"Fi-" Trent started.
She left the car before he could finish. "I should get to my homework."
"Damn it, Fi. You can't keep running away."
"I'm not. I've just got loads-"
"It's been, like, two weeks. Shouldn't we talk about it?"
This was the third time he'd tried to "talk" since that post-game party-and the out-of-nowhere kiss that Fi was pretending never happened. Sure, it was a nice kiss. Like, surprisingly nice.
But you weren't supposed to kiss your best friend.
"I'll see you tomorrow, okay?" she said, already at the trunk.
Shaking his head, Trent popped it open. She grabbed her gear, arranging all three bags across her body for the walk up the driveway.
Usually, he'd yell "Later, Fi-Fi!" or honk "Dixie" as he drove away. Today, his tires squealed.
She pushed open the back door, dumped her stuff on the kitchen floor, and dug through the refrigerator. Her mom stood at the kitchen counter, arranging flowers.
"Where's your brother?"
Hello, Mother. Nice to see you, too. "Some study group. Trent dropped me off." Fi took a swig of orange juice straight from the container.
"What's he studying?" Her mom pulled a glass from the overhead cabinet and handed it over with a look.
"How am I supposed to know?" she snapped.
"Perhaps you should find out. A few more study groups wouldn't kill you."
"My grades are fine! I got an eighty-eight on my English test."
Her mom arched a perfectly tweezed eyebrow. "And last week's math test?"
"I've got a seventy-four percentage on draw," Fi said, changing the subject. "That's the best in the state."
"What are you talking about?"
"The draw. In lacrosse." Fi spoke through a clenched jaw. "That sport I've played for seven years."
"How does that affect your math grade?"
"It'll get me into Northwestern," she said. "Are they recruiting Ryan?"
Her mother stiffened. "Go do your homework."
Fi palmed some grapes from the bowl on the counter, grabbed her bags, and stomped upstairs. A ridiculous pile of clothes waited on her bed-ruffled pink and green, a strapless dress, which was just so impractical. Fi picked up the lot, walked it into her parents' room, and dropped it on their bed. At dinner, she'd tell her mom none of it fit.
There'd be another pile next week, though. Because her mother wouldn't rest until Fi was someone else. Until she encapsulated some bizarre combination of straight As, strappy sandals, and Junior Cotillion.
Fi sprawled out on her bed, binders and folders in no real order but all within arm's reach. She plucked Panda from his little nook at the corner of her bed and cuddled around him.
She tackled English first, still annoyed about getting Lucy Daines as her project partner. Lucy had actually said, right after she switched to Fi's table, "We're doing this project my way, Doyle. And I'm not carrying you. I don't care about your season or whatever."
"I don't need to be carried," Fi had said back, really tempted to smack down Lucy's skeptically raised eyebrow. "I've got an A in this class."
"Let's keep it that way."
The way some of these people acted-Lucy, her mother-you'd think Fi was hopeless, when, in fact, she was THE BEST FEMALE HIGH SCHOOL LACROSSE PLAYER IN THE STATE. Why couldn't they just shut up and be impressed?
An hour later, Fi had finished everything but precalc, during which she spent the last twenty minutes glaring at a single problem. She considered calling Trent for help, but then remembered the cheek rubbing and didn't know what she'd say.
She hated that things were awkward now, that she had to even think before calling him. He'd been her best friend since fourth grade. He was the only person who didn't see her imperfections first.
Across the hall, light peeked out from under Ryan's door. Of course, he'd know how to do the math. She hated asking him, but this stupid problem wasn't going to solve itself.
She knocked and walked in. Ryan lay sprawled stomach-first on his bed, his legs bent at the knee with his ankles crossed in the air. Various binders and textbooks fanned out around him, an open math book closest to his head-just like she'd looked a moment ago, but in the opposite direction.
"Do you know how to do number sixteen?" she asked.
"You need to wash that thing," he said, pointing to Panda.
She tucked her bear behind her back. "He's perfectly sanitary."
Anyway, she couldn't wash him-he might not survive it. He was already lumpy in weird places, and his right ear was nearly furless, from when she'd rub it while sucking her thumb.
"Did you do sixteen?" she asked again.
"Yeah, just finished."
She sat on the edge of her brother's bed and scanned the problem. After reading it over twice, she shook her head. "I still don't get it."
Ryan walked her through it. "Why did you get the math genes?" she asked, looking back and forth between their papers as she wrote it out.
"We've got the same genes, Fi."
"Well, they're mixed up different. Math and I don't get along."
He pointed to the last line she copied. "X is seven."
"Clearly I got the penmanship," she muttered, erasing the nine.
"Maybe we could swap. You neaten up my work, I'll carry you in math."
"I don't need anyone to carry me!" she snapped.
"Are you all right?"
No. All you people are driving me crazy. "Why the hell do you keep taking the car?"
"You were coming home. It's on Trent's way."
"Maybe I don't want to drive with Trent."
"Why?" he asked, sitting up. "Did he do something?"
She waved him off, so not in the mood for the big brother thing. "It's my car, too."
"Fine. Sorry." He held up both hands, like a surrender, and nodded toward the math homework. "Do you need help with the rest?"
The next five problems might take her another hour. Or she could just get the answers from Ryan, who, of course, already figured them all out.
She clenched her jaw, said "Yeah," and just copied everything, not even pretending to understand.
"Don't worry about the math," Ryan said. "You've got other talents."
"Yeah? Like what?" It wasn't like her to fish for compliments, but it'd been that kind of day.
"Well, there's lacrosse," he said with that little laugh-snort he made.
She waited-seconds growing-wondering if he was going to list anything else.
Apparently not.
"Thanks for the help," she said, standing up. Back in her room, she collapsed on the bed with Panda, closed her eyes, and made her own damn list.
She was good at English. She was decently popular. She was cute-not drop-dead gorgeous or anything, but she had her good days. She was funny.
Yes, she was good at lacrosse. She lived lacrosse.
But surely that wasn't everything.
MARCH
FIONA
Fiona didn't get why she needed the paper gown when all Dr. Connelly ever checked was her face. Her parents sat in the chairs across from her as the Scar Doctor poked and tugged and hmmm'd.
"When was your last physical?" he asked.
"December."
"It looks like you've been five foot six for a full twelve months. Does that sound right? You haven't grown any more?" Dr. Connelly asked, flipping through the open chart in front of him.
"No, that sounds right," Fiona said.
"Same with your weight?"
She'd worn the same pair of jeans for a year. She figured that counted. "It's stayed the same."
"And your menstrual cycle?"
"Uh, normal, I guess."
"How old were you when it started?"
She glanced at her dad, who looked unfazed by this embarrassing line of questioning. "Seventh grade. Thirteen."
Dr. Connelly went back to flipping through her chart. Then, pulling out a chair, he wheeled himself between Fiona and her parents.
"Now that Fiona's growth has leveled out, I think it's time we consider a broader range of solutions."
"You mean a skin graft?" her dad asked. His voice sounded thinner than normal. Grayer, if voice could have a color.
"Not the kind we've discussed before." Dr. Connelly handed her parents a pamphlet before giving Fiona one, too. The cover read New Procedures in Full Thickness Skin Graft Transplants.
She didn't open it. She'd seen enough over the past eleven years to know what was inside-horrid pictures, purple inflamed skin, stitches, and ooze. The words were impossible to understand, and none made real promises. It was always 43 percent better neovascularization and acceptably improved inosculation.
"There's a new approach in allogeneic full thickness grafts. It's called a deep tissue graft, and it's showing reasonably exciting results on the cosmetic side. There's a specialist in town." Dr. Connelly wheeled back to his table, sorted through a few stacks, and handed a business card to her mom. "He's already performed a few. I think you should talk to him."