Everything That Makes You(18)

"Just email her and check. One more time." He touched her cheek. "Let me live vicariously through you."

Fi's heart broke a little when he said that. "Would you apply, too?"

He paused a moment before nodding. "Sure."

She figured he was humoring her. But still, he looked sad when he should be happy. "Okay," she said. "I'll email the coach."

Marcus bloomed into one of his full-face smiles. And without the  brothers and best friends to mock them, they got to finish that kiss.





APRIL


FIONA


"Oh, that looks nice. I think it's my favorite so far."

Fiona twisted side to side to get the full angle of this, the fifth  dress she'd tried, and looked at her mother through the mirror. Her mom  pointed to the dress's hemline and waist. "It shows off your figure."

The dress hit mid-thigh, showing more leg than made her comfortable. But  her mother was right about the waist, how it cinched in then flared  out. She looked curvier than she really was.

Fiona felt down toward the hem. "You don't think it's too short?"

"Not at all. Might as well show off what you can."

And there it is. Fiona's eyes flicked away from the legs she always covered to the face she never could.

She reached behind her to find the zipper. The dress dropped to the  ground, puddling around her ankles. She hopped back into her worn,  comfortable jeans and pulled on her hoodie. "I'm not going."

"Why not?" her mother asked with a sigh. The fluorescent lights overhead cast her in an unattractive, orange light.

Fiona shrugged and laced up her Chucks. She couldn't believe David wanted to go to prom. Prom.

"I'm not a prom kind of girl," she'd told him. Many times.

"If you go to prom," he'd replied, "you'll be a prom kind of girl."

They'd gone round and round about it for weeks. She felt sort of bad-he  hardly ever pushed for anything. But then he should have picked his  battle more carefully.

Checking the mirror, she pulled her hair as far forward as possible  before walking out of the dressing room. Her mother plucked the dress  off the floor.

"I'm buying it," she said, passing the dress to the cashier. "You need to go."

The cashier handed her mom the receipt and the bag, and, with a  saccharine smile, turned to Fiona. "That sure is a pretty dress. I bet  it looks real nice on you." She spoke slow and clear, like Fiona might  have a mental disability.

"It does," her mom said, clueless to the condescension. "She looks lovely in it."

Fiona rolled her eyes and walked through the door. Her mother caught up with her in the parking lot.

"Give me a reason," her mother said. In the natural light, she looked  her usual, beautiful self. "A good reason why you won't go."

"I don't want to."

"Not good enough."

Fiona collapsed into the car, pulling her legs up against her chest. She  fiddled with the radio, which her mom promptly turned down.

"What about David?" her mother asked, pulling out of the parking lot.

"David will be fine."

"It's his prom, too, Fiona."

Curse her, she was right. David should get prom if he wanted it-it was just that she didn't want it more.

"I'm putting my foot down on this. It's your senior prom."

Fiona slumped further into her seat, hoping this latest attempt to  "improve her" would fizzle away if she ignored it long enough.

"So you're going. No discussion."

"What?" Fiona nearly yelled. "You're going to make me go to prom?"

"Yes." Her mom pulled into their driveway, turned the car off, and  looked at her daughter. "Consider it a favor-I've taken the decision out  of your hands, so you might as well go and enjoy yourself."                       
       
           



       

Too furious with her meddling mother to respond, Fiona slammed the car  door and stormed inside, passing Ryan in the upstairs hallway.

"What's wrong with you?"

Fiona flung herself on her bed. "Mom."

He followed her. "She's not that bad."

Fiona had long given up trying to explain her mother's evil powers to  Ryan. Testosterone probably blocked his ability to detect it. She'd just  wait until he got married-his wife could fill him in. "She's making me  go to prom."

Ryan closed the door behind him. Nudging Fiona over, he stretched out  beside her on the bed. Lately he'd resumed this little tradition. "Why  don't you want to go? Should be fun."

"Ugh. Wearing high heels and acting all couple-y?" The dancing. The  pictures. The other girls closely inspecting each other's dresses and  hair. "It sounds awful."

Ryan turned sideways. It put Fiona in that too-close, wincing position,  so he pulled back a little. "You have to come. Gwen doesn't know a lot  of people."

Fiona sighed, cursing the private pledge she'd made to be nicer about  Gwen. Then again, she had a suspicion that Fiona-being-nicer-to-Gwen had  some correlation with Ryan-being-nicer-to-Fiona, so she kept at it.

"Besides," her brother continued, "you've got to take the chance to get  out now, while you still can. Once we get the call, you're out of  commission for months."

Once we get the call everything changes. She dragged a pillow over her  head and groaned. She wasn't sure when she'd made the transition from,  "I'm on an organ transplant list!" to "When the hell is it going to be  my turn already?"

"We're never going to get that call," she said.

"Sure we will."

She tossed the pillow at him, which he easily deflected. It plopped to  the floor, a single feather lighter. The little white wisp of down took  its time floating into Ryan's hair.

She reached over and plucked it out. "I'm cosmetic. I'll never be at the top of the list."

He shrugged, unconcerned. "How many people could possibly need skin?"

In the end, Fiona was not strong enough to fight all the battles. Her  parents, Ryan, Gwen, even Lucy-whose opinion, Fiona argued, shouldn't  count since she wasn't going to prom herself-bugged her so much that she  caved. "Fine. I'll go," she said. "But I'm not going to have fun."

David was not brought into the debate.

Since Fiona didn't have the slightest idea how to make herself cute,  Ryan was banished to the first floor while she and Gwen got ready  together. Lucy came over for moral support-and to mock them.

"Can I do your hair?" Gwen asked. "Mine's too short for anything fun."

"When did you dye it pink?"

"Last night. With all the work I put into resewing that dress, I figured  my hair should match it." The dress she'd bought thrifting hung on  Fiona's closet door. With its asymmetrical hemline and off-the-shoulder  sleeves, it looked nothing like the boring, poufy thing she'd shown them  at the coffee shop a few weeks ago.

"That's the coolest dress ever," Lucy said.

Gwen curtsied and pointed Fiona to a chair. "What about like this?" she asked, pulling Fiona's long wavy hair all the way back.

"Uh, I like the bangs down. On the right."

"Oh. Yeah, sorry." Gwen dropped the hair, and it fell over Fiona's face like a curtain. "I always forget."

"Forget?"

"About the scars."

"Don't even bother," Lucy said, rolling her eyes. She sat at Fiona's  feet, opening a bottle of sparkly blue nail polish. "She won't believe  you."

"Well, it's true," Gwen said, pulling and twisting all the while. "They just go away, once you get used to them."

They just go away, do they?

"Hey! Easy," Lucy said, poking Fiona's hand where it now clenched the armrest.

Lucy caught Fiona's eye and held it. Through her stare, Fiona  communicated the injustice of Gwen's thoughtless comment. Lucy just gave  a slow, warning shake of her head. "You mess up my first and only  manicure," she told Fiona, "and I'll kill you."

"Um," Gwen said, looking back and forth between Fiona and Lucy. "What I  meant was, I don't see them, you know? I just see Fiona."

"I totally agree," Lucy said.

"I can do something like this instead," Gwen said. She held Fiona's hair  in messy sections, so the side bangs covered all the bits they were  meant to.                       
       
           



       

Fiona took in a breath and released her death grip on the chair. A fight  with Gwen would mean a fight with Ryan, which she didn't want. "Sure,  whatever."

Gwen improved her by curling iron, while Lucy painted her nails-fingers  and toes. It was like a montage from a bad movie-here's where the ugly  girl bonds with her friends and learns that everyone has beauty in them  somewhere.

An hour later, she was finally ready. Somehow Gwen managed to get most  of her hair back, while long, loose curls hung in front of her scars.  She looked polished, sure, but she didn't want to give the impression  she'd really tried.