Everything That Makes You (5 page)

Fiona was sitting in Otherlands, biting her fingernails to shreds and staring at the stool. It sat right underneath the spotlight. Some girl sang Radiohead a cappella—off-key, but hey, she was
up there.
She had those holes in her ears, and the lights shone through them. It was impossible not to stare right at them.

“Only one more to go,” said Lucy, pointing to the blackboard list on the wall.

Fiona chewed on her thumb.

I don't want the glaring lights / Blazing down on me.

“
Where
is Ryan?” Fiona said.

“With Gwen.” Lucy nodded toward the bar. “He walked in about ten minutes ago.”

Fiona looked over her shoulder. Ryan and Gwen the Blue-Haired Coffee Shop Girl leaned across the counter toward each other. Gwen glanced in Fiona's direction and smiled.
Fiona didn't smile back. The blue-haired girl was stealing her brother when she needed him most.

Finally, Ryan left Gwen and walked over to Fiona and Lucy's table.

“Glad you could join us,” Fiona said, when he sat down beside her.

Ryan held up his hands in surrender. “Calm down. I was just saying hey.”

Lighting up my fears and frights / For all the world to see.

“Whatever.”

He leaned forward, nearly knocking his forehead against hers, and spoke quietly. “You'll be fine. No one's even paying attention.”

“So they won't notice if I don't go.”

“Ona, you can do this.”

Give me the cold and dark / A little cave for me.

She felt like she was drowning. Well, if she was going under, she was going to drag her brother down with her. “I can't believe you're making me do this, Ryan.”

He gave her the same, pitying expression she'd get from everyone else tonight. Like she was some poor, ravaged, special needs girl. And her lyrics, why did she have to make them all so
personal
? She may as well go up there naked.

The girl onstage said, “Thank you very much,” and clunked away in battered clogs. Lucy gave a bored clap, looking past Fiona toward the door. Her eyes got huge. Ryan
followed her gaze, and then his eyes got huge, too.

“What?” she asked, craning to see why they were gaping.

Lucy gripped Fiona's chin, so she couldn't turn to look. “Nothing. Just somebody . . . dropped coffee.”

“So, Fiona, what are you thinking about playing?” Ryan asked. Loudly. He scooted his chair closer.

“Why are y'all acting so weird?” Fiona pushed Lucy's hand away and looked across the coffee shop. Trent McKinnon waved.

Lit up by the single spark / That your smile sets free.

Fiona waved back numbly. “No way. No. Freaking. Way.”

“What's he doing here?” Lucy asked, just as dumbstruck.

Fiona pulled her hair in front of her face. “I can't sing in front of him. Half the songs are
about
him.”

“They're about
him
?” Ryan said.

Lucy scowled at Ryan and grabbed Fiona's hand. “He'll have no clue. He won't know.”

“I can't do it.”

The three argued back and forth, two against one. Lucy and Ryan threatened, pleaded, encouraged, but Fiona held firm.

Ever since this stupid bet, Fiona had waffled back and forth about playing tonight. There was something to be said for
finally doing it.
Maybe her anxious panic would disappear if she just sucked it up and played. Now, she'd never know. Trent McKinnon may as well have had the words
Don't Play, Fiona
tattooed all over his glorious body.

The coffee shop guy took the microphone, looked at the blackboard, and said, “And now, the musical stylings of Fiona Doyle.”

Fiona shook her head. Lucy tried to shove her up, but Fiona grabbed her seat with both hands.

“Laryngitis. Can't do it tonight,” Ryan called out. The coffee shop guy shrugged and called the next name on the list.

With a lump in her throat, Fiona watched a guy and girl with flutes take the stage. Self-disgust and relief coursed through her, to a soundtrack of fluted bluegrass.

Five performers later, the coffee shop guy called for one more round of applause, thanked everyone, reminded the crowd there'd be another open mic night in two weeks, and told the person with the white Honda Accord they were about to be towed.

“There's always two weeks from now,” Lucy said.

Fiona folded her napkin into increasingly smaller squares.

“You lost your voice?”

It was Trent. Fiona's eyes widened in panic. She nodded.

“That's so weird. You sounded fine earlier today.”

She fiddled with her bangs and shrugged.

Trent said “hey” to Lucy and turned to Ryan. “Great game last week, man. Wicked goal in the second half.”

“Thanks,” Ryan said. He gave a quick nod toward Fiona. “You came to hear her sing?”

“Yeah, sure.” Then he smirked and pointed his thumb at
the counter behind him. “And to ask out that girl. I've been scoping her out for weeks.”

For a moment, Fiona lost the power to breathe. When she finally sucked in a meager bubble of air, it felt like her lung had been punctured by an old, dirty nail. Her air simply seeped out, rustier than when it came in.

Ryan stood up, his full puffed-up height nearly five inches less than Trent's. Was this him being the “protective brother”—or was he just jealous about Gwen? “Already beat you to it, dude,” he said to Trent.

Trent raised his eyebrows and took a step back. “So you're the reason she told me no. No harm trying, right?” He gave Ryan a cautious look before speaking past him to Fiona. “Hope you feel better. And don't lose touch with the soil, Doyle,” he added, with a thumbs-up.

He walked away, gathered up the lacrosse players who'd come in with him, and left the coffee shop.

“What the heck did that mean?” Ryan asked, looking down at her.

“Hemingway,” Fiona said, waving away the explanation.

“Well,” Ryan said, mad again, “he's an asshole.”

“No, he's not,” Fiona answered. “You're just pissed he wanted to ask out your girlfriend.”

“
That
is not why I'm pissed,” he said, shaking his head. Then he headed over to Gwen.

As Fiona watched him go, David came over and sat in Ryan's abandoned chair. “You have laryngitis?” he asked her.

Fiona nodded yes. Maybe she could pretend to have it the rest of her life.

“She just froze.” Lucy snorted and got up. “Be back in a sec. I need coffee to wash down all this drama.”

Fiona fiddled with her mug, trying to breathe past her leaking, rusty lungs and broken heart. David drummed his fingers on the table. “Sorry,” he said. “About tonight.”

She shrugged. If she opened her mouth, she might vomit.

She'd been an idiot to think her pathetic self could wind up with Trent McKinnon.
And
she was a coward. Her fear of everyone's judgment, of their pity, mattered more to her than her music.

All those notebooks and calluses, those hours spent playing and writing—what the hell was she doing it for? In the cruel space of three minutes, she'd lost Trent McKinnon and music. And really, what else did she have?

Scars, damn it. She still had the scars.

“I mean, I know it's not my fault or anything,” David was saying, still drumming his fingers. “It's just too bad, that you panicked or whatever.” He scooted his chair closer and cleared his throat. “But it worked out for me.”

“How's that?” she asked quietly.

“Well, you'd probably have been swamped with adoring fans, and I wouldn't get the chance to talk to you alone. It's a rare opportunity.”

“We were editing the paper all yesterday afternoon.”

“Mr. Phillips was there. That's not alone.”

She shrugged at the logic. She was too emotionally drained to debate the point.

David leaned closer, looking a little nervous. “So, now I've gotten past step one in my strategy—”

“What strategy?”

“I've taken Ryan's advice to heart, come up with a plan to get the girl to notice me.”

“David, what are you talking about?”

“Like I was saying, step one was to get her alone. So that's checked off. Now I just have to ask her out.”

“Ask who out?”

“Wow, and you're not helping. Like, at all.” David took a deep breath and straightened up. “Would you like to go out with me sometime? A movie or something?”

Fiona stared at him. “Me? You want to go out with
me
?”

“Would that be okay?”

She forced herself to look at David, to see past
the friend.
And the
averageness
. It was the least she could do.

He'd looked past all the below average of her.

He wasn't uncute. He was fair-skinned, like her, but freckled and dirty blond. He had the lean frame of a cross-country runner. His eyes were a pretty, light brown. They reminded her of an amber pendant her mom sometimes wore.

What would a date with him be like? Probably like everything else she did with him, but with popcorn. After the movie, they'd drink coffee and talk about the school paper.

Which wouldn't be terrible. She liked talking to him. He
was smart and funny. Nice.

She had once told Lucy that if Trent McKinnon was ice cream, he'd be rocky road covered in sprinkles. David might be more vanilla, but nothing was
wrong
with vanilla. She always took some when offered.

Vanilla could never break anyone's heart.

“Um, yeah,” she said. “Sure.”

David smiled. It was a nice smile. He had very straight teeth. “Awesome. What about tomorrow?”

She laughed and shrugged. “My calendar just happens to be free.”

“Great. I'll pick you up at seven.”

The chair on the other side of her made a screech as Lucy pulled it back. “Where are we going at seven?”

Fiona glanced from David, who looked stricken, to Lucy, who looked clueless. “Not you. David and me.”

“David and you what?”

“Are going to a movie. Tomorrow.”

A slow smile spread across her best friend's face, and Fiona gave her an anticipatory kick under the table. Lucy grimaced and leaned forward to rub her shin. “Sounds delightful.”

“Okay. Well. See you tomorrow,” David said. “Sorry, again. About tonight.”

She shrugged, rediscovering her laryngitis.

“Are you
kidding
me?” Lucy shoved her in the shoulder. “You're going out with David?”

“What's wrong with David?”

“Nothing, I guess.” Lucy's eyes glazed over a moment as she considered. “He's nice. And . . . I don't know what else. I never thought to notice. Since he's not
Trent McKinnon.
”

Fiona felt the tears brewing. She hated to cry, and now she was going to do it in the coffee shop.

“Hey,” said Lucy in a rare, gentle voice. “It's okay.”

“You're right. I couldn't play. I
am
a chicken.”

“Are you really that scared you'll suck?”

She shook her head, sniffling. “I'm kinda good, actually.”

“Then what's the problem?”

“If I get up there, no one's even going to listen. They'll see the scars. That's all I'll be.”

“If you
don't
get up there, the scars are all you'll be.”

“The songs are so personal.” Just thinking about it, her hands were shaking. “To just throw them out there, for anyone to dissect, it's terrifying.”

“So are you worried about the songs or your face?”

“Everybody will just overanalyze everything.”

“Wonder what that would be like,” Lucy muttered. “But what's this got to do with David and Trent McKinnon?”

“I think it's time I gave up on Trent McKinnon.”

He would never love her. Admitting it felt like having her insides forced out.

“So he wanted to ask out the blue-haired girl?” Lucy said. “No biggie. He just doesn't know you well enough, yet.”

“We've spent hours together in the library!”

“Yes, because nothing says seduction more than a high school library.”

“The blue-haired girl could have seduced him in the library.”

Lucy opened her mouth and then closed it. “Ryan's right. He's an asshole.”

“Why? Because he's not attracted to the geeky smart girl with half a face? That'd mean ninety-nine percent of the male population are assholes.” She felt numb, tapped out. She'd used a year's supply of angst in one hour.

“I think you underestimate the male population.”

“It's got to be bad when the lesbian tries to bolster my faith in men,” Fiona said.

“Can we please stop referring to me as
the
lesbian? It can't be just me, right?”

“Uh, I have no idea.”

“It's what I get for coming out in high school. Could be
years
before these other girls catch up.” She slumped in her chair and spoke to the ceiling. “I mean seriously, there's got to be at least one.”

“We're pathetic,” Fiona said with a huge sigh. “Crossing our fingers that we get
one
.”

Fi was sitting on the couch—the
damned couch
—when Ryan came home from school, dropped a stack of homework in her lap, and sat down across from her.

She wanted to lash out at him, sitting there in his uniform, all sweaty and dirt-smeared, but she held back. Instead, she picked up the bulk of homework, weighing it in her hands. “Please tell me this is for the whole week.”

“Just today,” he said.

Fi scanned the pages from English, along with the unfamiliar writing in the margins. “She's already picked the topic. And given me an
assignment.
”

“Who?”

“Lucy Daines, worst partner ever.”

“On the English paper? What book are y'all doing?”

“Faulkner, apparently,” Fi said, still reading through Lucy's highlights, notes, and
instructions.
“The two short stories.”

“Trina Simmons and I are doing
The Red Badge of Courage,”
Ryan said. “We started today at lunch. It's a big part of the grade.”

She gave her unsympathetic brother a look before tossing the stack of homework onto the coffee table. “I. Am. Going. Insane.” She let her head flop backward onto the armrest. “If I'd just moved back in position. If I hadn't gone for that ball none of this would have happened. Life would be
normal.
”

“Yeah,” Ryan said after a moment, “but you can't change it. Might as well look on the bright side.”

“Which would be?”

“You only have to deal with Lucy Daines on paper,” he said, nodding to Fi's stack of homework. “No face-to-face.”

“True.”

“You get to watch
Cupcake Wars
nonstop.”

“I'm
sick
of
Cupcake Wars
. Like, totally sick of it.” She pointed to the wall directly across from her. “Do you know there's a crack in the plaster over there that looks like the east coast of Florida?”

“Wow, you
are
bad off.” He studied her. “When's the last time you, like, moved?”

“This morning. Bath.”

“Okay, time for an intervention,” Ryan said with a laugh. “Come out with me tonight.”

“Right.” She couldn't remember the last time they'd done something alone, without their parents or friends. She pointed to her cast. “Slight mobility problem.”

“I'll help you,” said Ryan. “Anyway, I'm not doing anything major—just open mic night at Otherlands.”

There was a coffee shop about five minutes' drive away, but she'd never gone in. “That grungy place?” It looked run-down, with an old, hand-painted sign out front.

“It's got character. This open mic thing's supposed to be, uh,
unique
is how I heard it.”

Fi vaguely remembered Trent mentioning going there, although he never said anything about an open mic night. “Who told you that?”

“Girl who works there.”

Her eyes narrowed on her brother. “What girl?”

“A girl,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Do you want to come or not?”

Fi looked in the direction of the kitchen. “Where is everybody?”

“Mom went to the grocery store, I think. Dad's still at work.”

Fi figured she wasn't the coffee-shop type, what with her lack of tribal scarves and ironic T-shirts. Anyway, she never had the luxury to just
hang out.
School and lacrosse took up all her time.

But she didn't think she was an
anti-
coffee shop kind of person, either. Plus, no parents meant no one to stop her.

She pushed herself upright. “Go shower, then help me get to the bathroom when you're done.”

When they got to Otherlands, Fi clutched Ryan's arm and
hobbled up the ramp to the back door. It was weird needing his help so obviously and publicly.

The crowd moved aside at the sight of her Day-Glo cast. “People are staring,” she muttered.

“It's just your imagination.”

Mismatched tables and chairs crammed nearly every inch of the place. A beaded curtain behind the bar barely disguised a bunch of boxes, crates, and dirty mugs. Lines of poetry were painted across the walls and on the concrete floor.

“Everybody in here is pierced and tattooed,” she whispered, scanning the crowd. “Or has those giant holes in their ears.”

“Not everybody.” At the counter, Ryan leaned toward a tiny girl with short, light blond hair streaked in blue. She smiled when she saw him, then she moved to the side so the other guy back there—a tall guy with tattoo vines covering his arms—could take orders. Ryan gestured between the two girls. “Gwen, this is my sister, Fi.”

Wiping her hands on a towel, Gwen reached a thin arm across the counter. “Hey, Fi. Nice to meet you.”

Fi shook the waif's hand, worried she might break it.

“Can I get y'all something?” Gwen asked. Looking at Ryan, she asked, “Decaf?”

He nodded and looked to Fi. She read the menu overhead but had no clue what to order. “Something not too coffee-ish?”

Gwen laughed. “Sure.”

A few minutes later, Gwen handed over a large mug
filled with milky foam. Fi pointed to her cast. “I need to sit somewhere.”

Ryan nodded, and they both surveyed the shop. Every table was full.

Fi began to panic slightly. This little bit of activity made her foot ache. She was dizzy and out of breath. If she felt like this after three weeks, what would her game be like after a
year
?

Ryan gestured to the full tables. “There's nowhere.”

“Seriously,” she whispered, leaning in. “I need to sit.”

He pulled back to study her before scanning the café again. Finally, he clutched her arm and walked her to a table for four, where two guys around their age sat. They had dark, wavy hair and looked about the same height.

“Y'all mind if she sits?” Ryan asked, pointing to the two empty chairs and then at Fi's cast.

One of them had nice, olive skin, the other was fair like Fi and Ryan. The fair one stood, pulling out the chair just in front of her and gesturing to it. “Not at all.”

At the same time, Tan Guy reached over to Fair Guy's chair and pulled it toward
him
, closing the distance between the two boys.

Fi considered pointing out that broken ankles weren't contagious. Instead, she looked to the nice one, who still stood near, offering help. “Thanks,” she said.

Ryan pulled the remaining empty chair toward her and pointed to her cast. “You should keep it elevated.”

“Where will you sit?” she asked.

Her brother gestured behind him, back toward the blue-haired girl. “I can hang out there.”

So much for brother-sister time. “Is this the mysterious study group?”

Giving a half smile, he said, “Be back in a bit,” and left her with the two strangers.

Fi wasn't sure what to do. Should she check her texts or look otherwise busy? The place was packed with people talking loudly, even shouting across the room, yet the two boys at her little table silently looked into space. Quite deliberately not at her.

She was studying the little tabletop menu when Fair Guy pointed to the corner, where a microphone was sandwiched between two brown plants. “Here for open mic night?” he asked her.

“Oh. Uh, yeah—I guess so.”

Fi and Fair Guy stared at the personless microphone for several long, painful, silent moments. The boy shifted his gaze, looking to where his fingers toyed with the edges of an old book in front of him. Then he smiled and reached a hand across. “I'm Marcus.” He looked over his shoulder to Tan Guy. “And my antisocial brother's name is Jackson.”

“Fi,” she replied, taking Marcus's hand. Jackson narrowed his eyes when they touched, like she was diseased.

“
Fee?
” Marcus asked.

“F-I. Short for Fiona.” She pointed toward Ryan, now bent
so far over the counter he risked falling onto the other side. He was saying something to the girl—what was her name? Gail? Gwen? “
My
antisocial brother nicknamed me when I was little. It just stuck.”

Marcus glanced over at Ryan before nodding toward Jackson. “We're twins, too.”

Fi looked between the two boys, who, outside of the wavy black hair, looked nothing alike. Marcus was creamy-skinned and slight. He had light brown eyes to Jackson's green. They seemed roughly the same height—close to six feet, she'd guess—but Jackson had football player shoulders. Tall, dark, and handsome, her mother would say. Too bad he was such a jerk.

Fi shook her head. “We're not twins. Well, Irish twins, but that doesn't count.”

“What's an Irish twin?” Marcus asked, his head tilted cutely to the side.

“We're ten months apart.”

“Ah.” He laughed. Jackson sighed noticeably.

Marcus shoulder-nudged his brother, but kept his eyes on Fi. “Y'all go to West?”

“No, Union. You?”

“Homeschool.”

She'd never known anyone who was homeschooled. “That's cool,” she lied.

Another awkward silence threatened as Fi noticed that, in addition to being nice, Marcus was a creep-up-on-you-slowly
kind of cute. Soft hazel-brown eyes and smooth, fair skin, offset by that jet-black hair. She stopped caring what Jackson was doing. “So, what happens at open mic night?” she asked.

It only took half a minute to explain, but it was the perfect opening for everything else. He asked about her cast, which led to a surprisingly heartache-free discussion of lacrosse. He didn't know much about it, a refreshing break from Trent.

“It was created by Native Americans,” she said. “They used it to train their men as warriors.”

“I just finished a book about that. Kind of,” he said, giving a quick summary about how different tribes reacted to early settlers.

His hazel eyes lit up when he spoke, and his whole face smiled. She'd never been so captivated by the struggle of native peoples.

She talked about getting her grades up in time for college applications. She told him about Northwestern.

“Hey! Jackson's applying there, too.” He poked his brother in the ribs.

Jackson acknowledged this with a brief nod. Fi nodded, too—then turned back to Marcus.

“What's the book?” she asked, pointing to the dog-eared paperback on the table.

“
Selected Essays of Jean-Paul Sartre
.” He held it up, showing her the cover. “If no one went onstage, I was going to read from it.”

“You're kidding,” she said.

“Seriously. Look.” Flopping it open, he read, “
One is still what one is going to cease to be and already what one is going to become. One lives one's death, one dies one's life.
” He laughed and put the book back on the table. “It was a spur-of-the-moment decision. Probably better for everyone I didn't follow through.”

“You like to read?”

“Love it.” He'd just reread the Lord of the Rings trilogy and told her some jokes she didn't get. Even though he was homeschooled, they followed the local school curriculum, so they talked about some of the books they'd read for English this year—the Faulkner short stories,
The Sun Also Rises, The Grapes of Wrath.

An hour later, ten people had taken the microphone and left it, but neither of them noticed. Fi had no idea whether Jackson had paid attention—she'd tuned him out.

She turned when Ryan nudged her shoulder. “Mom just called. She's freaking that you're out.”

Crap.
“It was your idea,” she said.

“We gotta go. Let me say bye to Gwen.” Then he walked away, completely forgetting she couldn't walk on her own.

Fi pushed herself up. “Sorry.” She gestured to her leg. “Usually he's a little nicer, but could you, uh . . .”

“Sure.” Marcus got up, offering his arm.

Jackson stood up so suddenly that the table and mugs shook. He came to her other side, his arm similarly outstretched. “Here, take mine,” he said.

The boys shared a look before Marcus sighed and stepped
away. Having no other choice, Fi took Jackson's arm. With Marcus a step behind, the three walked across the coffee shop.

When Fi got to her brother, she grabbed him and muttered an awkward thanks to Jackson. He shrugged and walked back to their table.

Marcus watched as he walked away. “My brother's usually a little nicer, too.”

Ryan was still with the blue-haired girl, so Fi wasn't sure what to do next. In a matter of seconds, Ryan would remember their mother and drag Fi home. But she liked this boy, with his brainy book references and offbeat sense of humor. “Well, it was nice meeting you.”

“Wait,” Marcus said. “Can I have your number?”

She rattled off her number so quickly, she hoped she didn't look desperate. He typed it in his phone and pushed
send
. Her phone buzzed in her pocket.

“So you'll have mine, too,” he said, smiling everywhere.

Ryan finally noticed his crippled sister and the boy with her phone number. “Thanks for bringing her over, man.”

“My pleasure,” Marcus said.

“Right,” Ryan said, brow furrowed. “We need to go.”

Fi pointed to her arm linked around his. “I've been waiting.”

She said good-bye to Marcus, who told her he'd call, and she didn't even mind that Ryan grunted under the awkward bulk of her weight as they walked outside. All the way down the ramp, to the car, and on the drive home, she barely noticed the cast or the pain or her brother's curious glances.

His name—
Marcus. Marcus King—
swirled through her brain on endless repeat.

As she cradled the hand Marcus had shaken, Fi asked Ryan, “Do we have Lord of the Rings?”

“In the attic, I think.”

“How long is it?”

“Three books, like, four hundred pages each. Why?”

“I've got all this time now,” she said. “I think I'll read it.”