“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.
Still, sometimes Fiona needed a break from Lucy’s Lucyness. Apparently, that wouldn’t be today.
At the coffee shop, Lucy plopped herself down on the couch right next to her and shoved a lime-green flyer under her nose. Coffee splashed across the tacky flyer—and the open pages of her Moleskine.
“Luce!” Fiona reached for the napkin dispenser and blotted away the jagged-edged stain. “Watch it.”
“You dropped this,” Lucy said, plucking the flyer from the floor and putting it in Fiona’s lap.
Fiona gave the flyer a brief glance before turning her attention back to the notebook. “Open mic night. So what?”
“So you should do it.”
“Yeah, right,” Fiona snorted.
“That’d be awesome, Fiona,” said David, a friend from school. “You could sing one of those.”
Sitting across from her in a tattered recliner, David was pointing at her notebook. She’d been so absorbed in writing, she’d forgotten he was there.
She and David shared some classes, and they worked on the school paper together, but mostly, she knew him through Otherlands, the coffee shop David had “discovered.” He was the first of their group of friends to push through the crowd of tattoos and piercings and order a latte. She respected him for that small bit of bravery.
The first time Fiona came here, she had loved the place immediately, with its battered concrete floor, mismatched furniture, and hand-painted quotes on the wall. Lucy had wondered out loud whether it was where garage sale chairs came to die.
Ever since, a random group from school would converge in the living-room-style back room—provided no college kids had claimed it first. Fiona and Lucy came a few times a week, often on Friday nights, since neither of them had much by way of a social life.
“I don’t think I’m open mic night material,” Fiona said now, dropping the flyer on the table.
“Because the competition’s so fierce?” Lucy asked.
Lucy had a point. Like everything else about this place, the guidelines were loose. Just about anyone could perform in the every-other-Friday open mic night. People would read poems, sing, play the accordion, tell jokes, anything really.
“I don’t have anything ready.”
“You are single-handedly keeping those Moleskine people in business,” Lucy said, pointing to the notebook in Fiona’s lap. “You’re telling me none of that scratching and humming has amounted to anything?”
Fiona glanced over her shoulder to the open mic “stage,” a simple, harmless corner up front, framed by tall potted plants. She knew what it would look like at night, though—brighter than the rest of the coffee shop, a high black stool smack in the center so she’d be taller than everyone watching her, with her face all lit up. She cringed, not sure which freaked her out more—baring her soul or her face.
“Not really.” Fiona pulled her bangs far, far forward.
“Fiona Doyle,” Lucy said. “Two weeks ago somebody mimed.”
David laughed. “She even got behind the microphone.”
“A mime with a microphone,” Lucy said, nodding with David. “That’s who you’re up against.”
Fiona pulled her Moleskine closer in. “I don’t have anything.”
“You’re such a chicken.”
“Who’s a chicken?” Ryan plopped down on the other side of Fiona, so her coffee splashed again.
“Your sister,” Lucy answered. “She won’t do open mic night.”
“You really should, Fiona,” David added. “It’d be cool to hear an original.”
“Not gonna happen.” Ryan looked over his shoulder at the coffee bar while he spoke. “She’s my sister, and I haven’t even heard any of them.”
Attempting to change the subject, Fiona seized upon her brother’s new weakness. “Who’s that girl you keep looking at?”
“What girl?”
Fiona pointed toward the little pixie of a girl on the working side of the counter. Ryan blocked her shoulder with his, before she could turn fully. “Want to be a little more obvious?”
“So this is behind your sudden interest in my coffee shop?” Because of his soccer schedule, Ryan didn’t come to the coffee shop often. He’d been here a lot over the past three weeks, though. “I thought we were bonding.”
He rolled his eyes. “So what’s her name?” Lucy asked.
Ryan took a sip of coffee. “Don’t know yet.”
“You Doyles,” Lucy said, shaking her head. “The only way either of you will end up with anyone is if they knock you out with a brick and drag you away.”
“Not taking advice from you, Luce,” Ryan said.
“Why’s that? Think I don’t get how it works?”
“Oh, please. Don’t make this a gay thing,” he said. “You have no personal experience—boy or girl. I’m gonna stick with my own method.”
“Which is what?”
“Smooth and subtle.”
Lucy leaned back into the couch, propping her feet on the table. “You’re so subtle, she’s clueless you exist.”
“I think sometimes it’s best to take it slow,” David said.
“See?” Ryan said, pointing at him. “David knows how to play it with the ladies.”
“You guys might want to poll a few ladies,” Lucy said. “It’s the blind leading the blind.”
“Again, you are so not a good source.” Ryan plonked his mug on the table. Coffee spilled over the side, creating a little mug-shaped puddle.
“Because I’m not a lady?”
“Because you’re worse than we are! You don’t even like anybody.” Ryan looked at Fiona. “Am I right?”
“Don’t drag me into this,” Fiona said, holding up her hands.
“David,” Ryan said, “you like girls, right?”
All the blood in David’s body suddenly appeared in his face. “Um, yeah.”
“One in particular?”
“Oh. Uh. Yeah, I guess so.”
David’s entire head looked like it might explode from all that converging blood. Fiona felt sorry for him, but her brother didn’t seem bothered. “Does she know?”
“I don’t think so.”
“And that’s working for you, is it?” Lucy asked. “Pining for her in silence?”
“He’s not pining,” Ryan answered for him. “He’s got a plan. There’s strategy.”
“Um, well, I hadn’t really—”
Fiona nudged both Lucy and her brother. “Stop it.” She looked at David. “Just ignore them. Lord knows I do.”
“It’s okay,” he said with a smile. “I could
use a little strategy. She’s not going to fall in my lap.”
“See?” Lucy said, gesturing to David.
“He was agreeing with me,” Ryan countered.
Fiona shoved them both away from her. “Good Lord, give it up! Change of subject!”
Ryan and Lucy fell back against their sides of the couch. A slow smile crept across Lucy’s face as she focused on Fiona. “Well played, my friend.”
“Hmm?” Fiona said.
“Changing the subject.” Lucy faced Ryan. “Originally, we were discussing how your sister’s a chicken. Somehow we got off track.”
“You used me, Fiona,” Ryan said, his hand over his heart. “I’m hurt.”
The speed with which Ryan and Lucy switched from enemies to allies always amazed Fiona. She tried to look innocent. “I’m not chicken. I just don’t have anything.”
“You’re such a liar,” Lucy said. “And a chicken. And the only person in the world who could probably make a song out of ‘liar’ and ‘chicken.’” She then proceeded to sing—off-key—“You’re a chicken who makes your friends sicken.”
“That’s terrible,” Fiona groaned.
Ryan latched on to Lucy’s truly awful tune. “And a liar who will . . .” He faded away, incapable of finishing such dazzling poetry.
“Catch on fire?” David offered.
“Trip on a wire?” Lucy said.
“Make it stop!” Fiona said, clapping her hands over her ears.
“Join a choir?”
“Break the pliers?”
“People!” Fiona yelled over the insanity of lyrics. “Leave the rhyming to the experts!”
All three looked at her, eyes raised. After an exasperated sigh, she said, “You can call me a liar. A chicken. A denier. Say it’s singing I desire. I’ll just wait till you tire.”
They all smirked, because the truth was, Fiona’s brain was made for this. Her body—spirit, whatever—was not.
“Yeah, I guess that’s better,” Ryan said, taking a lazy sip of coffee.
“So you’re going to sing then?” David asked. “At open mic night?”
Fiona snorted. “I don’t think the chicken song’s ready yet.”
Lucy looked at Fiona, with one eyebrow drawn down. This was the have-I-got-a-deal-for-you look. Not one good thing had ever come from it. “How about we kill two birds with one stone?” she said.
“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.”
Everything That Makes You Page 4
