No Place to Fall (10 page)

Will drives over the mountain
. At the top, we pass the old
WELCOME TO TENNESSEE
sign. I'm humming along to the southern rock he has playing on the radio and wondering what it would be like to have a car and the freedom to go wherever you wanted. I close my eyes and imagine it's me driving, not stopping, and going far away from Mama and Daddy, from Whitney and Sammy and the whole congregation of Evermore Fundamental.

Will is probably headed to Chapel Hill next fall. He'll find friends from all over, maybe pledge a fraternity, and probably end up in law school and be a lawyer or a judge like his dad. I open my eyes when I feel his hand on the
gearshift hovering near my leg. “So, Not So Plain and Small, have you thought about me at all?”

I push his hand away, but the warmth lingers. “Not at all.”

“Not once?” He sounds incredulous.

“Not once.” I cross my arms over my lap.

“I don't believe you.”

I scoot toward the door. “Believe what you want, Will McKinney.”

He grabs the gearshift. “Okay, then. I believe that you, Amber Vaughn, are an enlightened woman, far above the petty gossip of Mountain High and small mindedness, and that if you'd allow yourself, we might have fun together.”

I let his words settle in. No rumors have gotten back to me. It doesn't seem like Will's talked to anybody. It would be nice to have his help for my audition, actually. Especially since he's in chorus, too.

I glance over. “Okay. Maybe I thought about you once.”

He laughs and reaches over me, pulling his pipe out of the glove box. “Friday night lights?”

“Will, that's what you did last time. Got me stoned and . . .”

Will shakes his head and squeezes his eyes shut for just a second. “Fine then, put it away. I shouldn't have it anyway. But if my memory serves me, you seemed to be
enjoying yourself quite a bit that day.”

I uncross my arms, confused by the hurt in Will's voice. “Where are we going?”

“To see friends.”

He pulls onto the interstate and we drive past a few exits before winding into one of the trashed rental neighborhoods occupied by university students. In front of a brick ranch house surrounded by vacant wooded lots, Will parks his car behind an old Ford Explorer plastered with bumper stickers. A few other vans and cars are parked along the street. The sound of electric guitars and guys shouting escapes from the shaded windows.

Will bangs on the front door and I stand behind him. The night is getting chilly. I wrap my arms around myself in a hug.

A bearded guy a little older than us pulls the door open. “Dude.” He clobbers Will on the shoulder and gives me the once-over. “Is she cool?”

“Yeah, man.” Will introduces me. “Amber, this is Sizz.”

“Hi.” I raise my hand in a shy wave and peer past Will.

There's a band set up in the den. A bunch of college-aged guys and a couple of girls are gathered in small groups on couches and chairs or standing around a plywood stage. I hang back.

Will steps behind me and puts a hand on each of my
hips, steering me inside. When he loops one hand around my waist, I let it stay, nervous and excited in this room full of people I don't know.

Will leans in. “You want something to drink?”

“Sure.” I let him guide me to the kitchen.

He rummages in the fridge and emerges with two beers. If anyone smells alcohol on our breaths at the dance later, we'll be suspended for sure, but one beer won't hurt. I take the cold can from him.

“What is this place?” I ask, looking around.

“My friend Sizz's house.”

A tall, thin brunette around Whitney's age slides into the kitchen and gives Will a look I'm not sure what to make of. “You singing tonight, baby boy?” She looks over at me. “Who's your friend?”

“Nicole. Amber. Amber, this is Sizz's girlfriend.”

She smiles and instead of a handshake, offers the glowing red joint pinched between her fingers. “You the girl he told us about?”

I wave it off. “No thanks, and no, I don't think so.”

Will rests his hand back on my waist. “Yeah, she's the one. I'm hoping I can convince her to sing with me.”

“What?” My body goes rigid, and I turn to him. “What are you talking about, Will?”

Will's eyes snap with excitement. “Remember that day
in the car, when I told you any band would kill to have you sing with them?”

I step out of Will's loose hold. “Yeah.”

“Well, a couple of the guys from Flat Trucker come over on Fridays, when they're not gigging, to hang out and play with Sizz. I've been trying to figure out a way to get you over here, ever since that . . . well, ever since that day we sang together for the first time. I tried to talk to you about it after chorus, but you keep running off before I can ask you.”

Terror teases its way into my legs and arms. The songbird I've thought was so trapped goes still inside her cage, the open door more frightening than the cage itself. I whisper, “Will, I can't. I don't know these people and there are like . . .” I look around. “Twenty of them or something.”

Nicole puts her arm around my shoulder, all warm and friendly like Whitney used to be. “Sure you can, honey. You look amazing. Don't you want to feel that rush of being onstage? It's not like an audition or anything, we're just hanging out, having a good time.” She takes another hit.

“Come on.” Will grabs my hand. “We'll just go watch for a while, then you can decide. No pressure.”

In the den, Will sits in the last chair and pulls me toward his lap. I pull away, looking for another chair, but
my only other option is an open spot on the couch between two guys wearing camouflage.

Will grins as I give in and perch lightly on his knees, trying hard not to mold into him like I want to. But Will wraps his arms around my waist and pulls me closer, despite my attempt to be proper. In a conspiratorial whisper, he says, “See, isn't this nice? You. Me. A rock-and-roll band.” He makes a game-show gesture to the room at large.

This makes me laugh, and I turn around to look at his face. “Yeah, a mother's worst nightmare.”

Will's face goes still. And I feel mine go still, because right now, right here, there is nothing more I want to do than put my lips on his.

Then, the band wraps up its jam and Sizz hauls Will out from under me and onto the makeshift stage.

They take a few minutes to tune guitars and adjust microphones. Will rubs his hands on his jeans and gives me a thumbs-up. I curl my legs underneath me and take a sip of the cold beer. Then the guitar and bass player start with the opening chords, and Will steps onto center stage. He puts both hands on the microphone stand and closes his eyes as the guitars come to life behind him. Then, Will steps closer, his mouth barely brushing the silver of the microphone.
“From the bright lights of Memphis . . .”

His voice, deepened to a low growl, is perfect for the
song they're playing. He hangs onto the stand with his foot, letting it pivot on the floor when he pulls his shoulders to his ears or leans forward on a phrase. Every now and then he reaches out sideways with his hand and grabs some invisible note, or pushes his bangs off his forehead only to have them flop over his eyes again.

Onstage, Will is completely transformed.

I always thought music was a deep hobby for Will, something for Friday nights on the front porch. But looking at him up there, hanging on to the microphone, letting his voice play with the song, I know I was dead wrong. Will McKinney loves this as much as I do.

I glance around the room, feeling braver as the beer goes down. Twenty or so people. How hard would it be to get up in front of them and sing? I could pretend I'm at church like I did at the campfire this summer. I notice two girls whispering and looking at Will, batting their eyes. I glance back at him. He's oblivious, howling into the microphone. When the music stops, one of the girls unfolds her long college legs and slithers up to the stage. I hold my breath. But Will doesn't even see her, and jumps off the stage in front of where I'm sitting.

“What'd ya think?” he asks, settling on the arm of the chair, before tugging on a strand of my short hair.

“I think you may have a music career, Will McKinney,”
I say, poking him in the ribs, even though what I really want to do is pull him into my lap.

Will grimaces and pulls his hand away from my hair, before pushing his own sticky mop off his forehead. “Yeah, right.”

“Why not?” I look at him, noticing once again, like I always do, Will's perfect, kissable lips, the scar, the veins running down his tanned, masculine hands, the way his dark lashes tilt up over his eyes just so.

“The judge,” Will says quickly.

Judge McKinney? “What do you mean?”

“Don't worry about it. Come on, they're playing one just for you.” Will leads me onstage and adjusts the microphone to my height. A few of the boys catcall me, and I start to sweat, but I notice Nicole giving me a wink from behind them. Will whispers, “Don't be scared. Just close your eyes and feel the music.”

I grab his arm, panic beating in my chest. “Wait, don't go. What am I singing?”

Will grins. “A song you know, but we're going to play it like you've never heard it. I'll be standing right over there with my banjo.”

He leaves me standing there and walks a few feet away to the edge of the small stage. I feel like a geek, my arms slack and nervous by my side, my eyes not knowing where
to land, my feet twisting in my boots. I wonder if all these people can see my heart pumping under my suddenly too-tight shirt. Then, the drummer picks up a beat, and a bass joins in. The electric strains of the guitar break into a faster “I'll Fly Away.” Somebody's brought Will's banjo in for him, and I hear his unmistakable style.

I know this song. I could sing it in my sleep, we sing it so often in church. My hands move away from my sides and find the microphone. I pull it closer and wait, closing my eyes so the only senses I have are the sound of the music and the smells of smoke and sweat swirling in the air. My feet start to tap in rhythm to the beat. Someone whistles.

When I open my mouth, the bird surprises me. She's not scared one little bit. It's like she knows she's been waiting for this moment her whole life. She opens her wings and heads for the sky, soaring higher and higher with each note, and I forget that I'm in front of people. I forget about Will. I forget about Daddy and Whitney. I am free. Nothing is holding me to the earth but the sound of the song, the music, and my voice pouring out of me.

When the music stops, I'm breathless. Exhilarated. Transformed. I am not Herman and Donna Vaughn's daughter, Whitney Vaughn's sister. I am all Amber. I am somebody and these people like me. I hear the drummer mumble behind me, “Damn, that girl can sing.”

I open my eyes, and Will, his eyes bright with something I think looks like pride, is in front of me, holding his arms out.

I jump into them and wrap my hands around his neck, then throw my head back laughing. When I catch my breath we both take half steps back to look at each other. He starts to say something but I stop him with my lips before he can ruin this gift of a moment. I feel him start to pull away, but I want Will, and I want this. It's
my
turn. I press my hands to his hips and walk him backward into the kitchen, the band cranking up into the next song.

“Amber, wait, what . . .”

“Shut up, Will,” I say, and let my tongue slip into his mouth when we reach a dark corner of the kitchen.

Will's hands slide from my shoulders down my back, as he leans against the counter, pulling me with him. I don't want the feeling of exhilaration to end, and besides singing, there's only one way I know. I don't say a word as Will's hand slips under my skirt, just relish the feeling of his skin on mine. I press my lips harder, pushing against him, feeling him want me the way the crowd did before, just a minute ago.

It's like this, Will and I slung up against a stranger's kitchen counter, when I hear a horrible, familiar voice.

“Well, look what we have here.”

I freeze and then turn toward the voice as Will's hand slides out from underneath my skirt.

Sammy's leaning in the door frame, fingers hooked in his belt loops, grinning all bright-eyed, like he just won the lottery.

“Your mama know you're here?” he asks, lifting one eyebrow.

I step away from Will. From the other room, I hear the band starting up again.

Sammy laughs, a sound sort of like a bark, and sidles up next to us at the counter. “Yeah, that's what I figured.” He claps Will on the shoulder. “What's up, judge's boy?”

Will looks at me. “You
know
him?”

Sammy drapes his arm over Will's shoulder. “Of course she
knows
me. I'm her big brother.”

I interrupt. “Brother-in-law.”

Will knocks Sammy's hand off his shoulder.

Sammy chuckles. “Come on now, man, you're not still mad at me, are you?”

Now it's my turn. I look at Will. “
You
know
Sammy
?”

Sammy grabs a beer out of the fridge. “Of course he knows me. We did a little business and he's still pouting because his name got mixed up with mine, scared his daddy would take away his toys.”

The sound of the beer tab opening cracks through the
kitchen. Sammy chugs the beer. He looks at me. “So, little sister, first practice is this Wednesday at five o'clock. Bring that other fella of yours.”

I open my mouth to protest. Sammy twitches his forefinger back and forth like an elementary schoolteacher. “Ah-ah-ah. I wouldn't say a word, little darling.” He grins wide before hooking the beer can into the garbage bin. He whispers in my ear, loud enough for Will to hear. “That way, I won't say a word to your mama about where you've been.”