Everything That Makes You

by Moriah McStay

  “I wanted to take you shopping.”

  Good Lord, the woman had a one-track mind. “I have plenty of clothes.”

  “Everything has holes. It looks ratty.”

  “I’m in college, Mom. No one cares how I dress.”

  “You should care,” she said. “You have so much to show off now.”

  Translation: You really looked like crap before. “Mom, will you just give it a rest?”

  “Watch the tone, young lady.” After an uneasy pause, her mom added, “I didn’t push you before, because you were self-conscious. But now, I don’t see why—”

  “You didn’t push me?” Fiona gave a bitter laugh. “Are you kidding?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “You’ve been trying to improve me since I was five.”

  “I am your mother,” her mother said. “It’s my job to make your life better.”

  “Make me better, you mean.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “You didn’t need to. You’ve had thirteen years to make it clear.”

  “Fiona, what on earth are you talking about?”

  As her mom spoke, Jackson walked in. He leaned against the common room wall, watching her. She must have looked as angry as she felt, because after a second he mouthed, The best friend?

  How many of her dramatic moments was this boy going to witness?

  “Forget it. I gotta go,” Fiona said—and then she hung up on her mother. She stabbed the phone’s off button and threw it to the couch across the room.

  “Are you okay?” he asked.

  “My mother. She drives me crazy.”

  “It’s fifty degrees outside.” He pointed out the window. “That should cure you of just about any negative emotion.”

  “It’s not even windy,” she said, like it was the weather curing her—and not Jackson, standing there, looking adorable. He wasn’t bundled up, just in a long-sleeved Henley and those jeans she coveted.

  “I’m giddier than a twelve-year-old girl at a boy band concert,” he said.

  “That one actually made sense,” she said.

  “We should go out before the arctic tundra returns.” He held out a hand, hoisting her up.

  Mother, shmother. Grabbing a fleece, she followed him down the stairs and into the unseasonably balmy weather.

  They walked side by side on the crowded campus path, squeezing close together since lots of other people had the same idea. Jackson suggested they head to the lake.

  “What’s the update on your music class?” he asked.

  “It’s my turn on Friday.” This was the last thing she wanted to talk about.

  “So that’s great, right? Finally get to show off your stuff?”

  “It’s going to be awful.” Fiona nearly threw up when Weitz handed out the performance date. February 27.

  Jackson nudged her in the side. “Man, you’re dramatic about this whole thing. It’s just a bunch of other students and a professor. How bad could it be?”

  “The class is sadistic—and the professor isn’t that much better. Last class two people played. She called the pianist’s arrangement ‘sophomoric’ and told the girl on guitar to keep working and perhaps she’d stumble onto something worthy of revision.”

  Jackson snorted. “Statistics doesn’t look so bad now, huh?” Then he spread his arms toward the beach in front of them. “I gotta say, before I got here I was skeptical about the whole beach in Chicago thing. But when it’s not subzero outside, it’s pretty awesome.”

  “It’s a nice perk.” Fiona took in the view—clean beach with a blue lake so big, it looked like ocean.

  He walked onto the sand, stopping a few yards away from the line where wet met dry, and sat down. Looking over his shoulder, he patted the space beside him.

  She sat next to him, arms wrapped around knees, but eventually both lay back, heads only inches apart in the sand. He smelled like some combination of wool, coffee, and soap—and just the littlest bit of fruit.

  Fiona closed her eyes and willed her fair skin to soak up the vitamin D. She wondered if her new skin would color the same as her old skin. She’d never even thought to ask the doctor.

  She turned her head toward Jackson and was surprised to see him lying on his side, elbow propped up in the sand. He was looking at her, his head resting in his hand. For a moment, that’s all they did—lay there and stare. A border of deep cobalt blue rimmed his green irises. His jaw and cheekbones looked sculpted, like they belonged on a statue in a museum somewhere, not on a boy who was looking at her like that.

  God, but he was beautiful.

  After a time, Jackson lifted his free hand and slowly ran a finger under the length of her scar—from the space between her right eyebrow and nose, up her forehead, then repeating the path from under her right ear, up to the outside corner of her right eye.

  She didn’t speak, her breath unsteady from watching him, from feeling the gentle weight of his finger against her face.

  The circuit complete, he gently rested his palm on her cheek and began tracing the scar once more—this time with his thumb on the new skin.

  Under the gentle weight of his thumb, her skin felt tingly. Like a foot that had fallen asleep and was 90 percent awake again.

  Oh. Oh.

  She could feel it.

  She could feel it.

  Her whole body tensed at the sensation. His gaze moved from her skin to her eyes. His palm still rested on her cheek, and his thumb rubbed lightly back and forth against the actual scar line. “Go out with me,” he said.

  “We are out.” Her voice came out as husky as his, like they were in a crowded library, not alone on the beach.

  “Out out. Friday night, after you play.” He smiled, leaning in a little closer. “We’ll toast the standing ovation.”

  She frowned at this reminder. “More like drink away my sorrows.”

  “Or that.” He leaned closer and said again, “Go out with me.”

  Fiona’s previously-numb-and-now-tingling skin screamed yes! Her heart and spine, her muscles and bones and nerves—all her real, tangible pieces pushed her toward yes. But her invisible parts—those bits that felt guilty when she actually enjoyed herself; that chunk of her that knew what Friday held in store—answered first. “I’m not sure—”

  Jackson interrupted her, shaking his head but not taking his hand from her face. “Look, I get it. You’ve got some complications. Go out with me anyway.”

  Fiona swallowed her fears and guilt and nodded. Jackson smiled. She smiled back. And then they were covered in the sudden, cold shadow of an enormous, fluffy cloud.

  “They look so harmless up there, don’t they?” Jackson said, looking up at the single cloud blocking all the sun.

  Fiona wanted to spend hours out here with Jackson, but instead she stood and held out a hand. “We should get back anyway.”

  It felt fifteen degrees colder on the way back. Both walked hunched over with hands crammed into pockets. The pace was faster than on the way out—their bodies a little closer, too.

  Jackson cracked jokes as they went, coming up with stranger and stranger suggestions for their date. Dinner was too predictable, what about visiting the International Museum of Surgical Science? Trying to climb the Bean in Millennium Park? Throwing plates at a restaurant in Greektown?

  Fiona laughed at first, going along with it. A little giddy from the idea, but then her reality came knocking. “You know, maybe we should do it another day. Not Friday.”

  He gave her a careful look. “Why?”

  “That day’s not a great one for me.”

  “Right. So we give you something to look forward to—a light at the other end of the performance tunnel.”

  She shook her head. “It’s not that, really. It’s . . . well, this will sound stupid, but the date? February twenty-seventh? It’s historically a bad one for me.”

  “You have an unlucky date?”

  Fiona nodded, feeling silly.

  “That’s intrigui
ng,” he said. “Is this part of the Fiona Puzzle?”

  “Like I said, it’s stupid. But maybe another day?”

  Jackson stopped, his expression suspicious. “Look, if you don’t want to—”

  “No, I do,” she said quickly. She looked at the sky, now covered in sheets of clouds. “It’s just . . . I’m usually—always—cranky that day. Like . . . bitchy. I’m trying to save you. By Saturday I should be fine.”

  “Tell me why.”

  She took a breath. They were still stalled there, blocking the path as all the other people who’d had the same great idea fled the weather change, too. “It was the day I had the accident.” She gestured toward her face, in case he needed clarification. “I hardly remember it—the accident, I mean. And theoretically this year should be different—you know, since I’m all fixed. But—”

  Jackson studied her a minute then gestured to the path, getting them both walking again. “Let’s keep it Friday. If the day really is terrible, I’ll grant you permission to postpone till Saturday.”

  “You’ll grant me?”

  “You’re welcome.”

  She laughed. “I really hate it. I wish I’d just get over it already.”

  He nudged her shoulder, staying closer than ever once the nudge was over. “You got some weird hang-ups, girl. Audiences and calendars—oh, the horror!”

  “You sound like Lucy. And Ryan.”

  “What you need is some Good Day Replacement Therapy.”

  “Which is?”

  “Balance it out. If you’re destined to have this sucky day, designate a really good one, too. The day you’ll always wake up ridiculously happy.” He shrugged and looked over at her, smiling lopsided. “So, what’s the good day?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe May eighteenth?”

  “What happened then?” he said, frowning.

  She gestured to her face again. “The surgery. Seems appropriate, if the goal is balance.”

  Jackson stopped again, eyeing her differently than before. After a breath, he pulled her off the path with him, getting them out of the way of the others en route to countless places. He narrowed his eyes, asking carefully, “So . . . what was the surgery?”

  She touched her cheek, feeling it more in her fingertips than on her face. She had felt Jackson’s touch on the beach, hadn’t she? “A deep tissue skin graft.”

  “Which is?”

  “It’s pretty technical.”

  His brow arched upward. “Said the artist to the engineer.”

  Fiona sighed. “It was a transplant. They took out all my bad skin and replaced it.”

  His eyes traveled to her face, following the line of scar circling her eye. Slowly he asked, “Replaced it with what?”

  “Uh, new skin.”

  “Which came from?”

  “Oh—an organ donor.” It was odd, how easily she let this information out. When had she become so blasé about wearing someone else? She hunched further over, feeling the cold more and more. Trying to get them back on the path, she said, “I’m freezing. Let’s head back.”

  Fiona turned back to the path, but Jackson didn’t follow. She pointed her head toward their dorm a few times, but Jackson stayed put, his eyes locked on her face. Even so, he had a faraway look.

  “What did you say the date was again?” he asked.

  “May eighteenth.” She stomped her feet. “Seriously, let’s go.”

  He shook his head, still focused on her but not at all. “What time?”

  “What?”

  “What time was your surgery?” His tone was so weird. Like a strangled yell, as if the words forced their way out on their own.

  The clusters of people passing looked over their shoulders at him—and she gawked right along with them. “What the heck is wrong with you?”

  “TELL ME THE GODDAMN TIME!”

  She recoiled back. “Afternoon. I don’t know! I got there at three maybe. Why are you yelling at me?”

  “When did you get the call?”

  More people were looking now, whispering to each other about this one-sided public argument. Fiona wished they’d clue her in. She had no idea what was going on. “What call?”

  “That there was a donor! When did you get the call?!”

  Fiona stared at this boy who’d replaced funny, easygoing, sarcastic Jackson. This boy looked like he was drowning, right here on the snowy path. Like some great burden was pushing him under a waterline no one else could see. Like some horror, some awful thing, was suffocating him.

  And suddenly, she couldn’t breathe either.

  She began backing away. “We shouldn’t talk about this . . . we can’t . . .”

  In two steps he closed the distance and grabbed her hand, holding her still. Quieter now, like he was forcing himself to stay calm, he said through clenched jaw, “When did you get the call?”

  Eyes wide, Fiona shook her head back and forth. She felt the tears—only on the one cheek, though she was certain both were damp. “There are rules,” she choked out. “We’re not supposed to know.”

  Jackson let her go. His eyes did not leave the right side of her face as he began walking backward. Fiona stayed in place, watching him retreat farther and farther until he eventually turned and walked away.

  FI

  Trent jogged into the lobby, rounding the corner less than a minute after Fi gave her name to the check-in counter guy. His wet hair had dripped a dark ring along the collar of his shirt, which clung to him unevenly. Even so, he grabbed Fi up into a damp hug. “I thought you’d bail.”

  Fi hugged him back. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d really leaned into someone. This proximity to skin and smell, body and life, was a surprising comfort.

  He let go first, and Fi pulled back quickly, embarrassed by her clinginess. She gestured to herself. “I even showered.”

  He took a step back, getting a bigger view. “Yes, you did.” Then Trent grabbed her hand, dragging her behind him as they went upstairs.

  In the common room on his floor, mostly guys, a few girls—including Lindsey—sat on battered couches or perched on beat-up coffee tables. Plastic cups and an assortment of glass bottles littered the few open spaces.

  As Fi and Trent passed the gathering, maybe half looked up. Pausing in the hallway, Trent gestured to Fi with his free hand. “Y’all, this is Fi, a friend from home.”

  There were a few “Hey, Fi’s,” and she waved in response before Trent pulled her onward to his room. She sat on his bed as he rubbed a towel through his hair and frowned at his dampened shirt. “I was still getting dressed when you got here,” he said, pulling his shirt over his head and tossing it on the bed before rummaging in his closet for a fresh one.

  Fi looked away from Trent’s half-nakedness. She’d seen it a million times before—even so, it felt weird all of a sudden.

  He’d buttoned up by the time she turned back. The mattress dipped from his weight as he sat beside her to pull on socks and shoes.

  “So, what’s the plan?” she asked.

  Still bent over his feet, Trent gestured back toward the common room with his head. “We can hang in the lounge if you want. You can meet some people. There are a couple of parties later.”

  “How much later are we talking?”

  Trent raised a single eyebrow. “You going to turn into a pumpkin or something?”

  “She didn’t turn into a pumpkin, her carriage did.” Fi looked at her watch. “I just don’t know how late I want to drive home. Highway and all that.”

  Trent looked at her with a long, steady eye before saying, “Just see how it goes. We can always come back.”

  “All right.” Fi stood and straightened her top—one that Caroline Doyle had picked, no less. When she left the house, her mother actually froze for a second, as if seeing Fi in cute clothes—with makeup! And blow-dried hair!—caused her temporary paralysis.

  Trent smiled and stood. Standing just in front of her, he actually leaned in and kissed her head before pulling ba
ck with a confused frown. “Did you get taller?”

  Fi held up her right foot, showing off her boots. “Two-inch heels.”

  “The world’s gone lopsided,” Trent replied with a laugh. “Come on,” he said, grabbing her hand again.

  As she’d gotten ready that night, Fi had wondered why she was driving over an hour to go to some parties where she wouldn’t last twenty minutes. But by the time everyone in Trent’s common room started grabbing their sweaters and keys to head out, it was almost ten. She’d spent two hours having fun with strangers.

  Chris, one of the lacrosse players Fi had met during her parking lot freak-out, gave her a hand, pulling her up from the couch. “You coming?” he asked with a smile.

  “Oh. Um—” She paused, not actually sure what she wanted to happen next.

  On the one hand, she was having fun. Trent’s friends were nice; hanging out with her best friend felt like the perfect kind of therapy.

  On the other hand, as nice as this couple of hours had been, she felt . . . out of shape for it. Like the day when she met Marcus, just hobbling up the handicap ramp in a cast and standing for ten minutes had worn her out.

  “No,” she said. “I should probably head out.”

  Before he could speak, Lindsey passed, and, with a look Fi could only describe as feline, she idly dragged her fingers across Trent’s chest and asked, “You’re coming though, right, Trent?”

  Trent gave Fi what Ryan called “the look.” Both had used it over the years, and though it was just a glance, it communicated many things. Not the least of which was You Drive Me Freaking Crazy. “Guess so,” he said.

  “I’ll get my stuff,” Fi said.

  Trent mumbled for them to go on ahead, he’d catch up. Trying his doorknob with no luck, she waited for him to come up the hall. “It’s locked,” she said.

  Fishing keys from his pocket, he held open the door. “Looks like the roomie didn’t need to clean his crap after all.”

  Fi decided not to point out that the room wasn’t really clean—just mildly less disgusting. “I never promised I’d stay.”

  “Whatever.”

  She put on her jacket. “I was going to end up the third wheel anyway.”

  “Wonder what that’s like.” He took a sip from his plastic cup, watching her over the rim. “What are you talking about? Third wheel to who?”