Everything That Makes You by McStay Moriah

Author:McStay, Moriah [McStay, Moriah]
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2014-12-30T08:00:00+00:00

FI

Sitting cross-legged on her bed, Fi nestled Panda in her lap and absently picked at her comforter. “Where are you?” she asked, holding the phone away from her ear.

“The common room on my hall.” Trent spoke loudly, and still all the background noise threatened to drown him out completely. “There’s a party later. People are hanging out.”

Fi’s dramatic plans for the evening included hiding from her parents’ “good intentions” and going to bed by nine, just as she’d done every night since May.

“Sounds fun,” she lied.

“And you’d be the expert,” he mumbled under his breath.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she snapped.

Critiquing her mourning rituals was Ryan’s job. All summer, he and Gwen had tried to coax her out of the house. By August, he was spouting platitudes, like He’s better off now the suffering’s over and There are other fish in the sea! All the while, with his arm comfortably around Gwen’s shoulder.

“Nothing. Sorry,” Trent said. “Hang on, I can’t hear anything.” Muffled sounds came over—and then the background noise suddenly disappeared. “Okay, I’m back in the room.”

“You don’t have to leave your party.”

“It’s not a party yet.” She heard the groan of springs followed by a soft grunt. “I want to crash a minute anyway, I’m exhausted. The coach is sadistic. We practiced all day, and it’s like a hundred and five outside.”

Fi sympathized. Doing anything outdoors in a Deep South summer—which could last till October sometimes—sucked. She had swimmer friends who claimed to sweat underwater. “Maybe it’s payback,” she said. “Remember those awful workouts when you made yourself my personal trainer? You never showed any mercy.”

“You were in a climate-controlled gym, you wimp.” The mattress groaned again, and Fi pictured Trent’s feet dangling off the end of the twin-sized dorm bed. He hardly fit in his queen bed at home, always complaining he had to sleep diagonally. “You have no idea—all the pads! Seriously, I could drop dead out there.”

Closing her eyes, Fi rubbed her fingers hard across her eyebrows, like she could massage out the dull throb she’d had since Marcus died.

“Man, Fi. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“It’s fine. Don’t worry about it.”

Actually, it wasn’t fine. She wasn’t fine. She was way on the other side of fine—upside down even. But dragging Trent down with her wouldn’t get her right side up.

She’d gotten used to the awkward pause that always followed these situations. The thoughtless gaffe—usually something harmless, like I’d rather die than see that movie or A little broccoli won’t kill you—followed by the stammering apology. Then overcompensating conversation immediately after, usually about something trite like the weather or tomorrow night’s dinner.

“Tell me about the drills,” she said. Her finger looped around a loose thread in the bedspread, and she snapped it free.

“I got the playbook today. Hang on.” She heard another grunt followed by shuffling and another groan of springs. “Well, there’s the Flip.”

For the next twenty minutes, Trent talked her through the Ole Miss lacrosse playbook. Some were pretty clever; a few could even be adapted for a girls’ team.

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