Everything That Makes You(29)

"Spare me the throw pillow mentality," he said, suddenly annoyed. "You're just as likely to end up dead."

Horrified at her gaffe, Fiona said, "Jackson-"

Jackson held up his hand, cutting her off. "All that bumper sticker  philosophy. You can't imagine how many old ladies have told me, ‘God  doesn't give you what you can't handle.'"

"I didn't mean-"

"Sometimes life just sucks," he said, riled up now. "And maybe I want to  wallow! Maybe I don't want to look for the silver lining!"

She knew it was dumb to argue with him, but he was just so wrong. "Nothing's worse than feeling sorry for yourself. Trust me."

Jackson looked at her a long moment, straight in the eyes. Then his eyes  tracked the path of her new scar, from the inside edge of her right  eyebrow straight up to where it tucked into her hairline. Like he'd lost  the track and couldn't find his way back, his eyes trailed vaguely  around her forehead before finding the last leg of the scar's route,  below the ear right up to the outside corner of her right eye. Fiona's  heart pounded during the slow inspection.

Eventually he winked. "You should tell everybody you used to be a pirate."

Oh, this boy and his weird coincidences. "That's what my best friend  told me to say, if anyone asked about the scar. I even did it  once-during orientation."

Jackson laughed. "What happened?"

A drunk guy had barely managed to slur, "How'd you get that scar?" When  she'd answered, "I'm really a pirate," he'd wobbled forward, said Aargh,  and planted a sloppy kiss right on her mouth. Before she could get over  the shock, he'd hobbled away like he had a peg leg.

Rather than tell Jackson this bizarre story, she dug out a Moleskine.  She figured by now, the word had earned space there-plus, she needed  something to do with her hands. She wrote piracy in a free place.

Jackson nodded his head toward the book. "What's the story with those? You've always got one."

"Just a mess of stuff, really. Song ideas. Notes that wouldn't make sense to anyone but me."

"When do I get to hear one of these songs?"

"I can play you Flem's latest project-‘Pour Some Sugar on Me' by Def  Leppard. It's horrendous-and a little bit genius, if I do say so  myself."

"Sounds like an intriguing combination," he said. "But I'd rather have an original."                       
       
           



       

"Oh. Um, I've never really played my stuff for anyone."

"Isn't that kind of required? If you're a songwriter?"

"I'm still looking for the loophole."

Jackson tipped his chair backward. "You are an enigma, Miss Fiona."

Fiona gestured to herself as if she were a prize on a game show. "What you see is what you get."

"Interesting choice of words," he said, raising an eyebrow.

She rolled her eyes. "I had scars. I had surgery. Now no scars. End of story."

"You got a do-over," he said, shrugging. "New face, new town. You get to be someone totally different."

"You'll have to take my word that I'm not."

Fiona didn't consider herself scrupulously honest. She didn't sing her  own songs. She never told Trent McKinnon how she felt. She never  confronted her mother about the long list of grievances. She ran away  from uncomfortable conversations with David. Before five minutes ago,  she hadn't told a soul at Northwestern about her scars.

Even so, claiming that losing the scars didn't dramatically change her life was the least true thing she could ever say.

"You're a better person than me," he said, with a little salute.  "Life-changing event and staying the same you. Pretty solid stuff."

"The same happened to you."

He held her in a steady gaze, his tone much quieter than before. "I've got the same life, it's just missing a chunk."

Her heart froze in her chest, the rest of her just as paralyzed. She  couldn't even open her mouth and pretend to know what to say.

Then her phone rang.

"I can't believe it. It's Ryan," she said, staring blankly at the caller ID.

She looked at Jackson, apologetically asking for permission to abandon  this awkward conversation and begin the one she'd been trying to have  for weeks. He gestured to the phone-go ahead.

Fiona put the phone to her ear. "Hey."

"Hey, do you remember the Faulkner we read, in junior year? What's the thematic premise of ‘Barn Burning'?"

Fiona repeated the question back to herself, like it would make more sense that way. "Um, morality I think? No wait-free will?"

"Pick one. I've got to bang this out. It's due in half an hour."

She exhaled all the stale air trapped in her body. "This is why you're finally calling?"

"Sorry. I know, I'm horrible." There was a static-y sound on his end,  some muffled conversation. "And we need an analysis of the themes in ‘A  Rose for Emily,' too."

"Who's we?"

"Tony Miller. The sweeper."

"Sweeper of what?"

A pause. "The soccer team, Fiona. You know, that little thing I'm doing down here."

Fiona rolled her eyes, which caused Jackson to narrow his. "Excuse me  for not instantly understanding your needs, Ryan. As I don't have mental  telepathy, sometimes I need things explained. There's an easy fix for  that-it's called the damn phone."

"Lord, you, Mom, and Gwen need to form a club or something." There was  another static-y interruption. "No, you can't talk to her," Ryan  snapped.

"I can't talk to who?"

"Not you, Tony. So the thematic premise?"

Fiona began pulling the phone away as Ryan got louder and louder. "Where are you? The thematic premise to which?"

"The dorm. ‘Barn Burning.' Seriously, Fiona, I don't have a lot of time here."

She was about to yell, or hang up, or cause some kind of scene, but with  Jackson right there, it didn't seem fair complaining about her  breathing brother. "I don't know. Go with the struggle between morality  and loyalty." She shook her head, grimacing. "It's been awhile. It's my  best guess."

"No, that's great," Ryan said. "‘A Rose for Emily.'"

Fiona bluffed something about the mind being both trapped and free. He  repeated it to Tony Miller the Sweeper. After a brief scuffle, a strange  voice came on the other end. "Hey, thanks."

Fiona raised her eyebrows. Tony Miller the Sweeper's voice came through  the phone so loudly, the girl one table over gave a dirty look. "Uh,  you're welcome."

"I'm Tony."

"I figured." This insanely long breakfast was exhausting. She wanted a  remedy for the awkward. She wanted her brother back on the phone and  possibly a nap-not this Tony person.

"I play soccer with your brother," he said.                       
       
           



       

"Yes, I got that."

"Your picture popped up on Ryan's phone. You should come visit. Cheer us on."

Fiona narrowed her eyes at Jackson, as if to ask What the heck? Jackson just smirked and shook his head.

Another scuffle, punctuated by "Dude, that's my sister!" and Ryan  returned. "Don't come visit. They're all pigs." More shuffling. "Hey, I  gotta go. Sorry I can't talk longer. I'll call later, I swear."

Fiona gave a skeptical "Okay," but he'd already hung up. "So that was my brother."

"He sounds busy."

She wanted to cry. Flirting with this boy. Learning about his amazing brother. Dealing with her inconsiderate one.

"You're upset," Jackson said.

She put the phone away and looked anywhere but at him. "It's fine. I'm fine."

Third awkward silence.

"I still say you're an enigma." With just the smallest smirk, he leaned  forward, resting his elbows on the table. "But I like a challenge."





FI


The coffee shop was packed full. Everyone who was home from college for  Thanksgiving break was laughing and hugging and catching up-while Fi sat  at a corner table, trying to milk as many extra credit points as she  could.

Jackson sat across from her. He'd lost weight over the summer, but his  face was looking fuller again. He looked healthier. The girls at the  table behind them were blatantly checking him out, but he didn't notice.  Either that, or he didn't care.

She was getting used to it. To him. They'd been meeting at Otherlands a  few times a week now, ever since that first run-in in September. The  company was nice-but they still treaded carefully with each other.

"I can't believe I still have work," she said, sinking in her chair. "Everyone else here gets to relax."

"No rest for the wicked." He looked from his book long enough to nod at  the blank paper in front of her. "Anyway, it doesn't look like you're  doing much work."