Everything That Makes You (4 page)

The speed with which Ryan and Lucy switched from enemies to allies always amazed Fiona. She tried to look innocent. “I'm not chicken. I just don't have anything.”

“You're such a liar,” Lucy said. “And a chicken.
And
the only person in the world who could probably make a song out of ‘liar' and ‘chicken.'” She then proceeded to sing—off-key—“
You're a chicken who makes your friends sicken.
”

“That's terrible,” Fiona groaned.

Ryan latched on to Lucy's truly awful tune. “And a liar who will . . .” He faded away, incapable of finishing such dazzling poetry.

“Catch on fire?” David offered.

“Trip on a wire?” Lucy said.

“Make it stop!” Fiona said, clapping her hands over her ears.

“Join a choir?”

“Break the pliers?”

“People!” Fiona yelled over the insanity of lyrics. “Leave the rhyming to the experts!”

All three looked at her, eyes raised. After an exasperated sigh, she said, “You can call me a liar. A chicken. A denier. Say it's singing I desire. I'll just wait till you tire.”

They all smirked, because the truth was, Fiona's brain was made for this. Her body—spirit, whatever—was not.

“Yeah, I guess that's better,” Ryan said, taking a lazy sip of coffee.

“So you're going to sing then?” David asked. “At open mic night?”

Fiona snorted. “I don't think the chicken song's ready yet.”

Lucy looked at Fiona, with one eyebrow drawn down. This was the have-I-got-a-deal-for-you look. Not one good thing had ever come from it. “How about we kill two birds with one stone?” she said.

“I don't want to kill any birds,” Fiona said, feeling like a cornered animal herself.

“Too bad. We're making a bet.” Lucy looked between Fiona, Ryan, and the coffee shop girl. “If Ryan talks to that girl, you play at open mic night.”

“You can't make a bet between two
other
people!” Ryan said.

“I'm perfectly satisfied with my situation. I've got no stakes,” she said. “You don't want Fiona to sing?”

“Of course I do.”

“I'm right here, y'all,” Fiona said. “How about
I
decide what's good for me?”

And Fiona had already decided. First, she felt no desire to
force a girlfriend on her brother. Second, performing live—in front of an
audience—
was not going to happen.

“Because you
aren't
deciding,” Lucy said. “We're going Tough Love.”

Fiona was relieved that Ryan didn't look as convinced as her best friend. Wait—did he think she'd be awful?

Fiona looked toward the girl her brother couldn't stop staring at. She was average height, with a pixie-size body and a cute little turned-up nose. A wide blue streak cut through the front of her short blond hair, and she had several earrings in both ears. Fiona wouldn't have pegged her for Ryan's type.

The girl was laughing with a tall guy behind the counter with her. He looked older, at least in college. Tattoos covered his arms. He couldn't look more opposite then her shortish, preppy jock of a brother.

“He has to ask her out,” Fiona said, crossing her fingers. “And she has to say yes.”

Lucy clapped her hands and leaned back against the couch, laughing. Ryan's eyes narrowed, like
What the heck just happened?

Then to her infinite horror, he grabbed his mug off the table, took a big swig, stood up, and said, “Guess I'm gonna catch myself a blue-haired girl.”

Fiona's heart stopped beating. What had she done?
What had she done?

Fiona and Lucy shifted around to watch. “Y'all can't stare,” David said. “It'll never work then.”

“Okay. Narrate it to us,” Lucy said. She turned back, pulling Fiona with her.

David kept his eyes fixed behind them. “He's up there, leaning over the counter. She's refilling his cup. It looks like he's saying somethi . . . Oh, she just laughed. Okay, now he's got his mug back. There are a few other people up there, but it looks like she's ignoring them.” David slowly shook his head. “Y'all, she's actually talking to him.”

At this point, Fiona couldn't stand it. Her future teetered in the balance of these next few moments. Her brother might get a girlfriend—she'd not spent much time thinking about this, and she didn't like the idea of it at all. But much, much worse—she might have to play and sing
her
songs in front of people.

She turned around to look. Ryan leaned across the counter. The girl smiled at him, leaning in, too, with her fists tucked under her chin. Every few seconds she'd laugh.

“Well, that's impressive,” Lucy said.

Fiona didn't reply. Ryan was heading back, looking smug. He had
swagger.

He sat beside her, freshly filled mug in his hand, and kicked his feet up on the table. Swinging his arm over her shoulder, he gave Fiona a squeeze. “Time to prepare your song list, little sister.”

It had been two weeks since the Game. Yesterday, Fi and her parents had met with the orthopedic surgeon to discuss her “future.”

“This is you when you came in,” he'd said, tapping on the light board. Fi's X-rayed leg was grossly crooked—and then there was that disconnected piece. “Just look at that bad boy.”

“It does look pretty bad,” she'd agreed, while her dad had just looked at the film and shaken his head.

“Worst I've seen in a while.” The doctor had pointed to the second film, this one dotted with solid, metallic objects. “Eight screws are holding you together.”

“Forever?”

“They'll be in there forever, yes,” he'd said. “You'll be stronger than before.”

“When can I get this off?” she'd asked, knocking on the tacky, bright-pink cast that covered her whole foot and
ended just below her knee.

“Let's worry about getting you healed first,” her dad had said.

And now she was at home, with Panda keeping her company in her temporary prison—aka the couch. The doctor's instructions: two more weeks “taking it easy.” No school; she wasn't even allowed to walk farther than the bathroom. When she finally got cleared to leave the house, she'd need people to carry her books for her at school. She'd have to wear skirts, since no normal pair of pants could fit over the monstrosity on her leg.

In six more weeks—after
two full months
of taking awkward baths with one leg hanging over the tub—the cast would come off. She'd still have months of physical therapy.

She swore that if she survived this forced relaxation, she'd never sit on this living room couch again. Ever.

Through the kitchen doorway, Fi watched as her dad hung up the phone, took a deep breath, and came into the living room. He sat down in the armchair across from Fi, her mom perched beside him on the chair's arm. “That was Coach Dunn,” he said. “He wants to know what to tell the NU assistant coach. The one who came to the game.”

“Why's he have to tell her anything?”

Her dad pointed to her encased right leg.

“I'll just send them the tapes from the end of this season,” she said. “Those should be better anyway.”

He raised his eyebrows. Her mother sighed and shook her head.

“Fi,” he said, “you won't be playing any more this season. The doctor explained that yesterday.”

“I'm sure he was just being conservative,” she said, waving him off. “Anyway, it would only be the last few games. Like five, at most.”

He closed his eyes and rubbed his temple. “Just because the cast is off doesn't mean you're healed. You'll still have
months
of physical therapy.”

“I can do the therapy, too.” She pinched the soft spot on her waist. “I'll have grown into a whole second person by then. More work the better.”

“Fi, this season is over for you,” her father said, speaking in his
serious conversation
voice. It was the only time he ever lost his fourth-generation-southern-man drawl. His words lost all their soft edges. “
If
you follow all the doctor's instructions then
maybe
you'll be able to play next season.”

Fi waited for the qualifier, like
Of course we'll argue you're ready
or
Since it's so important to you, I'm sure we can work something out.
But the seconds ticked by, and her father kept staring at her.

“Dad, but, that's . . . ,” she finally spluttered. “The scouts make all the decisions in your junior year. . . . How can I get an offer? I've got to play!”

“It's nonnegotiable,” he said.

“I'll never get a spot! By next spring, all the decisions will be made.”

“The past few years at summer camps will make a difference.” Her father's voice went lower. And slower. It was like he was speaking to a toddler. “Scouts saw you.”

That wouldn't be enough. They needed the stats from this season—which so far only amounted to two games, the second of which landed Fi in this stupid cast.

“You could walk on,” he said casually, like her entire future wasn't on the line.

“You can't
walk on
Northwestern. It's the top program in the country.”

“Fi,” her mom said, “why don't you look at this as an opportunity?”

“What?”

“You can focus on other things now. Like your grades.”

“Really?” Fi challenged. “You want to get into that now?”

“You have a 3.0 for a school that wants a 3.6. Since you brought up Northwestern, it seems an appropriate thing to discuss.”

“Stats, people! That's why the stats matter,” Fi yelled, throwing her arms in the air. “I lead the city in goals. I'm ranked one in the state.”

“You play women's lacrosse, Fi,” her father said, leaning forward. “You can't make a career out of it.”

“Dad, I'm sixteen.”

“Lots of kids know what they want to do when they're
sixteen,” said her mom.

“I want to play lacrosse!”

“Well,
I
want to be independently wealthy and summer in France,” her dad said. “However, that's unlikely to happen, so I better revise my expectations.”

Fi glowered at her parents. How could they not feel even the slightest bit bad for her? “You want me to give up?”

“Not necessarily,” said her mom. “But maybe this injury will let you explore some other possibilities.”

Fi slumped back on the couch. For the past four years, she'd had one, singular goal: play lacrosse for Northwestern. All the work she'd done in middle school and varsity—training, camps, summer leagues, competitive teams—had been with that one goal in mind.

It had only taken five minutes to lose the thing she loved more than anything.

Fi pulled Panda in and spoke into his patchy head. “This sucks.”

Her mom grimaced. “Language.”

“This is so not fair.”

“Life's not fair, Fi,” her father said.

“Can't you, like, feel sorry for me for two seconds? I've got a compound break in my ankle, which hurts and itches and just”—she looked directly at her mother—“
sucks.
I'm stuck on this couch when I could be on the field. I've got SATs and ACTs coming up, on top of all the stuff the teachers are loading on me . . .”

Her father closed his eyes. “Let's try to keep it in perspective, shall we? We're talking about a broken ankle. If this is the worst thing that ever happens to you, count yourself blessed.”

Ryan walked in, looking beyond sweaty. He leaned on the doorframe and wiped his face with his jersey. “What's going on?”

“Just learning how blessed I am.” Her eyes narrowed at her parents as she pointed at her able-bodied brother. “What about him? Does he get the same lecture?”

Ryan's expression said
Dear Lord, help me.
Her dad replied, “He's not the one whining, Fi.”

“Because he doesn't have
a broken ankle.
”

“He also has a 3.5 and volunteers with the church youth group,” her mom said.

“And plays second-string to a freshman,” she shot back.

Ryan flinched, and she regretted it immediately. Brother-sister issues notwithstanding, it wasn't fair to drag him into this.

It was true, though. She was better at lacrosse than he was.

“Enough!” her father barked, standing up. “You will not finish the season. You will do all the physical therapy prescribed. You will make whatever grades you need to get into Northwestern—or whatever school offers an acceptable alternative. And you will
stop feeling sorry for yourself.
”

He stormed from the room, followed by her mother. Ryan stayed in the doorway.

She
should
apologize. After all, he couldn't help that he
was the smallest guy on the team—and men's lacrosse made hockey look civilized. She wondered if he regretted switching from soccer to lacrosse. With his speed and moves, he'd have been an incredible soccer player, even at five six.

Still, she wouldn't—
couldn't
—apologize for doing this one thing better than he did. “I didn't mean to bring you into it,” she said instead.

Shaking his head, Ryan turned and walked away. She was alone with her misery—until her phone buzzed.

“What?” she snapped, recognizing Trent's number.

“Whoa. Easy.”

“Sorry,” she mumbled. “Unless you're calling to make me feel bad or guilty or whatever, in which case I'm hanging up.”

“Guilty about what?”

“Not being grateful my freaking ankle's broken.”

There was a pause on Trent's side. “I'm assuming I've missed some key points.”

Despite herself, Fi laughed—because Trent was the only person who
got
her most of the time. Who knew the right thing to say and how to say it—when he wasn't insulting her, that is.

“It does suck, though,” he said. “When can you get off the couch?”

“Another week—maybe two.” She glared into the kitchen. “Probably two.”

“But the cast will be off before States, right?”

Fi groaned. She'd totally forgotten about States. They'd
won last year for the first time ever. They were going to defend their title. Shaking her head, Fi told Trent the news before she could tell her teammates—no more lacrosse for her this year.

She heard him suck in a breath. “Man. That bites.”

“Finally. Someone who understands the total suckiness of this situation.”

“I'm sure Ryan gets it.”

She didn't fill Trent in on how bitchy she'd been to her brother, just moments before.

“We worked on a cool play today,” he said. “You should see it.”

“You'll have to find some other girl to beat up. Nothing I can do with it.”

“But you could still
see
it. It's pretty awesome.”

She stared at a hairline crack in the plaster wall across from her. It looked bigger than yesterday; she should probably tell her mother. “Hmm, sitting on a chair and watching someone else drill,” she said. “Think I'll pass.”

“It's a double slide you can run from either crash or near-man.”

“Are you
listening
to me?” she snapped. “I'm out for the season! Can we talk about something else?”

“What, you're just going to pretend lacrosse doesn't exist?”

“Because I don't want to watch you run a stupid play?”

“You wouldn't have said it was stupid yesterday.”

“Yesterday, I still thought I could play.”

“Just because you can't play doesn't mean it's not there.”

For years, lacrosse and her dream of Northwestern had been as much of her as her bones and skin. One freak second—one bad play—and it was gone. How pathetic that even her best friend didn't understand. “Can you just stop shoving my face in it?”

“I'm not—”

“Forget it. I gotta go.” She hung up, flung the phone to the floor, and glared at the crack in the wall. Who knew how long she'd have to exist on this god-awful couch and in this vile cast—while lacrosse went right on without her.