"I don't want to kill any birds," Fiona said, feeling like a cornered animal herself.
"Too bad. We're making a bet." Lucy looked between Fiona, Ryan, and the coffee shop girl. "If Ryan talks to that girl, you play at open mic night."
"You can't make a bet between two other people!" Ryan said.
"I'm perfectly satisfied with my situation. I've got no stakes," she said. "You don't want Fiona to sing?"
"Of course I do."
"I'm right here, y'all," Fiona said. "How about I decide what's good for me?"
And Fiona had already decided. First, she felt no desire to force a girlfriend on her brother. Second, performing live-in front of an audience-was not going to happen.
"Because you aren't deciding," Lucy said. "We're going Tough Love."
Fiona was relieved that Ryan didn't look as convinced as her best friend. Wait-did he think she'd be awful?
Fiona looked toward the girl her brother couldn't stop staring at. She was average height, with a pixie-size body and a cute little turned-up nose. A wide blue streak cut through the front of her short blond hair, and she had several earrings in both ears. Fiona wouldn't have pegged her for Ryan's type.
The girl was laughing with a tall guy behind the counter with her. He looked older, at least in college. Tattoos covered his arms. He couldn't look more opposite then her shortish, preppy jock of a brother.
"He has to ask her out," Fiona said, crossing her fingers. "And she has to say yes."
Lucy clapped her hands and leaned back against the couch, laughing. Ryan's eyes narrowed, like What the heck just happened?
Then to her infinite horror, he grabbed his mug off the table, took a big swig, stood up, and said, "Guess I'm gonna catch myself a blue-haired girl."
Fiona's heart stopped beating. What had she done? What had she done?
Fiona and Lucy shifted around to watch. "Y'all can't stare," David said. "It'll never work then."
"Okay. Narrate it to us," Lucy said. She turned back, pulling Fiona with her.
David kept his eyes fixed behind them. "He's up there, leaning over the counter. She's refilling his cup. It looks like he's saying somethi . . . Oh, she just laughed. Okay, now he's got his mug back. There are a few other people up there, but it looks like she's ignoring them." David slowly shook his head. "Y'all, she's actually talking to him."
At this point, Fiona couldn't stand it. Her future teetered in the balance of these next few moments. Her brother might get a girlfriend-she'd not spent much time thinking about this, and she didn't like the idea of it at all. But much, much worse-she might have to play and sing her songs in front of people.
She turned around to look. Ryan leaned across the counter. The girl smiled at him, leaning in, too, with her fists tucked under her chin. Every few seconds she'd laugh.
"Well, that's impressive," Lucy said.
Fiona didn't reply. Ryan was heading back, looking smug. He had swagger.
He sat beside her, freshly filled mug in his hand, and kicked his feet up on the table. Swinging his arm over her shoulder, he gave Fiona a squeeze. "Time to prepare your song list, little sister."
FI
It had been two weeks since the Game. Yesterday, Fi and her parents had met with the orthopedic surgeon to discuss her "future."
"This is you when you came in," he'd said, tapping on the light board. Fi's X-rayed leg was grossly crooked-and then there was that disconnected piece. "Just look at that bad boy."
"It does look pretty bad," she'd agreed, while her dad had just looked at the film and shaken his head.
"Worst I've seen in a while." The doctor had pointed to the second film, this one dotted with solid, metallic objects. "Eight screws are holding you together."
"Forever?"
"They'll be in there forever, yes," he'd said. "You'll be stronger than before."
"When can I get this off?" she'd asked, knocking on the tacky, bright-pink cast that covered her whole foot and ended just below her knee.
"Let's worry about getting you healed first," her dad had said.
And now she was at home, with Panda keeping her company in her temporary prison-aka the couch. The doctor's instructions: two more weeks "taking it easy." No school; she wasn't even allowed to walk farther than the bathroom. When she finally got cleared to leave the house, she'd need people to carry her books for her at school. She'd have to wear skirts, since no normal pair of pants could fit over the monstrosity on her leg.
In six more weeks-after two full months of taking awkward baths with one leg hanging over the tub-the cast would come off. She'd still have months of physical therapy.
She swore that if she survived this forced relaxation, she'd never sit on this living room couch again. Ever.
Through the kitchen doorway, Fi watched as her dad hung up the phone, took a deep breath, and came into the living room. He sat down in the armchair across from Fi, her mom perched beside him on the chair's arm. "That was Coach Dunn," he said. "He wants to know what to tell the NU assistant coach. The one who came to the game."
"Why's he have to tell her anything?"
Her dad pointed to her encased right leg.
"I'll just send them the tapes from the end of this season," she said. "Those should be better anyway."
He raised his eyebrows. Her mother sighed and shook her head.
"Fi," he said, "you won't be playing any more this season. The doctor explained that yesterday."
"I'm sure he was just being conservative," she said, waving him off. "Anyway, it would only be the last few games. Like five, at most."
He closed his eyes and rubbed his temple. "Just because the cast is off doesn't mean you're healed. You'll still have months of physical therapy."
"I can do the therapy, too." She pinched the soft spot on her waist. "I'll have grown into a whole second person by then. More work the better."
"Fi, this season is over for you," her father said, speaking in his serious conversation voice. It was the only time he ever lost his fourth-generation-southern-man drawl. His words lost all their soft edges. "If you follow all the doctor's instructions then maybe you'll be able to play next season."
Fi waited for the qualifier, like Of course we'll argue you're ready or Since it's so important to you, I'm sure we can work something out. But the seconds ticked by, and her father kept staring at her.
"Dad, but, that's . . . ," she finally spluttered. "The scouts make all the decisions in your junior year. . . . How can I get an offer? I've got to play!"
"It's nonnegotiable," he said.
"I'll never get a spot! By next spring, all the decisions will be made."
"The past few years at summer camps will make a difference." Her father's voice went lower. And slower. It was like he was speaking to a toddler. "Scouts saw you."
That wouldn't be enough. They needed the stats from this season-which so far only amounted to two games, the second of which landed Fi in this stupid cast.
"You could walk on," he said casually, like her entire future wasn't on the line.
"You can't walk on Northwestern. It's the top program in the country."
"Fi," her mom said, "why don't you look at this as an opportunity?"
"What?"
"You can focus on other things now. Like your grades."
"Really?" Fi challenged. "You want to get into that now?"
"You have a 3.0 for a school that wants a 3.6. Since you brought up Northwestern, it seems an appropriate thing to discuss."
"Stats, people! That's why the stats matter," Fi yelled, throwing her arms in the air. "I lead the city in goals. I'm ranked one in the state."
"You play women's lacrosse, Fi," her father said, leaning forward. "You can't make a career out of it."
"Dad, I'm sixteen."
"Lots of kids know what they want to do when they're sixteen," said her mom.
"I want to play lacrosse!"
"Well, I want to be independently wealthy and summer in France," her dad said. "However, that's unlikely to happen, so I better revise my expectations."
Fi glowered at her parents. How could they not feel even the slightest bit bad for her? "You want me to give up?"
"Not necessarily," said her mom. "But maybe this injury will let you explore some other possibilities."
Fi slumped back on the couch. For the past four years, she'd had one, singular goal: play lacrosse for Northwestern. All the work she'd done in middle school and varsity-training, camps, summer leagues, competitive teams-had been with that one goal in mind.