She'd been quiet thirty seconds, letting her head loll against the door and watching the trees whip by as her father sped to the hospital in rush hour traffic, when Ryan turned around from the front passenger seat. He looked gray. "Are you okay?"
"What the hell play were they running?" she barked back.
"Um-"
"They were out of position! Did you see that?" Fi knocked her head backward against the door, hoping a new pain would distract her from the red-hot, searing pain of ripped skin and snapped bone.
If only she'd listened to Dunn and shifted back.
If only she'd stopped a few steps before she hit the defender.
If only the defender hadn't made that weird pivot right.
Her dad hit a bump pulling into the parking lot, making Fi groan louder. "Sorry, baby," he said. "We're here."
He pulled in front of the ER doors and sprinted into the building, while Fi lay moaning in the backseat. A few minutes later, he emerged from the sliding glass doors with the biggest man Fi had ever seen. He had to hunch over the wheelchair handlebars to reach them. He picked Fi up like she weighed nothing.
"Had a little accident, I hear," he said, a row of perfect white teeth sparkling against his dark skin.
"Well . . ." Fi trailed off, pointing to the blood-smeared backseat. The ginormous nurse peered into the car and frowned. "Hmm. We'll have to take care of that."
Despite the blood everywhere, it felt like forever before she was admitted. Finally, someone hoisted her onto a gurney, popped the metal side rails up, and wheeled her back. Her dad walked beside her, but he'd sent Ryan home with the car. Fi wasn't sure she needed all the things her father demanded that Ryan fetch. Maybe he was just getting rid of her brother before he passed out.
Trying to distract herself, Fi counted fluorescent lights as they proceeded down the hallway. She got wheeled into a room, and the nurses and doctors consulted with her dad, who seemed to lose a little more color with each conversation. Then a nurse came over to her, smiled, and said, "This'll just hurt a little."
After flicking the soft spot inside Fi's elbow a few times, the nurse pushed a tiny needle, strapped to a clear tube, into the vein.
After that, Fi lost track of everything.
FIONA
For years, Fiona had daydreamed about this-through circumstances beyond their control, she and Trent would be thrown together, forced to work side by side. Trent would be smart, clever, witty, and kind. Gradually, he would realize Fiona was the girl of his dreams. They would fall in love, for happily ever after.
Now, at this very moment, he sat directly across the library table from her, so no time like the present.
"Mr. Phillips said we could pick from all the books we've read so far this year. So I was thinking this one," Fiona said, sliding the packet between them and pointing to number four. Please don't let him see my hands shake.
Trent leaned closer, and Fiona pulled in a deep breath. Outside of spearmint gum, he had no noticeable smell. It was a little unfortunate-she was kind of hoping for a little cantaloupe.
"‘In The Sun Also Rises, show how Hemingway used conflict to establish the identities of Brett and Jake,'" he read-then looked to her with a shrug. "I got no clue what that means."
"Well, you read it, right?"
"I'm a dumb jock, remember?"
Crap. "Sorry about that. Bad day."
"It's cool," he said, with just the prettiest smile ever.
"Well, we still have time."
She went through a quick outline-thesis statement, supporting quotations, historical relevance. Just in case, Fiona gave herself the meatier parts of the paper, like the section on the Lost Generation of World War I.
"Wow. You really thought this out," Trent said, flipping through her notes. "Wait, what's an expatriate?"
"Someone who doesn't live in his home country."
"Oh. I thought you meant, like, Randy Moss."
"Who?"
"He was a wide receiver, for New England. He's an ex-Patriot," he said, stressing different syllables.
"No." She decided not to overanalyze. "The main characters were mostly Americans living in Paris."
"I was wondering how the football thing fit in," he said. "Everyone living in Paris, huh? Doesn't sound so bad."
"It's a really sad story, actually."
"You're not a very good salesman."
"They're drunk a lot. It's kind of amusing."
"Awesome," he said in a lighthearted way.
She leafed through her book, finding the highlighted section that explained it better. "Here," she said, handing it over.
Trent took the book and read out loud. "‘You're an expatriate. You've lost touch with the soil. You get precious. Fake European standards have ruined you.'" He looked up at her. "You've lost touch with the soil? What the heck does that mean?"
"The characters have all lived through World War I, and they're pretty battered by it. Morally lost, that's what Mr. Phillips said. They're struggling to find meaning."
"Good thing you're my partner," Trent said, dropping her book on the table. "I'd totally fail this on my own."
He wants to be my partner! "I need to keep up my GPA, too. Northwestern's my first choice."
"They have the best women's lacrosse team in the country." His blue eyes widened, showing off those flecks of green.
"Maybe I'll try out," she said, a little giddy from his gaze.
Trent laughed. "I don't think they take walk-ons."
Fiona snapped in a well-shucks kind of way. "They probably wouldn't like all my don't-throw-a-ball-near-my-face restrictions, anyway."
What insanity made me say that?
"Do you mind if I ask?" Trent said. "How it happened?"
Fiona shrugged. She was used to answering this question like it didn't bother her. "A disastrous run-in with a popcorn cart. I was five. We were at the zoo, in the snack bar. The machine got knocked over-I ran into it, I think. The oil flew out of it and landed on me." She shook her head. "It's pretty ridiculous."
"That sucks."
"It is what it is."
Even though that might not be true anymore.
Fiona still hadn't agreed to the surgery, though the lobbying was fierce. Her mom's main argument: "This will make your life better." Which was just code for this will make you better.
Her main fear: the horror of cutting out a sizable piece of herself, and-this was the kicker-sewing in bits of someone else. For the rest of her life, she'd be less than when she started. She felt like less than enough already, thankyouverymuch.
But God, the results did look good. Which was just as bad, really. Deep down, a little part of her agreed with her mom. She should throw this part of herself away.
Trent was watching her. "So why Northwestern?"
Fiona's heart fluttered. "They've got a great creative writing school. And music program."
"And that's what you want to do?"
Absolutely. "I think so."
"Like I said, good thing you're my partner, then."
The two spent the rest of lunch hour going through the book. Fiona pointed out passages Trent could use for his half. When the bell rang, they walked down the hallway. Side by side. Together.
"So, partner, when's our next date?" Trent asked, nudging her in the side.
Fiona bit down her giddy grin. She wrapped one free hand around her waist, where he'd nudged her. It was almost like touching him.
"Lunch tomorrow okay?" he asked. "After school's hard, with practice."
"Sure," she said.
"Don't lose touch with the soil, Doyle," he said with a wink. They parted ways, Trent going up one hall, and Fiona up another.
Lucy wasn't impressed by Fiona's lunch with Trent. Or the date comment. Or the plans for tomorrow. Or Trent's funny Hemingway quote. Instead, as they drove to the coffee shop, Lucy exercised her right to free speech about Fiona's spinelessness. Fiona wondered what kind of fiery death awaited her if she kicked Lucy out of the car. It might be preferable to the current tirade.
Lucy had moved to Memphis from Brooklyn in fifth grade, and Fiona had always loved what her own dad called Lucy's "Yankee attitude." She had features drawn from practically every available genetic pool. Her hair was nearly four inches tall. She wore thrift-store clothes and spoke in hard-accented edges. She acted just like she looked-like she didn't give a crap what you thought.
And Lucy said exactly what she meant. Not like some southerners, who thought they could say whatever cruel thing they wanted, just so long as they tacked "Isn't that sweet?" or "Bless his heart!" at the end.