Everything That Makes You (2 page)

“Things change. Science changes. That's what Dr. Connelly keeps saying.”

“He's been saying that since I was five, Ryan.”

“You never know.”

She switched chord shape—A minor, C, E minor—wanting the notes off-center, like her. “Well, barring a miracle, this is who I am. Growth spurts and pink dresses won't fix me.”

“You're not broken, Ona,” he said, using the nickname only he used.

Tell that to Trent McKinnon, who will never love me.

He nudged her with his foot. “You're not broken,” he repeated.

“I know. You're right,” she said, knowing if she agreed, he'd let the subject drop.

She scratched out some lines and penciled yet another version on top of them:

I want love and skin.

I want to begin again.

Fi was a sweaty mess. In the reflection from her phone, she saw a long, grass-colored streak stretching from her hairline to her chin, from where she'd wiped out. Her elbow would probably kill tomorrow—but she'd gotten the ball.

She was shoving her gear into her bag when she remembered Ryan was taking the car. He'd told her this, hadn't asked.

Cursing her brother, she scanned the field, but only freshmen remained. On the far side, she glimpsed Trent limping through the parking lot. He must have gotten hurt at practice. That or all his equipment weighed him down.

“McKinnon!”

He turned, scanned for the voice, and then waited in place as Fi jogged across the field. “I need a ride.”

“Yeah, Ryan already told me,” he said. “I was going to wait.”

“You'd think he was my father,” she muttered. “We're in
the same
grade,
for God's sakes.”

“He was just making sure you had a ride.”

“I'd have a ride if he didn't keep taking the car.”

Trent shook his head. “The trials of Fi-Fi.”

Everyone else, even her parents, called her the same thing Ryan always had, “
Fi.
” But in middle school, Trent had decided to give her a nickname all his own.

“You're an only child,” she said. “You don't understand.”

They shoved their stuff in his trunk—sticks, backpacks, gym bags, all of Trent's pads. Trent had to push everything around a few times, before the lid would close. The car smelled like the sweet decay of fast food—and all the other afternoons of lacrosse-practice sweat.

Trent pulled out of the lot and began the well-traveled route to the Doyles. Fi sank into the familiar passenger seat, and they rode in comfortable silence a few miles.

“You really cracked that middie last week,” she eventually said. “Did you break his stick?”

“First one of the season.”

“That's so not fair. I'd get a red card if I played like you.”

“Nothing like a girl who wants to crack skulls,” he said, smiling.

“Which is all your fault.” She'd never get over the injustice that girl's lacrosse didn't allow bodychecking. “Teaching me to play the men's game.”

“I was
eleven.
How was I supposed to know y'all have those lame oh-no-don't-check-me-I-might-break-a-nail rules?”

Fi showed him her stubby, bitten cuticles as a rebuttal. “I'd take you out, if they let me.”

“No doubt,” he said, snorting. “But why am I always the bad guy? Weren't we in
your
backyard? And didn't you shoot on Ryan just as much as on me?”

“You hit harder.”

“That's true.” He pulled up to the curb in front of her house and turned sideways in the seat, his arm slung casually over the back of her seat. “Remember that time he pinned me on the ground? When I accidentally hit you in the face?”

“Accident. Sure.” She was needling him, but he kept bringing up Ryan. Like she needed the reminder
they
were friends first.

“It
was
an accident.” He ran a finger down her cheek, right where that long, grassy stain was. “I'd never mess up this perfect face.”

She jerked away, smacking the back of her head on the window. Trent's hands remained suspended, touching skin no longer there, until Fi opened the door.

“Fi—” Trent started.

She left the car before he could finish. “I should get to my homework.”

“Damn it, Fi. You can't keep running away.”

“I'm not. I've just got loads—”

“It's been, like, two weeks. Shouldn't we talk about it?”

This was the third time he'd tried to “talk” since that post-game party—and the out-of-nowhere kiss that Fi was
pretending never happened. Sure, it was a nice kiss. Like, surprisingly nice.

But you weren't supposed to kiss your best friend.

“I'll see you tomorrow, okay?” she said, already at the trunk.

Shaking his head, Trent popped it open. She grabbed her gear, arranging all three bags across her body for the walk up the driveway.

Usually, he'd yell “Later, Fi-Fi!” or honk “Dixie” as he drove away. Today, his tires squealed.

She pushed open the back door, dumped her stuff on the kitchen floor, and dug through the refrigerator. Her mom stood at the kitchen counter, arranging flowers.

“Where's your brother?”

Hello, Mother. Nice to see you, too.
“Some study group. Trent dropped me off.” Fi took a swig of orange juice straight from the container.

“What's he studying?” Her mom pulled a glass from the overhead cabinet and handed it over with a look.

“How am I supposed to know?” she snapped.

“Perhaps you should find out. A few more study groups wouldn't kill you.”

“My grades are fine! I got an eighty-eight on my English test.”

Her mom arched a perfectly tweezed eyebrow. “And last week's math test?”

“I've got a seventy-four percentage on draw,” Fi said,
changing the subject. “That's the best in the state.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The draw. In lacrosse.” Fi spoke through a clenched jaw. “That sport I've played for seven years.”

“How does that affect your math grade?”

“It'll get me into Northwestern,” she said. “Are they recruiting Ryan?”

Her mother stiffened. “Go do your homework.”

Fi palmed some grapes from the bowl on the counter, grabbed her bags, and stomped upstairs. A ridiculous pile of clothes waited on her bed—ruffled pink and green, a strapless dress, which was just so impractical. Fi picked up the lot, walked it into her parents' room, and dropped it on their bed. At dinner, she'd tell her mom none of it fit.

There'd be another pile next week, though. Because her mother wouldn't rest until Fi was someone else. Until she encapsulated some bizarre combination of straight As, strappy sandals, and Junior Cotillion.

Fi sprawled out on her bed, binders and folders in no real order but all within arm's reach. She plucked Panda from his little nook at the corner of her bed and cuddled around him.

She tackled English first, still annoyed about getting Lucy Daines as her project partner. Lucy had actually said, right after she switched to Fi's table, “We're doing this project my way, Doyle. And I'm not carrying you. I don't care about your season or whatever.”

“I don't need to be carried,” Fi had said back,
really
tempted
to smack down Lucy's skeptically raised eyebrow. “I've got an A in this class.”

“Let's keep it that way.”

The way some of these people acted—Lucy, her mother—you'd think Fi was hopeless, when, in fact, she was THE BEST FEMALE HIGH SCHOOL LACROSSE PLAYER IN THE STATE. Why couldn't they just shut up and be impressed?

An hour later, Fi had finished everything but precalc, during which she spent the last twenty minutes glaring at a single problem. She considered calling Trent for help, but then remembered the cheek rubbing and didn't know what she'd say.

She hated that things were awkward now, that she had to even think before calling him. He'd been her best friend since fourth grade. He was the only person who didn't see her imperfections first.

Across the hall, light peeked out from under Ryan's door. Of course,
he'd
know how to do the math. She hated asking him, but this stupid problem wasn't going to solve itself.

She knocked and walked in. Ryan lay sprawled stomach-first on his bed, his legs bent at the knee with his ankles crossed in the air. Various binders and textbooks fanned out around him, an open math book closest to his head—just like she'd looked a moment ago, but in the opposite direction.

“Do you know how to do number sixteen?” she asked.

“You need to wash that thing,” he said, pointing to Panda.

She tucked her bear behind her back. “He's perfectly sanitary.”

Anyway, she couldn't wash him—he might not survive it. He was already lumpy in weird places, and his right ear was nearly furless, from when she'd rub it while sucking her thumb.

“Did you do sixteen?” she asked again.

“Yeah, just finished.”

She sat on the edge of her brother's bed and scanned the problem. After reading it over twice, she shook her head. “I still don't get it.”

Ryan walked her through it. “Why did you get the math genes?” she asked, looking back and forth between their papers as she wrote it out.

“We've got the same genes, Fi.”

“Well, they're mixed up different. Math and I don't get along.”

He pointed to the last line she copied. “X is seven.”

“Clearly I got the penmanship,” she muttered, erasing the nine.

“Maybe we could swap. You neaten up my work, I'll carry you in math.”

“I don't need anyone to carry me!” she snapped.

“Are you all right?”

No. All you people are driving me crazy.
“Why the hell do you
keep taking the car?”

“You were coming home. It's on Trent's way.”

“Maybe I don't
want
to drive with Trent.”

“Why?” he asked, sitting up. “Did he do something?”

She waved him off, so not in the mood for the big brother thing. “It's my car, too.”

“Fine. Sorry.” He held up both hands, like a surrender, and nodded toward the math homework. “Do you need help with the rest?”

The next five problems might take her another hour. Or she could just get the answers from Ryan, who, of course, already figured them all out.

She clenched her jaw, said “Yeah,” and just copied everything, not even pretending to understand.

“Don't worry about the math,” Ryan said. “You've got other talents.”

“Yeah? Like what?” It wasn't like her to fish for compliments, but it'd been that kind of day.

“Well, there's lacrosse,” he said with that little laugh-snort he made.

She waited—seconds growing—wondering if he was going to list anything else.

Apparently not.

“Thanks for the help,” she said, standing up. Back in her room, she collapsed on the bed with Panda, closed her eyes, and made her own damn list.

She was good at English. She was decently popular. She
was cute—not drop-dead gorgeous or anything, but she had her good days. She was funny.

Yes, she was good at lacrosse. She
lived
lacrosse.

But surely that wasn't everything.

Fiona didn't get why she needed the paper gown when all Dr. Connelly ever checked was her face. Her parents sat in the chairs across from her as the Scar Doctor poked and tugged and
hmmm
'd.

“When was your last physical?” he asked.

“December.”

“It looks like you've been five foot six for a full twelve months. Does that sound right? You haven't grown any more?” Dr. Connelly asked, flipping through the open chart in front of him.

“No, that sounds right,” Fiona said.

“Same with your weight?”

She'd worn the same pair of jeans for a year. She figured that counted. “It's stayed the same.”

“And your menstrual cycle?”

“Uh, normal, I guess.”

“How old were you when it started?”

She glanced at her dad, who looked unfazed by this embarrassing line of questioning. “Seventh grade. Thirteen.”

Dr. Connelly went back to flipping through her chart. Then, pulling out a chair, he wheeled himself between Fiona and her parents.

“Now that Fiona's growth has leveled out, I think it's time we consider a broader range of solutions.”

“You mean a skin graft?” her dad asked. His voice sounded thinner than normal. Grayer, if voice could have a color.

“Not the kind we've discussed before.” Dr. Connelly handed her parents a pamphlet before giving Fiona one, too. The cover read
New Procedures in Full Thickness Skin Graft Transplants.

She didn't open it. She'd seen enough over the past eleven years to know what was inside—horrid pictures, purple inflamed skin, stitches, and ooze. The words were impossible to understand, and none made real promises. It was always
43 percent better neovascularization
and
acceptably improved inosculation
.

“There's a new approach in allogeneic full thickness grafts. It's called a deep tissue graft, and it's showing reasonably exciting results on the cosmetic side. There's a specialist in town.” Dr. Connelly wheeled back to his table, sorted through a few stacks, and handed a business card to her mom. “He's already performed a few. I think you should talk to him.”

“Deep tissue?” her mom repeated, flipping through the brochure.

The Scar Doctor nodded. “It uses a significantly thicker segment of skin, giving the muscles a better opportunity to grow together. The aesthetic results are quite good.”

“Thicker?” Fiona asked. She already knew the downside of the graft—they'd have to cut and scar one part of her body to fix another. What part was she supposed to sacrifice?

She opened her pamphlet cautiously and nearly vomited at a post-op picture of someone's angry, raw thigh.

“Yes,” Dr. Connelly was saying. “After removing the entire damaged area, the surgeon will replace it with the healthy transplant.”

My entire damaged area
. “But . . . where will they take the new skin from?”

“A donor.”

Fiona imagined Ryan having a chunk of flesh cut out of him. “Who's going to volunteer to do that?”

“No, Fiona,” he said. “You'd receive it from an organ donor. We'd put your name in a registry and when a suitable match becomes available . . .”

Fiona's eyes widened. “Oh.”

“Of course, the wait can be quite long.” Dr. Connelly looked over at her mom and dad. “Especially since Fiona's not in a life-or-death situation.”

“Who do we need to talk to?” asked her mom.

Fiona didn't pay much attention during the rest of the appointment, not that her input was ever requested. Her mom certainly didn't need it. Without even inspecting the brochure,
Fiona knew this deep tissue transplant was the answer to her mother's prayers. It offered the best promise—even if only a “reasonably exciting” one—of making Fiona presentable.

Like Fiona, her dad said little during the appointment. He asked his usual questions. “What are the real risk factors here, Stan?” and “What kind of recovery time are we looking at?” He focused on totally different details than her mom did.

On the drive home, none of them spoke for the first few miles. Fiona sat in the backseat and waited for the inevitable.

“So that was interesting, don't you think?” her mother said, starting the sales pitch.

Fiona shrugged.

“The things they can do now. It's a miracle.”

“Well, I wouldn't go there yet,” said her dad. “There's still a lot we don't know. We need to understand the risks.”

“Of course. But there's no reason to think she wouldn't be a great candidate.”

“There's no reason to think anything. We don't have any information.”

The discussion—debate, argument, whatever—happened every year, and was always the same. Dr. Connelly would tell them about “the cure of the moment,” her mom would get all excited, and her dad would try to squash each option dead.

Fiona normally agreed with her father, but for different reasons. While he cited terrifying statistics about general anesthesia and infection, she was just unimpressed by any of the options. Major surgery, pain, forced bed rest—and she'd
still have the scars, just in a different place.

This time, though, Fiona was surprised to realize—
gasp
—she might agree with her mother.

When they pulled in the driveway, her parents were still doing their annual “Well, yes, of course, dear, but what about . . .” thing. Fiona left them to it and went to the backyard, where she knew she'd find her brother.

“Watch this,” he said when he saw her. She sat down on the back porch steps, and Ryan juggled the soccer ball between his feet, knees, and thighs. Several minutes later, he finally dropped it. “Shoot. How many was that?”

“Was I supposed to be counting?”

“Had to be eighty.” He cradled the ball on his foot, tossed it up, and started again. “How'd it go with the doctor?”

Fiona shrugged. “We're meeting with a surgeon in a few weeks. New thing. Skin transplant. From a donor. It's kind of freaky.”

“Will it be nasty?”

“Which part? When somebody dies and they cut him into chunks, or when they sew it into me?”

Fiona got a sick pleasure watching her brother squirm, knowing he couldn't tolerate anything the slightest bit gory. As he turned green, she said, “Sorry.”

She stood up and stretched before coming down the steps to stand a few feet from him. “Pass it.”

He studied her before he obliged. The two kicked the ball back and forth, though it was obvious Ryan was holding
way
back. Eventually he got lost in it, though, backing up a little after each pass. Fiona warmed to it, too, getting more comfortable with her footwork, tapping the ball between her feet a few times before sending it on.

“Good move!” Ryan said.

They scrimmaged for a few minutes, Ryan running past her with the ball, Fiona trying to steal it. She'd snatch it every once in a while, but Ryan was good—the star on the school team, a top player on the travel team. She knew he was taking it easy on her.

He always did.

She tired well before he did and plopped on the grass. “All right, I give. You win.”

“Nice footwork. Too bad you can't play—the girls' team needs all the help it can get.”

“Take it up with Mom and Dad.”

Although what was the point now? When she was in elementary and middle school, Fiona pitched a fit every fall, begging her parents to drop the rule about no contact sports. But her parents and doctors would never give the all clear. “Fiona, what if you got hit in the face?” was the main argument.

Fiona's normal side, her left, was 80 percent of her mom, with some of her dad's distant Irish genes sprinkled in—fair skin, reddish-brown hair. But given the train wreck of her right side, it hardly mattered.

A ridge of scar tissue allowed only limited peripheral
vision in the right eye. Healthy muscles underneath pushed while the stiff skin on top pulled, so she winced constantly. Tight, shiny skin, forehead to cheekbone, pulled all the non-harmed bits of her—nose, mouth, eye—off-center.

As far as getting hit in the face went, she'd argued it couldn't get any worse.

“Oh yes it could,” they'd answered.

“Everyone has that risk, not just me.”

They'd shake their heads. “Everyone else has skin that can heal. You do not.” Then, patting her back, they'd say, “What about golf?”

She'd say, “I'll find something else to do, thanks.”

“They don't really have a choice,” Ryan was saying now.

“Yeah, I know.” She shrugged. “I'm not a jock, anyway.”

“You would have been good, though.” He pointed up at a cloud. “Chicken chasing a duck.”

“I'd have
rocked
,” she said. “Dinosaur on roller skates.”

“More like a turkey.” He was quiet a minute. “Do you ever wonder? If it never happened?”

Fiona could go days without even thinking about the scars—she avoided mirrors, so that helped. Yet, her scars never seemed far from Ryan's mind.

She'd catch him looking at her sometimes, his expression almost as stretched and pained as hers. When they were little, he ran a lot of unrequested interference, standing up for her in the cafeteria or playground if anyone tried to tease her. Everyone at school was used to her by now, but still he had
this way of treating her—like she was breakable. She loved his attention. But hated the way she got it.

“I should get to my math,” she said.

Once in her room, Fiona plopped down on her bed and picked up Dr. Connelly's shiny pamphlet of promises. She squinted her eyes so the photos morphed into colored blobs. She didn't understand most of it—what was “debridement” anyway? But the numbers seemed good. Seventy-eight percent. Eighty-six percent. Ninety-two percent. She was still clueless—but with better odds.

The odds look good / Though I got no clue.

Fiona picked up the closest Moleskine, scribbling the rest of the thought:

Would it make me / Enough for you?

Yet another set of lyrics—poems, whatever you called them—that she'd never share. Ryan, Lucy, not even Mr. Hernandez, her guitar teacher, had never heard a note written here.

Everything she played for others belonged to someone else. Someone else's songs, someone else's words, someone else's fears and hopes.

Her great irony: the pull to create her own music versus the push to hide it.

There was an “outside” part of her music she couldn't hide—her songs filled a dozen notebooks; guitar-string calluses covered her fingertips. But the “inside” part? It was like her music was stitched through her system, like tendons or blood cells. All of it—the rhymes, the chords—performed a vital function.

Revealing those very truest bits, opening herself up to others' opinions and criticisms, would be like going inside out. She might break apart completely.

She eyed the pamphlet's “Before” and “After” shots.

Split me down the middle / And I only come halfway.

But I could take your pieces / 'Cause everything's stolen anyway.

Without squinting, she read the material, trying to understand what the procedure could do—and what it couldn't.

It could give her new, smooth skin. It could fix her other Push-Pull—the battle of tight skin and frustrated muscles. It could erase the scars on her face, though the brochure made no promises about the scars on her confidence.

Even using all her dad's tricks for seeing the downside, she couldn't shake it. The upside still looked pretty good.

There was just one problem.

If she was going to be fixed, someone needed to die.