Everything That Makes You

by Moriah McStay

  It was a beautiful—and sad—poem.

  Never, never may the fruit be plucked from the bough

  And gathered into barrels.

  He that would eat of love must eat it where it hangs.

  Though the branches bend like reeds,

  Though the ripe fruit splash in the grass or wrinkle on the tree,

  He that would eat of love must bear away with him

  Only what his belly can hold,

  Nothing in the apron,

  Nothing in the pockets.

  Never, never may the fruit be gathered from the bough

  And harvested in barrels.

  The winter of love is a cellar of empty bins,

  In an orchard soft with rot.

  She was biting her nails, deciding whether the essay should be about Marcus—or about her—when Ryan’s picture popped up beside the video chat icon.

  “Hey,” she said, accepting the call. “What’s up?”

  The camera angle was weird and the lighting too yellow, but Ryan looked good. Over Christmas break, their dad had remarked that Ryan’s muscles were finally catching up with his bones. He filled up more space now. “Oh,” Ryan said. “I thought Mom would answer.”

  “She’s out.” Fi touched the screen, surprised at how she wished it was really him and not some satellite-generated substitute. “Your hair’s long.”

  Pulling fingers through his hair, he shrugged. “You okay?”

  “Yeah. Working on a paper.” She leaned back in their dad’s big leather chair, swiveling it side to side. “Trent said you’re playing soccer now.”

  He watched her a second, like he was trying to figure out where she was going with this, but with the bad video, it was hard to gauge anything. “It’s fun,” he said eventually. “That’s actually why I was calling. There’s a summer camp up here—for little kids. I think I might stay and work.”

  “What about Gwen?”

  “She’d stay, too.”

  Fi smirked. “Are you going to marry her?”

  “Fi, I’m nineteen.” Then he shrugged. “Yeah, probably.”

  “High school sweethearts—the odds aren’t good.”

  “You wouldn’t have married Marcus?”

  At some point in her near past, that question would have sent Fi into her turtle shell. She couldn’t say when or why or even how she had moved forward. But she had, even if only a little. “It’s one of those things we’ll never know. It’s not worth the energy, torturing myself over it, you know?”

  Ryan nodded. “What’s up with the grades?” he asked.

  “So far, 3.0 for the semester. I still have finals, but I think it’ll be okay.”

  “And then you’re off probation? You can play again?”

  Fi slowly nodded while biting the edge of her thumbnail.

  “You’re biting your nails. What’s wrong?”

  Fi frowned at her fingers. She hadn’t realized she was so transparent. “Do you think I’d be crazy to write the NU coach? After everything?”

  Ryan smiled a big, big smile—a real one. “It would be the least crazy thing you’ve done in years.”

  “There’s no way she’ll take me. My grades aren’t great. I’m out of shape.”

  “Only one way to find out.”

  Still gnawing her cuticle, Fi nodded at his point. “I have no idea what to say.”

  “Do it now. I’ll help you.”

  “Now?” Fi had planned on torturing herself over this for days—maybe weeks—before finally working up the courage to do something.

  “Yeah. Pull up your email and let me see the screen.”

  Contacting the coach had been her idea. Now it felt like he was taking over. Like he was pushing too hard. “First, tell me why you want to help me.”

  “What do you mean why? I want you to do this.”

  “But why do you want me to so badly?”

  He rolled his eyes. “Jesus, Fi—what, you think I have some sinister motive?”

  “Not sinister.” Fi shrugged, casually rolling a pencil back and forth while telling her brother this deep truth. “But you like to take over. Boss me around.”

  “I boss you around?” he repeated.

  “Uh, yeah. I’m always in your shadow.”

  “You are in my shadow?” Even in the awkward, yellowish light, Fi detected the blood rising in her brother’s cheeks. “Are you high?”

  “What’s that mean?”

  His laugh came out a little bitter. “Fi, I was the short, mediocre brother of one of the state’s best lacrosse players. The only reason I played the damn sport was because I got caught up in your obsession—which I didn’t even realize until I came up here and did intramural soccer.”

  “You didn’t like lacrosse?”

  “You and Trent had enough fire to cover me.”

  Fi’s head hurt a little from this sudden realization. “So . . . the offer to help, with the email, that’s because—”

  “You. Are. My. Sister.”

  “What about after Marcus died? All the comments about dating other guys and transferring schools and everything? You were about as subtle as a brick to the head.”

  “You were miserable.” He drew out the last word, like he could make each of the four syllables into its very own word.

  “You were annoying,” she said, doing her best to mimic him, but it was less impressive with only three syllables.

  “Sorry,” he said, though he didn’t sound it. Then he softened a bit to add, “I was trying to help.”

  “You can trust me, you know—with my life. It’s not like I want to ruin it.”

  “It looked like you were really trying for a while there.”

  Fi couldn’t argue this point. “So that’s it? Just because I’m your sister?” She waved her hand vaguely. “And you love me or whatever.”

  “Lord! Yes—that’s it!” He dragged his fingers through his hair like he wanted to pull it out. “You’re infuriating.”

  “I’ve heard.”

  Now he frowned. “From who?”

  Fi rolled her eyes—not at her brother, more at the length of the list. “Mom and Dad. My advisor. Jackson. Trent.”

  “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.”

  “It’s not that impressive.”

  “I like a good dive now and then.”

  Fiona snorted. “Oh, come on, Mom. I’ll be trying to play, and you’ll be scouring the tables.”

  “I hardly think I’d be scouring.” She looked at Fiona sideways. “You know, I don’t have this agenda, like you think I do. To improve everything.”

  “It sure feels that way,” Fiona muttered back.

  “I was just trying to make it better,” her mom said, shaking her head.

  “Make what better?”

  “The accident. Your life. I wanted to make it easier.”

  “By dressing me in pink?”

  “Well, it sounds silly if you say it like that.” Her mother picked at the bedspread. “You know, I never understood how you never co
mplained. About the scars.”

  She couldn’t help but laugh. “You don’t think I complained?”

  “Not really. Not like I would have, if it were me.” Looking to the wall again, her mom took a deep breath. “Your father and I, we had you two right after we got married. I was so young. I had the whole picture in front of me, how our lives would be. But then you had the accident, and it all changed. I wanted for you have to a certain life, but fate just . . . intervened. And I still don’t think I’m over it.”

  She stopped talking for a moment, still staring ahead. “I hated those scars, Fiona,” she said quietly. “Hated them—and the accident. You had a harder life than you should have.”

  “Mom, it’s not that bad.”

  “You’re right, it’s not.” She patted Fiona’s hand and looked her in the eyes. “For all my worry about how hard it was going to be, you handled everything beautifully. So despite how much I hate that it happened, I cherish it a little, too. That accident made you, you. And I wouldn’t have you any other way.”

  Her heart wanted to cry, but she was sick to death of crying. “I hate pink,” Fiona said, instead. “And frills. Just so we’re clear.”

  Her mother laughed. “Duly noted.” She nodded to the guitar, still in Fiona’s lap. “So, about this open mic night.”

  Fiona bit her thumbnail. “I’m terrified about it, actually.”

  “Why?”

  “Singing my stuff in public—it freaks me out. Like, really freaks me out. I’m hoping this will get me over it.”

  “Sounds like a good plan.”

  “But baby steps might be good.” Fiona fiddled with the guitar’s strings, her voice now nearly a whisper. “Do you want to hear something?”

  The prettiest smile crossed her mother’s face. “Really?”

  Fiona grabbed a Moleskine. Resting her back against the headboard, she sat cross-legged and faced her mother. She leafed through the book. “Okay, here’s one. I’m still working on the lyrics—and the bridge.”

  Her mother smiled and got herself comfortable on the other end of the bed. She didn’t seem the least bothered by how long Fiona took—didn’t check her watch or ask questions, just rested between the wall and the footboard, waiting.

  After Fiona tuned as much as she could, she said, “Here goes,” and sang.