No Place to Fall (13 page)

I reach out and touch her elbow. “Whit, I'm sorry.”

She drops her face in her hands. I angle over on my crutches and lean against her back, hugging her awkwardly.

“I'm worried, Amber.” Her shoulders shake and I hug her harder.

“You can get help, you know,” I whisper.

She shrugs her shoulder and steps out of my embrace, wiping her cheeks. “I don't need help. I'm worried about Sammy.”

I guess it's time to tell her. “That's why I'm going to sing with his band.”

“You're what?” Whitney whips her head up and stares at me.

“Yeah. He asked me to sing backup. Actually, he blackmailed me to sing backup.”

“What are you talking about?”

A truck drives by and bounces in the pothole. The back end rattles like it's going to fall off. I balance on the crutches and take a deep breath. “You can't tell Mama.”

Whitney's eyes stay focused on my face. “Spill, Amber.”

“I went to a party over in Tennessee when I was supposed to be at the football game. Sammy showed up and saw me making out with this guy. He swore he wouldn't tell Mama if I helped with his new band.”

“Why didn't you tell me before?” Whitney's face gets all mottled like Mama's does when she's mad.

“Chill out, Whit. I didn't say anything because I wasn't sure I was going to do it. But I thought about it and it
seems okay. If nothing else I can keep an eye on him for you. Besides, my friend Sean's going to play, too.”

Whitney's breathing through her nose like a rhino.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

She gets up in my face. “Who was he with at that party?”

“Nobody, Whitney. He was probably dealing or something.”

She drums her fingers against her arms. “I'm not sure about this, Amber. You don't need to be hanging out with him.”

“I thought you'd be happy.”

“I don't need you being my watchdog.” She mumbles and I swear it sounds like she says, “Or Sammy watching you,” but that's crazy talk. She paces back and forth.

I've got to convince her. “Whit, listen. It's a three-way win. Sammy won't tell Mama. I get to build my confidence onstage, help my friend out, and you know Sammy won't do anything stupid with me around.”

Whitney stops. “That's the part I'm worried about.”

“You think I can't handle myself?”

She pushes her palms against her temples. “Promise me.”

“Promise you what?”

“You won't go along with any of his or his friends'
harebrained ideas. That you won't let him get you in trouble, too.”

I plant the crutches firmly beneath me. “Whitney,” I say. “I'm not you.”

As soon as the words are out, I know I've tipped the scale too far.

Whitney drops her hands and snaps her head up. “Screw you, Amber.”

She turns and I watch my sister storm across the yard to her trailer.

Monday morning, my ankle is
the entire range of purple and blues and swollen like an eggplant. I'm beginning to suspect it might be more than a sprain, but I don't want to cause a fuss for Mama and Daddy.

I swallow three aspirin and wrap it in an old Ace bandage.

Daddy drops me at school. “Bye, caboose, have a good day.” He squeezes my shoulder. “Love you.”

I don't respond. Besides, Coby's the caboose now anyway. I swing out to the sidewalk on my crutches. I glance at him before walking in. He's smiling at me from the cab and waves before driving away. He's my daddy. Right or wrong. Good or bad. I'm stuck loving him. Just like Mama.

The bell rings as I walk through the door. I rush to the art room, trying not to mow anybody over with my crutches as I go.

C.A. pats my chair and whispers, “Those crutches are the only reason I'm still speaking to you.”

“I told you I was sorry.” It was easier to let her, Kush, and Devon think I bailed from the dance, rather than explain what Will and I were up to that night. She'd pouted on the phone but I guess she was over it now.

Ms. Thomas passes out worksheets on facial features and takes us through a diagram of where to place the eyes, the nose, and the mouth within the oval of the face.

“How's your ankle?” Kush asks me, once Ms. Thomas sets us on task to draw our table partners. “My parents are all worried about you.”

Devon reaches across the table for a kneaded eraser from the supply box. He has to lean across Kush to get it. Kush leans backward, away from Devon's arm.

“It's okay. Still really swollen, but it's only been a day and a half.” I pull a bottle of ibuprofen out of my pocket and shake it. “Mama hooked me up, though.”

We settle into positions. Me holding still while Kush draws. Devon holding still for C.A. It's silent for a few minutes while they sketch.

Kush stares at my nose, his pencil scratching across the
paper. “Well, my dad said to remind you and your mom to stop by one day. He was serious about it. So was my mom.” He pauses, then looks at C.A. “You should come, too.” He bends down to his paper again, his hair swinging forward, covering his face.

Devon inhales sharply and raises an eyebrow at me. I know what he's thinking. Kush said nothing about Devon coming over.

“Stop by for what?” C.A. asks.

I answer, hoping to calm the churn I know is rising inside Devon. “Kush's dad helped me on Saturday when I fell on his property. He offered to let me come do pottery if I wanted. And I think Kush's mom got really excited about meeting Mama. She might be a little lonely, being new in town.”

“Aw, that's so great for your mom. She's awesome.” C.A. holds her pencil out toward Devon's face, measuring the space between his eyes.

Devon holds his head still so C.A. can sketch. He pokes my thigh. “Tell them about the band thing.”

“What band thing?” C.A. asks.

“My brother-in-law asked if Sean and I would come to his first practice. He wants me to sing backup and Sean to play guitar.”

“Oh really?” C.A. tightens her ponytail and clears her
throat, then starts erasing all the smudges off her page. Even ones I can't see.

I try to make light of it. “Yeah, it's no big deal.”

Kush's pencil pushes harder against the paper. “Sean's going to be in a band? With you?” He lifts his eyes from under his curtain of glossy hair, studying me.

“Seriously, y'all, it's no big deal.” I glance across the table and try to get a glimpse of Kush's drawing of my face. “We'll probably just be practicing in somebody's garage and I doubt we'll actually ever play anywhere.”

C.A.'s pencil starts moving again. “I think it's great. You and Sean will have a great time together. You have so much in common.”

Kush erases, then uses his finger to smudge. He looks at me, then looks down again at the paper. “Interesting,” he says.

“What?” I ask.

He holds his drawing of me up for all of us. Big eyes. Long eyelashes. He's even added shoulders, a neckline, and my chest. Kush drew me beautiful.

Devon leans over to look. His Adam's apple bobs twice as he studies the sketch.

C.A. grabs it. “Wow, Kush! This is great.” She holds it up next to me. “This could be your album cover.” Then she pauses. “But wait a minute. What about your audition?
You're still trying out, aren't you?”

I shrug. All of their attention, especially Kush's, is making me uncomfortable. “Yeah, I guess so.”

“You guess so?” she says. “There's no guessing. You're doing it.”

“Yeah.” Kush leans back in his chair and stretches his legs out long, bumping my good leg. “Don't you want to get the hell out of here?”

I move my leg away. “Well, yeah.”

Devon huffs. “She doesn't think she's good enough.”

Kush raises his hands back behind his head and locks his eyes on mine. “I have a hunch she's really good.” Then he whispers loud as he hands me his finished sketch, “I don't know why Devon calls you Plain and Small.”

Devon's mouth falls open.

I look away.

Finally, the end-of-day bell rings and it's time for chorus. Mrs. Early smiles as I hobble into the room. “How's your ankle, dear? We missed you at church yesterday.”

“Thanks. It still hurts some but I'm okay.” My eyes dart toward Will's chair but it's vacant.

“I have something for you.” Mrs. Early rummages through a basket of CDs on the shelf next to her piano. “Ah. Here it is.”

She hands me a CD with my name written on it in Sharpie.

“What's this?” The CD is plain silver in a clear case, with no clue to what it holds.

“You were asking me about arias. And through a bit of deductive reasoning,
and
because your mother mentioned it yesterday, I'm guessing you're going to need some help with your NC-Arts audition.”

“She told you about it?” I ask.

Mrs. Early steps aside as two other students brush past. “She did, honey. And she was lit up as bright as a Christmas tree talking about you.” She smiles. “I made you a CD of some songs that I think might fit their requirements and your voice. Take a listen and see if anything suits you.”

Another group of kids comes in and I see Will, walking in with his head down and his banjo case in his hand. I follow him with my eyes as he walks to his seat.

I may be singing backup for Sammy, but who says I can't learn some opera at the same time? I may be small-town, but I'm not stupid. I look back at Mrs. Early. “Do you think I have enough time?”

“We'll do our best, dear. But it's going to take dedication and hard work. Can you meet me in the mornings for extra sessions?”

I nod.

“Good.” She smiles and points me to my seat.

Mrs. Early sits at the piano and without introducing anything, plays the opening notes for “Shenandoah.” We're working on an arrangement where the whole chorus hums the opening bars, then the boys come in, followed by the girls. I watch Mrs. Early as she directs us, but I'm hyperaware of Will. He stands tall and serious. When he opens his mouth, I hear his rich bass circle the room. I know other people are singing, but it's his voice that fills my ears. I'm so intent on listening to him that I almost miss my own cue.

When we finish the third run-through of the song, Mrs. Early claps. “Beautiful. Now let's have some fun. I'm going to let you show off a bit.”

The room rustles to life and the other chorus students whisper to each other. Obviously, the members who've been with Mrs. Early for a while know what's happening, but I don't have a clue. I glance over at Will. He's looking right at me, dark eyes unreadable. He raises his palms skyward with a shrug of his shoulders, like he's clueless, too.

Is acknowledging my existence again an apology?

Mrs. Early walks toward a girl in the front row. “Okay, Becca, pull out three names.”

The girl, a senior I vaguely know, pulls out three slips of paper from a glass bowl. She reads them off one by one. “Destiny Miller, Brandon Davenport, Amber Vaughn.”

“Delightful.” Mrs. Early smiles. “Now remember, pick a song that best represents you.”

I lean over to the girl sitting next to me. “What are we doing?”

“Show-off Solos,” the girl replies. “You got picked, right?”

I nod.

“Choose a song you sing really well and show off.”

I feel a knot swell in my gut. “You're kidding.”

“Nope.” The girl smiles wide. “But you'll do great.”

Because my name got drawn last, I go last. The first girl, Destiny, sings a new country song I keep hearing on the radio. When she gets to the beer-drinking and hell-raising part, she pumps her fist in the air and the chorus room erupts in laughter. Even Mrs. Early allows it to slip with only a disapproving twist to her lips. Brandon, a quiet boy who's been in school with me since kindergarten, sings a sweeping love song I've never heard a man sing before. I notice a few of the girls wiping their eyes at the end.

When he sits down, I panic.

“Amber, you want to sing where you are?” Mrs. Early points toward my ankle.

I glance at Will and stand. “It's okay,” I say. “I'll come down.”

“What are you going to sing?” Mrs. Early asks.

“‘The Cuckoo'?” I ask tentatively.

She nods.

I look at the case by Will's feet. “Can Will McKinney play his banjo while I sing?”

“Will?” Mrs. Early asks.

But Will's hand is already reaching for the latches on his case. That simple movement washes a wave of memory over me. Birds calling. The wind swirling. The smell of fading summer, and the feeling of his lips on mine. I clear my throat and give my head a shake.

I nod and Will starts picking the notes on his banjo. The sweet plink of notes surrounds me and I draw my voice, pure as mountain air, up and out into the room.
“Gonna build me a log cabin, on a mountain so high.”
I tell the story of “The Cuckoo,” letting my voice linger on the high notes. Will fills in the spaces with his own music. Our eyes never meet, but our music is seamless, like water flowing and filling a negative space.

On the final lines,
“There's one thing that's been a puzzle, since the day that time began. A man's love for, for his woman, and her sweet love for her man,”
I find myself doing exactly that. Puzzling.

Devon is waiting for me outside the chorus room. He takes my book bag and hoists it onto his shoulder. “Was that you singing?”

“Yeah. And your brother playing with me.”

“Sounded really good.” Devon's voice is distant, and he's not making eye contact.

Will pushes through the door. He hesitates when he sees us. “What's up, bro?” he says, slapping Devon on the back.

“The lovely Plain and Small is helping me spend Aunt Sue's birthday gift today.”

Will glances in my direction. “Cool. See you later. Tell Mom I'll be home for supper.”

We watch him walk out the glass doors at the front of the school and after a minute, we start to walk that way, too.

Will might be able to avoid me, but I can't avoid Devon.

“Devon. About art class . . .”

He cuts me off. “That was a
gorgeous
drawing, wasn't it?”

“Devon.”

He sighs. “Just drop it, okay? I get it.” He's already pulled his Jeep up to the doors for me and helps me climb in.

“What do you get?” I ask.

Devon starts the car and pulls out of the parking lot. “Kush isn't hiding anything. I was wrong about him.”

“Maybe you can change him?” I stick my good foot on the dashboard.

“Please. The last thing I want is a straight boy for a boyfriend.” We stop talking in reverence of a mini-Aretha marathon that comes on the radio. When they cut to commercial, and we catch our breath from singing, Devon looks over at me. “But you could have him, Plain and Small.”

Devon pulls into his driveway as I start snort laughing.