No Place to Fall (12 page)

Whitney looks at me, her smile resigned. “It is too late.” She lays her comb on the stoop and stands up, tugging her T-shirt in place over her faded sweats. “Watch Coby for an hour?”

I take Coby from Whitney, but can't help but turn
around and look at Sammy. “Go yourself. Don't get my sister into this.”

“It might be hard for you to realize, Amber.” Sammy's eyes dance, mocking me. “But your sister would do anything for me.”

Whitney slides her arm around his waist and gives me a weary smile.

I hate him.

But I know he's right.

Mama takes Coby from me
while I make turkey sandwiches. Outside, the maples are hinting at the fall show to come. Tiny patches of orange. Red. Yellows so bright you'd swear they were an illusion. I snag a bread-and-butter pickle out of the jar. It's crunchy, sweet, a little sour, with mustard seeds that pop open in your mouth.

The need to hike to the top of the mountain tickles up my legs as we eat. If I can get where I can see out to the horizon, maybe things won't seem so desperate.

“I'm going to take a walk, Mama. Do you mind watching Coby till Whitney comes back?”

“Go on. He can help me sweep.”

Coby puts his bread crust down and scuttles over to his
play broom. He's a good helper. “Weep?” I hear him say as I grab my hiking boots out of the hall closet.

I walk across our backyard and open my mouth. “Come All Ye Fair and Tender Ladies,” an old ballad, tumbles out, and I hike up to the wood line.

“Come all ye fair and tender ladies,

Take warning how you court your men,

They'll tell to you some loving story,

And they'll make you think they love you well,

And away they'll go and court some other,

And leave you there in grief to dwell.”

It feels fitting, after last night, and I kick at some leaves like they're Will.

I keep singing to drown out my thoughts. My eyes go soft and through the haze of green, I imagine the settlers who brought the old songs I love from Scotland and Ireland and England. They weren't afraid to leave their whole lives behind in search of something better. Like me, thinking about that school in Winston-Salem.

Whitney's probably right, though. It's a far-fetched dream. I've poked around on the internet, trying to figure out exactly what the songs
were
on that audition list. All the ballads I know, even our chorus song, “Shenandoah,”
work for the folk category. I'd found some of the English art songs on YouTube. They tended toward girls singing from way down deep in their toes, a way I don't know how to sing. And the lieder and the arias, the real opera? I should have signed up for chorus two years ago. Even with Mrs. Early's help, I doubt I can pull it off in time.

When I reach the logging road, the air cools. It's only been a couple of weeks since school started, but already the thick humidity of summer is giving way to drier days. I haven't been up here since that last night before school with Devon.

The barn is unchanged. I'm tempted to duck inside to see if I recognize any of the hikers' names left carved in the gray wood, but the trail calls. Up there, on the ridges, the world stills. It's just me and the loamy smell of rich Carolina dirt, the bite of pine, and the chatter of squirrels gathering stores for the coming winter. The woods, they don't judge.

I hike until sweat runs down my temples. At a gray rock outcropping, I stop and sit down. To the east, blue-gray ridges overlap each other into the distance. I tear a rhododendron leaf into pieces, letting the deep green fragments flutter to the ground.

I stand up and wipe the dirt off my pants. Maybe I'll see if Sean is around, and tell him about Sammy's band
and the practice on Wednesday. It won't be so bad if he's there. One of Sammy's friends is bound to have a guitar Sean can play, at least until he figures out how to get his own. With the audition seeming more and more out of my reach, maybe being in Sammy's band won't be the worst thing. At least I'll be onstage again. And maybe C.A.'s right. Maybe hanging out with Sean would be fun. And help me get my mind off Will.

Going down trail is always faster than going up, and I'm at the hiker barn before I know it. I trot around the corner of the trees and see movement. I speed up, hoping it's Sean and I can catch him. I don't notice the gnarled root at the edge of the trail. My foot snags in the crook and I go sprawling in the dirt.

Shards of pain shoot up my ankle. I roll over, pulling my knee to my chest. My ankle is pushing hard against my hiking boot. “Damn,” I whisper.

“Hey, now. No need for that.” A tall man jogs to where I sit in the logging road. He squats down, and I know from the shape of his face and the clay-spattered clothing that this is none other than Eric Whitson, Kush's father.

“Let's take a look at that.” He helps me into a sitting position. “I'm Eric Whitson. This is my land, in case you're wondering who I am.”

“I figured.” I grimace as he loosens the laces on my boot.
“I'm friends with Sean. And Kush,” I add. “I'm Amber.”

He applies some pressure to my ankle.

“Ow!”

“Well, Amber, let's pray you haven't broken it.” He pokes again. “Or a break might be better, in this case. Are you an athlete?”

I shake my head.

“Good thing rifle season's around the corner to keep you off the trail. Soft tissue injuries can be worse than a break. And that's my unofficial diagnosis. Sprained ankle.” He stands. “Stay here. I'll run and get the four-wheeler to drive you back to the house and we can call your folks. You're probably going to want to get X-rays.”

He's gone, then back in a flash, helping me onto the wooden box bed he's built on the back of his ATV. My ankle pulses as we bounce away from the barn toward the old Whitson house.

At the house, Mrs. Whitson stands at the back screen door, holding it open. She, like Mama, is squishy. But unlike Mama, she's got herself fixed up on a Saturday morning.

“Oh, poor girl. Here, let me help you. I'm Aneeta.” She comes to my other side and they help me limp into the house.

I don't know what I was expecting, but it isn't this. The
house is just a regular house. Sofas, chairs, a maple kitchen table. But there are no framed prints of
The Last Supper
or pictures of cats with yarn for the Whitsons. They have real art and loads of it. Shelves separating the kitchen from the living room are filled with gorgeous pottery.

“Are those your pieces?” I ask Mr. Whitson.

“Some, others are friends' work.”

Mrs. Whitson, Aneeta, pushes pillows under my ankle, then hands me an ice pack.

“Are you interested in clay?” Mr. Whitson asks as he holds out the phone.

Before I can answer him, Sean appears in the doorway. “Hey, Amber. What are you doing here?”

I point to my propped-up ankle. “Hiking injury. Your uncle saved me.”

He walks over and sits down next to me on the couch, and nudges me with his elbow. I smile at him, and his permanent bed-head hair. Then Kush shows up from somewhere in the back. He looks like he just crawled out of bed, too. His hair's tousled and he's showing off a Devon-worthy display of abs.

Mrs. Whitson follows my stare. “Kushad. We have company. Go get dressed.”

Then Kush sees me, and glances at Sean. “What? Y'all got a thing now?”

At the same time we blurt out, “No.”

Kush looks at his mother and raises his eyebrows. She shoos him toward the back with her hands.

I remember the phone in my hand and dial home.

Mama picks up on the first ring. “Amber, is that you?”

“Hi, Mama. I'm down at the Whitson place. Can you come and pick me up?”

“Amber, you know what I've told you about going out into the woods without your phone. What were you thinking?”

“I know. I forgot. But I need you to come and get me.”

“Are you in that family's house?”

“Yes, ma'am. I tripped and hurt my ankle.”

“We don't know those people, Amber.” “Mama.” I try to make my tone even, but it comes out irritated. “I go to school with their kids. Just come pick me up.”

Mr. Whitson interrupts. “If there's a problem, I can give you a ride.”

I shake my head. “She's coming,” I say.

“What?” Mama says.

“I said you're coming.”

I hear her sigh and the sound of the kitchen chair legs creaking as she clicks the receiver.

Kush reappears in an old T-shirt and jeans.

He pours two glasses of orange juice and brings one to me. He doesn't bring anything to Sean. “How was the dance?” he asks me.

I can tell he's only making small talk to be polite in front of his parents. “Pretty fun,” I say with fake enthusiasm.

Sean shifts on the couch and stares at me. But I don't miss a beat and keep my face straight to cover the lie. “How was the Bollywood marathon?”

“All right I guess. Not like a Friday night in Atlanta, that's for sure.”

If I hadn't seen Kush with his shirt off, I'd be struggling to understand Devon's fascination. The boy likes nothing about our town.

“So, Amber.” Mrs. Whitson returns from the kitchen and puts a plate of fried bread on the coffee table in front of me. “What grade are you in?”

“I'm a junior.” I take a bite of the flaky pastry and a whole chorus of spices hits my tongue. “This is amazing,” I say before I finish chewing.

“Those are parathas, from Northern India.” Her eyes flit from Sean to me and back like she's trying to figure out if we have something going on. Kush looks bored.

The doorbell rings.

“Oh, that must be your mother. Eric, go and invite her in.”

Mr. Whitson disappears into the foyer, and then reappears with Mama. She's dressed in a pair of polyester pull-ons and a sweatshirt from Dollywood. She still has on her bedroom slippers.

“Oh, I . . .” Mama glances around at the light-filled room. “I'm sorry, my slippers.”

Mrs. Whitson's laugh is musical. She grabs Mama's hands in greeting. “Oh, don't worry about that, we're just so happy to meet a neighbor.”

“Amber had quite a spill.” Mr. Whitson nods in my general direction. “Glad I was out in the rear of the property when it happened.”

Mama's grown more comfortable now. “I swear, child.” She shakes her head at me and looks at Mrs. Whitson. “Can you believe her, running off without her cell phone?”

“Yes, parenting teenagers is a constant struggle.”

Sean, Kush, and I all do a simultaneous ceiling roll with our eyes. For once, we seem to be in agreement on something.

Mrs. Whitson says, “I would love for you to stay and have some parathas with us, but we're concerned Amber may need X-rays. Will you come another time?” She looks hopeful.

I hope Mama says yes. It would be nice for her to have a friend other than the church hens.

“Oh, well, yes. That'd be nice. Thank you.” Mama smiles a little and presses her hands together.

Now the trick will be getting Mama to follow through.

When Sean gets up to help me to the car, he asks, “Why'd you say that?” His voice is low, so Mama won't hear. “About the dance.”

I take a gulp of air. The sting of Will's blow-off burns fresh. “Long story. But thanks for covering for me. I didn't feel like getting into it with Kush.” I also don't want Kush reporting back to Devon about me hightailing over the mountain with Will. “Hey.” I slow when we reach the front steps. “Are you interested in going with me to this thing Wednesday? My brother-in-law is having a practice for his new band. He asked if you'd come.”

Sean's voice rises. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.” I pause and give weight to my words, testing them out. “And I'd
really
like it if you came, too.”

Sean swallows nervously. “Uh, okay. Cool.”

It gets awkward for a second before I blurt out, “But you'll have to drive us.”

Sean lifts me down the stairs, then helps me hop toward the van. He won't meet my eyes. “No problem. Does your brother-in-law know I don't have a guitar?”

“Don't worry about it.” I'm about to tell him I found a guitar like his old one at the pawn shop, but Mama starts
the van behind us, her signal for
let's go
.

I backpedal a little. “I, you know. I'd really like you to come, so you can play again.” I sneak a glance at Sean.

Sean opens the van door and helps me into the seat. “I'll see you at school.”

I pull the door shut. Through the window, I see a tentative smile spread across his face before we pull away.

Mama drives silent and slow, like an eighty-year-old man on his way to church. She says the radio distracts her. A light drizzle starts to fall.

“Let me go change clothes then I'll take you to the hospital. Your daddy got called in for overtime.” Mama's hands clutch the steering wheel and she peers over it. My height, or lack of it, came from her side.

“It's fine, Mama. We can't afford the deductible.” I'm pretty sure there'll be no check that comes from Daddy's overtime.

“Amber Delaine. Our money concerns have nothing to do with keeping you healthy.”

“Mama, I'm serious. It's only a sprain. Ice, rest, aspirin, and I'll be good as new.”

She slows the minivan and turns in the driveway. The rain comes harder. Mama hates to drive in the rain. “Well,
are you sure? It won't take anything for me to run in there and change clothes.”

“No, Mama, I'll be fine. I might need those old crutches for a few days, though.”

Mama goes into the house and Whitney comes out bringing me the crutches from when she broke her leg in middle school. Her eyes are red again. “What'd you do?” she asks.

“Fell. What's wrong with you?” I have to work to keep the irritation out of my voice. It's Saturday afternoon and she looks stoned.

“Department of Social Services called. Ever since we got arrested, they're spewing some crap about how I'm not fit to parent Coby.” She helps me out of the van.

I hold on to my two cents about the social worker maybe having a point. “What do you think Social Services is going to do?”

“Nothing now. But they opened a case file on Sammy and me and assigned us a caseworker.”

She crosses her arms and looks up through the dapple of leaves.