Everything That Makes You(44)

"Jackson? Like, Marcus's Jackson? Why are you-"

"We've been hanging out."

"Hanging out?"

Why did he keep repeating everything back to her? "Yeah. It was hard at  first, since we're not, like, naturally inclined to get along. Even so,  it's been good. Having him around."

"Having him around in, uh, what way exactly?"

"Friends." Did these boys have to go right there with their assumptions?

"Oh. Okay, then." Elbow on his desk, he rested his head sideways in his  hand. "I'm exhausted, Fi. I just called Mom to tell her about the camp. I  wasn't expecting a heart-to-heart with my sister."

Fi idly swiveled the chair back and forth. "Think you have the energy for this email?"

He nodded, smiling slightly.

It took nearly an hour to finish. They suffered through false starts,  scratched-out lines, rearranged sentences. Ryan worried she was getting  too personal, she needed to stick to the facts, but Fi held firm.

She'd spent almost a year simultaneously wallowing in what she couldn't  change and hiding from what she could. If she was going to start-and now  was as good a time as any-she was going to do it with everything that  made her.



Dear Coach Starnes,

If you don't remember me, I'm Fiona Doyle, the center from union     High  School in Memphis. Even though I had to sit out my junior year because  of injury, I was All-State my ninth, tenth, and twelfth grade years. I  attended the Lady Wildcats summer clinics three years in a row.

You might also remember me as the girl who canceled on last summer's  training camp at the very last minute, and while I can't guarantee I'm  "fixed" now, I can say I'm on the way.

I've followed your season this year. I was so excited-and  heartbroken-when you won the NCAA title for the eighth consecutive time  this spring. The games were so amazing, I wished I could have been a  part of them.

I know you don't owe me a chance, but if you have a spot open for a girl  who loves lacrosse and will work hard, please consider me. I promise I  won't let you down again.



Sincerely,

Fiona "Fi" Doyle





JULY


FIONA


Fiona sat on her bed, fiddling with her guitar. She had nothing else to do.

She'd been home a month-alone. Having landed an amazing internship at  the UN, Lucy was staying in New York for the summer. Ryan was at  Clemson, working at a soccer camp and sharing an apartment with Gwen,  much to their parents' displeasure. Fiona imagined David was here. She'd  sent some emails, a few texts; he hadn't replied.                       
       
           



       

Jackson wasn't in Memphis either. He said he was staying for summer  session to bulk up some credits, but Fiona suspected he didn't want to  come home. Not that this was ever confirmed. One would have thought  after the heart-to-heart in her common room, things would be normal  between them now.

When David had left-after finding her forehead to forehead with Jackson,  no less-Fiona took to her room like the heroine of some melodramatic  Victorian novel. The guilt! I might faint from it! Jackson came to check  on her, but all of it just felt horribly awkward. His dead brother, her  boyfriend, the music, the notebooks. May 18.

There had been nearly two full months left in the term, and still they  hardly talked. Whenever she ran into him, he seemed like a jittery stray  cat. If she didn't move slowly, he might spook and hide under a couch.

It wasn't until moving day that Jackson finally came to her dorm room,  acting his normal, flirty self. Her parents had each taken a load to the  car, and she was under the bed, checking for stray socks and notebooks.

"Man, I like this angle," Jackson had said.

She crawled out, cracking her head on the frame. Her mother came back in before she could think of what to say.

"Hi, I'm Jackson King," he'd said, reaching out a hand to her mother.

"Oh, the boy from Memphis!" Her mother sounded positively gleeful.

"Yes, ma'am." He reached over to take the bag she'd just picked up. "Here, let me."

He'd helped load the car. Like a proper southern boy, he'd endured her  parents' endless questions. Are your parents from Memphis, Jackson?  Where'd they go to high school? What's your mother's maiden name? Oh, I  think we might know your uncle.

"Are you coming home for the summer?" her mom had asked him.

"I'm going to take a few summer classes, but I'll be back in July."

"When you get back, you should come for dinner. I'm sure Fiona would love to see more of you."

"I'd love to see more of her, too."

Her mother had turned to put the last bag in the car, so she missed Jackson's wink-and Fiona's full-face blush.

Her parents had probably spied through the rearview mirror as Fiona and Jackson stood by the trunk, saying awkward good-byes.

"Seriously," he'd said, all the while stroking his thumb against her hand. "When I get back, we should hang out."

Questions sat in her throat like lumps. She'd wished she could swallow  them away, but ignoring uncomfortable conversations hadn't worked out  well for her to date. "Why are you doing this now? I've been three  floors away for the past two months."

"Taking my own advice," he'd said.

Her father had cleared his throat before she could ask Jackson which  advice he meant. Now standing beside the driver's door, her dad had said  they really needed to get going. So she'd given Jackson a clumsy hug  and left him.

And now, a month later, she was ready for him to get back already so whatever this was could start.

When she heard the knock, Fiona eyed the door, knowing it could only be  one of two people. After she called, "Come in," her mom walked in  holding-of course-a stack of clothes.

"Don't bite my head off, but I found these in the attic. They're from ages ago. I'm too old to pull them off."

Fiona motioned to her desk, where her mother placed the-very  bright-stack of dated clothes. She stood beside the desk, looking at  Fiona and the guitar. "What are you playing? It sounds nice."

"Nothing in particular."

"Ryan called today," her mom said. "He's visiting two weekends from now.  He says you're doing open mic night at the coffee shop?"

"I'm thinking about it."

More like obsessing. She hadn't been sleeping, her cuticles were a  mangled mess, and she'd scratched out and written over her lyrics so  many times, she could hardly read them.

Poor Lucy had to endure daily phone calls, all with the same theme: What  am I thinking? / Do you really think it's a good idea? / I should get  this over with and just do it. She could spend twenty minutes just  talking around in circles while Lucy got in the occasional word, which  had been, unexpectedly, encouraging. "Fiona," Lucy said, "you are a  smart, talented person, and the world wants you to succeed."

"Are you in love?" she asked, stunned.

"Where the heck did that come from?" Lucy said.

"You've just never been so, uh, kind before."

"Are you saying I'm mean?"                       
       
           



       

"No. I'm saying you're . . ." Her dad's term of Yankee had come to mind, but she settled on "blunt."

"Oh." There had been a pause, and she said, "I might be in love. Just a little. I'm not fawning, like someone I know."

"I never fawned."

"I will add that to The Lying Lies of Fiona Doyle I've compiled. Right  next to: None of them are ready." Lucy had said the last bit with the  worst imitation twang Fiona had ever heard.

Fiona rolled her eyes-but laughed. "Go back to acting like you're in love."

"Perhaps I shall. And you-sing the damn song, already!"

Three days after that call, she forced her own hand and called Jackson.

"I'm thinking about playing open mic night at Otherlands," she told him.

"Cool," he said. "When?"

"July fifteenth."

"That's the day I get home."

"I know. I was hoping you'd come."

She figured having Jackson in the audience would be like driving on the  highway with a cop right behind you. Knowing he was there would keep her  from making a run for it.

There had been a long pause before he answered. Long enough for Fiona to  panic that he'd forgotten about her, maybe found a new crush. But then,  with a voice simply oozing smirk, he'd said, "Can't wait. Our second  time."

Her mother was still standing by her neon eighties castoffs. "Can your  father and I come?" she asked. "To hear you at the coffee shop?"

What was the polite way to say hell, no to your mother? "I'm not sure I'll do it."

Her mom walked to the bed, looking at the spot beside Fiona and then at  Fiona, like she was waiting for an invitation. Fiona shrugged, and her  mother sat. "Then we'll just have coffee. It's about time I checked out  your second home, anyway."