, you're always mad at me. I never have time for
anything.
”

“But you love soccer.”

“I think I'd love it a lot more if I played club. Had some
fun
, you know? Coach kids or something.” He sighed. “Mom and Dad will probably kill me. Walking away from the scholarship.”

The scholarship reminder felt like a gut punch. One more reason to stress out about the critique. “They'll understand,” she said, hoping it was true. “Mom wasn't big on you playing Division One anyway.”

He said “yeah” noncommittally. “Enough about me. How are
you
?”

“I'm playing for a group of music and theater majors—who are quote,
encouraged to comment,
unquote. Which is just code for ripping each other to shreds.”

“You'll do fine.”

“I really don't think I will.”

“Then you'll just
do.
And that's okay, too.”

Despite herself, Fiona smiled. Then she looked at her watch. “Crap, I'm late!”

Ryan called “Good luck!” as she hung up. Grabbing her guitar and a stack of Moleskines, she ran through campus. Mounds of dirty snow lined all the paths.

At class with seconds to spare, she leafed through her books, still not certain which song to perform. She'd rearranged five, not sure about any of them.

Weitz consulted her list. “Are you ready, Jacob?”

Jacob had been in Flem's class, and Fiona knew he was
good. He sat on the stool, looking cooler and more relaxed than Fiona could ever imagine being. He put his violin on his shoulder and said, “This is just something I've been working on.”

A few minutes later, he lowered his violin. Fiona couldn't say if he'd played a waltz or a pop song. He could have sprouted horns and danced an Irish jig, for all she knew. But when Weitz said, “Thoughts?” Fiona was all ears.

“I'm not familiar with that technique,” said Redhead. She tilted her head, like she found this discussion oh, so interesting. “It seemed almost self-taught. Did you train with any
trained
musicians?”

“Several,” Jacob said calmly. “I was first chair in the Boston youth symphony.”

Normal people
might have been impressed, but not Redhead and her bloodthirsty friends. Flute Guy, Yankees Hat, and a few black-clad drama majors offered the following helpful insights:
Your fingering looked awkward. Was that intentional? Are you certain your violin was properly tuned? I didn't really hear anything original
.

Ten minutes later, when Jacob's work had been picked apart until it was nothing but a senseless pile of quarter notes, Weitz let him go and called Fiona up.

With shaking hands—her cuticles were a mangled mess by now—she pulled her guitar from its case, brought the whole stack of Moleskines up front, and sat on the stool.

“You're a singer
and
musician, yes?” Weitz said, looking at
her notes. “Your composition will come with lyrics, I assume.”

“I was only going to play,” Fiona said. She was near enough meltdown from just that.

Weitz raised an eyebrow—then nodded to Fiona's guitar. “When you're ready, Ms. Doyle.”

Fiona clenched her jaw, swallowed, and began to strum.

It didn't start well. She played like someone taking a test. She
sounded
like a paint-by-numbers painting—formulaic, emotionless, and without any nuance at all. As she picked the melody, it only got worse. Each note was a painful
and-now-I'm-going-to-play-the-A
experience.

She sucked.

When she finished, Fiona kept her eyes on the strings, terrified to look up. There was complete silence.

Professor Weitz cleared her throat. “Yes, well. That was . . .” She looked at the class. “Anyone have thoughts to share?”

It was an assault.

There was a glimmer of something intriguing, but it was hard to pinpoint it in the mess
.
The progressions came off stale. It's a case of proficiency without spirit. I wasn't sure of the point. I found myself craving more emotion. It was trite. It had no soul.

You're really a music major?

It wasn't just Redhead and her ilk, either. Almost everyone—even French Horn Girl, who was normally as quiet as Fiona—had something to say. “I think it needed a little something more.”

Fiona sat on the stool, paralyzed and taking it.

“Did you write lyrics to go with this composition?” Professor Weitz eventually asked.

Fiona nodded, forcing herself to say, “Yes.”

“Play it again, please. With the lyrics. We might get a better sense of intention.”

The students murmured lukewarm agreement to this idea.

Fiona's eyes darted from her persecutors to their leader. “Um, I hadn't really prepared—”

“You've had weeks to prepare.” Weitz leaned back in her chair. It creaked in a sharp D. “As this is a significant portion of your grade, I suggest you try once more.”

Fiona exhaled, sucked as much air back in as she could, and tried again.

            
I got ripped down the middle / Accidentally

Her voice creaked as she reached for the A. She hadn't warmed up her vocal cords at all.

            
I heal little by little / Coincidentally

The chord change worked better here, now that it was paired with words. Still, it highlighted some awkward spots in the phrasing.

            
It's piracy / It's mutiny / God I hate the scrutiny

What was she thinking, putting this chorus with these lyrics? They didn't make any sense together. She wished she'd worked with the words, when she'd done the rearranging.

            
Dates create me and narrate me / Fate dictates me and negates me.

And back to the ridiculous refrain about pirates.

As the last note bounced around the room, Fiona forced herself to face her tormentors head-on. She hadn't looked up the first time, so she wasn't sure if these expressions were any better.

“Anyone?” Weitz said, and it began again.
I wasn't sure how the phrasing was meant to underscore the lyrics' intentions. The meter was off, it distracted me. There wasn't any real marriage between the lyrics and the composition; they just felt put together without much thought; it was like three different songs. It didn't make sense.
And then the worst one of all:
The lyrics confused me—was I meant to feel pity?

“I agree with the class, Ms. Doyle,” Weitz said. “I think you have some work ahead of you.”

Fiona nodded. Weitz looked at her watch. “Okay, everyone. Next week then.”

Fiona kept her head down and gathered her things. She zipped her guitar up as quietly as she could and slid it on her back carefully. She took each step from the music building to her dorm as if the path was covered in ice, walking as if to minimize the impact of her every move.

Her throat burned—not from singing with cold vocal cords but from the lump stuck right in the middle. Her mind may have been numb from the whole thing, but her eyes seemed to work fine. Warm tears spilled freely down her cheeks as she walked home.

She'd go back to her room and stay in bed the rest of the day.

Head down in the dorm lobby, she collided with another body on the way. Books slapped to the floor. She and her victim stooped to pick them up. “Sorry.”

And
of course
it was Jackson.

One of her hands clutched the Moleskines as the other went to wipe her cheeks. She wanted to erase the evidence. Why did she always cry in front of this boy?

“It was bad?” he asked.

Fiona didn't respond. Surely the answer was clear enough.

“Sorry,” he said.

She shrugged. His eyes went to her face—to the area that always seemed to mean everything. Slowly, he began to back away. When a good ten feet separated them, he said, “I can't make it tonight. Something came up.”

She watched him continue his path backward, her hand on her cheek. Then, like he'd done the day they'd discovered their “coincidence,” he turned away. Through the glass doors, she watched until he'd disappeared down the path, swallowed by the icy branches on the leafless trees.

She turned toward the stairs. On the way, she passed the row of three trash cans—brown for garbage, green for glass and aluminum, blue for paper. She took only the briefest look at her Moleskines before dumping the lot of them in the blue one.

Maybe one day, they'd be turned into something useful.