No Place to Fall (15 page)

Devon and I are doing
our Friday night hangout early, because Judge and Mrs. McKinney got tickets for the whole family for some chamber orchestra concert up in Banner Elk.

We slide our shoes off and curl up on the couch. Devon pulls his guitar into his lap and starts noodling on the strings.

“So, have you talked to C.A. much lately?” he asks.

I take a handful of the popcorn he popped and pick it up from my hand one kernel at a time. “Just at school. How come?”

He shrugs. Then I realize what he's asking. “
Oh
, the
thing
.”

Devon rolls his eyes. “Please, I've given up on that.”

“Yeah, right,” I say, but my attention gets drawn away from him when Will comes walking in from school.

Devon nods at his brother.

Will walks over and snags a handful of popcorn. “Do you mind if I borrow Amber for a sec? I want to show her what I found.” He's got his laptop and the CD I gave him earlier in the day in his other hand.

Devon shoos us away. “Go somewhere in the back where I can't hear the twang.” He riffs on his guitar.

Will motions for me to follow him and I trail him down the hallway to his bedroom. Will walks in and sets the laptop on his desk, plopping down in his chair. It's the first time I've ever really been in his room. I peek around. There's a double bed with a thick wool plaid comforter. Framed photographs of different Blue Ridge Parkway vistas line his walls. A hiking backpack and walking poles lean in a dusty corner. There's even a fish tank with bright guppies flagging their tails on his bureau. There aren't any photos of Amber-o-zia.

The sound of the computer turning on draws my attention back to Will. “What'd you think of the CD?” I ask.

“Let me show you something.” He pulls up a video channel and there's a grainy seventies video of a banjo player in a tuxedo. He hits play.

Within a few bars I realize the guy's picking “Ave Maria,” one of my potential choices, on the banjo. Joy rises inside like the notes the musician is playing.

Will looks up at me. “Right?” he says when he sees the giddy expression I can't contain. “But that's not all. Here's the ‘Red, Red Rose' song you liked.”

Another video, of some cute, young Irish guy sitting in front of a computer, plucking it on a banjo. It looks like he's reading the lyrics as he sings.

“You could do those arrangements?” I ask.

“Yeah, sure,” Will says. “I mean, we can learn together. Would it be too weird if you hung out with me, though?”

I raise one eyebrow in a question.

“To practice. Instead of hanging out with Devon.”

“We've played together before at your house. Remember? Nirvana?”

Will grins. “Right. You want to start tonight? Now?”

I feel the blood rush to my face but I manage to say, “Yeah. That'd be good.”

Will unlatches the banjo case and pulls the banjo onto his lap. He gestures for me to sit down on his bed and he swivels the chair around to face me.

We start with “Ave Maria” and Will butchers the banjo part. I get more relaxed and pull my feet up onto his bed, then lie flat on my stomach to face him as he tries and tries
again. When he finally gets a good semblance of the notes, I sit back up and try singing along.

“Sorry about that,” he says when we've worked through it once. “I promise I'll get it.”

“I'm not worried,” I say and scoot back against his headboard, pulling my good leg to my chest.

Will moves to the other end of the bed and leans back against the footboard facing me. He starts picking the tune to “Red, Red Rose” and it flows easier for him. I hum along the first couple of times he plays through, and when it's fluid, I test out my voice.

“I wish I was a butterfly, I'd light on my love's breast. I wish I was a blue cuckoo, I'd sing my love to rest.”
As I sing, I realize the lyrics are pretty weighted. I can't look at Will, even though I can feel him watching me. But I let myself imagine our time together and pull the emotion out of the song.

He finishes off with a trill of simple notes and we sit silently for a minute. “You want to practice that again?” he asks, clearing his throat.

“Sure.” I tug at the collar of my shirt, trying to let in some air.

Will starts to play again. This time, I can't help but look straight in his eyes when I sing, and it's Will who ends up looking away. When he gets to the end, I look down at
my hands, feeling the flush of the song, and even a bit of power, from the way I sang it.

I'm fighting the urge to grab Will's shirt and pull him to me when I hear a slow clap from the open door of Will's bedroom.

“Very sweet.” It's Amber-o-zia, leaning against the door, giving me a long look.

“Hey.” Will jumps up. Even though he was nowhere near to touching me, he looks guilty as hell. He goes to her. “What time is it?”

She crosses her arms and Devon appears behind her, his eyes growing wide when he sees me sitting on Will's bed.

Amber-o-zia's still looking at me, her green eye-shadowed lids sparkling under the track lighting. “It's six o'clock. When you told me to be here. For the concert.” Her eyes never leave me.

I try to break the awkwardness and slide off Will's bed. “Did you both hear?” I look between Amber-o-zia and Devon. “It sounded good, right?”

Devon's Adam's apple bobs. “It sounded great. Perfect. You're going to kill them.”

“When you leave,” Amber-o-zia says and she slides her arms around Will's waist.

I take the hint and slip past them into the hall, following
Devon. I can hear them whispering as I walk away, but I can't make out the words, only the tension.

“You stirring the pot, Plain and Small?” Devon asks me, his head cocked.

“No.” My answer is fast.

“Come with me.” He grabs my hand. “Help me figure out how to use Skype before your brother-in-law picks you up.”

“What for?” I ask.

“No reason. C.A. was telling me it's cool. She uses it all the time to talk to her cousins.”

We get on the family computer and mess around setting up Devon's account. I try not to think about Amber-o-zia in Will's room, sitting where I just was. I try to block out the sound of the stereo that just got turned on. But someone's playing music that's bluesy and slow and sounds an awful lot like sex.

For the first time ever, I find myself wishing Sammy would hurry up.

When he does show up,
Sammy's in high spirits.

“Hey, baby sister. You want to practice?”

As much as I'd convinced myself I couldn't be upset about Will, I was. And strangely enough, screaming some rock and roll seemed like a really good idea.

“Yeah, all right. Let's stop by and see if Sean's feeling better.”

“Dude doesn't have a guitar.” Sammy's cheek flinches.

“Dude plays awesome,” I say.

“Yeah, but if he doesn't have an ax, what good's he going to do? We don't need an acoustic.”

“Sammy, you need two guitars to play that one song.”

“Fine. But I'm lead guitar. And if he doesn't get a real guitar soon, I'm going to find somebody else.”

“Nobody said anything about Sean being lead. But come on, how are you going to find somebody else as good as him?”

Sammy's cheek flinches again and I know he knows Sean is the more talented guitar player. But I also know he knows what having a guitarist like Sean could mean for the band's chances.

We drive through town and head out on the old highway. Sammy's always into driving the scenic route. As he drives, my mind blurs with the image of Will and Amber-o-zia doing who knows what to that thick, liquid music.

My phone rings. Mama.

“Hey, Mama.”

“Tell Sammy to take you by the store. We need coffee for the morning.”

“Yes, ma'am. Would it be all right with you and Daddy if I go play some music with Sammy and his friends?”

I hear Mama's suck of breath on the other end of the line. “Mama?” I say.

“Sugar, that's fine. Your daddy's working late. Does your sister know Sammy's out and about?”

I look at Sammy. “Mama wants to know if Whitney knows you're practicing tonight.”

“She does. And if we had that van, she'd be driving out to watch us.”

“We could pick her up,” I say. “We've got to get Sean anyway.”

Sammy nods.

“Mama, we'll bring you the coffee and we're going to pick up Whitney if you'll watch Coby.”

We wind our way back toward the highway when I see a familiar flash of red. “Hold up, Sammy.”

He slows down the car. Behind a small one-level ranch house, I see Daddy's truck. It's parked almost hidden in the backyard.

“Right. Overtime,” I mutter.

Sammy leans over, looking out my window. “Must be his sugar shack.”

“Don't talk about him like that.”

Sammy shrugs and pulls the car away. “Whatever. But truth tells.”

At the store, Sammy goes in for coffee and comes out lugging a case of beer and a Coke for me. He throws it in my lap. “For the minor.”

From the Whitsons' front door, I can hear the stereo blasting hip-hop. I ring the doorbell once. When nobody comes, I knock. The music dims and footsteps fall on the
other side of the door.

Kush is shirtless, with nothing on but a pair of Fila shorts.

“Um, is Sean here?” I ask him.

Kush hangs on the door frame and looks at me. “No, my parents took him to the doctor. Why? Did y'all have plans?”

I motion toward Sammy in the car. “We're going to go practice. We wanted to see if Sean might come.”

“Can I come?” Kush asks.

I blink. Twice. “What?”

“Let me hang out. I'm bored as shit.”

“All right. I guess.”

“Cool,” Kush says. “Let me grab a shirt.”

The Coke hits my bladder. “Hey, can I use your bathroom?”

“Yeah, sure. Follow me.”

I limp down the hall after him.

“In there.” Kush points to a door. “Use my parents'.”

The Whitsons' master bedroom smells like Fire and Rain, the perfume Daddy bought Mama one Christmas that she never wears. After I pee, I wash my hands and rinse my face. When I'm done, my reflection stares back at me in the mirror. I look like me, regular old Amber Vaughn. Not nearly as pretty as Amber-o-zia. Maybe Mrs.
Whitson has some lipstick I can use. I open up a drawer quietly. I shouldn't be snooping, but I don't carry around makeup, and I feel self-conscious all of a sudden, like I want to look good tonight.

The first drawer is nothing but brushes and a straightening iron. I open the second drawer. It's filled with department store makeup, like Clinique and Estée Lauder. No Revlon for Mrs. Whitson. I open tubes till I find a shade of metallic light pink that will look pretty on me. After I apply it carefully, and smack my lips, and put it back, I notice that there are a few prescription bottles rolling around at the very back of the drawer. I pull it open a bit farther.

Reverend Early's nasal voice sounds in my head. “
Young lady
.”

I ignore the voice and pull out the first bottle. It has Mrs. Whitson's name on it and it's a medicine I don't recognize. I dig a little farther. The bottles are dusty and covered with a fine layer of powder like they've lived in the drawer for a while. The third bottle makes my fingers tingle. It's Oxycontin. The pills Whitney was talking about. Kush's name is on the label. Probably left over from some old break or sprain. The pharmacy has an Atlanta address and the date is from last spring.

Just yesterday, Whitney said Sammy couldn't really go
to jail, and that they'd stop selling as soon as Sammy got a van for the band. The bottle is practically full. Probably enough to buy a guitar.

A knock startles me. “Hey, you coming?” Kush calls through the door.

I shove the bottle in my pocket. I rationalize my snap decision by reasoning that it's quieter than putting it back in the drawer. “Yeah, sorry.” I flush the toilet again and ease the drawer shut as the water rushes down the pipes.

Kush is waiting for me, this time with clothes on, his long hair combed back.

“Um, we're going to a barn.” I keep my hand in my hoodie pocket so the bottle won't rattle.

He smiles. “But do you think I'm hot?” He says it like it's a joke, but I'm not sure he's kidding.

“I guess?” I say, smiling a little.

“Good enough,” Kush says, walking out of the house. I follow him to the car.

I unzip my hoodie, slip out of it, and ball it up on the floor as I climb into the backseat next to him.

He grins at the sight of my bare arms in a tank top I think is too tight to wear alone.

But I don't grab for the jacket again. It was like I lost my mind for a minute and panicked when Kush knocked on the door. What a stupid impulse. Do I really think I'm
going to give Sammy pills to sell? I'll have to find a way to sneak the bottle back into the Whitsons' bathroom, or just throw them away.

We pull up to my house.

“You look nice,” Kush whispers in my ear as Whitney buckles herself in.

Whitney catches my eye in the rearview mirror and raises her brows. I can tell she thinks Kush is hot.

“Thanks,” I say and rest my arms across my chest.

We drive farther out into the mountains and the road narrows. Sammy's blasting loud music and Whitney and I have our hands out the window. Whitney's relaxed and laughing, cracking jokes over the backseat. It feels like how it used to be, before she got married.

When we turn off on a gravel road, Kush looks backward once. “Where are we going?” he asks. He seems a little nervous, which gives me sort of a patronizing high. For once, I'm the one in the know.

“I told you,” I say. “We're going to a barn. It's where Sammy's band practices.”

We pull up and there are a few other cars already there. Somebody's started a fire in a metal trash barrel, and people have coolers and rickety lawn chairs pulled out near the picnic table. Two guys are out past the barn shooting. 22s at stacked beer cans lit up by Maglites next to an old shed.

“Come on,” I say to Kush. “I'll show you where we're going to play.” I grab a small cooler and carry it with us. He follows me into the barn. Just like Sean, he tries to lean back against the vine-covered wall, and even though I'm tempted to let him, I grab his elbow. “Don't.” I point.

“Right,” he says. “Thanks.”

We open our beers and take our first sips, looking around the barn. It's quiet and awkward, so we drink fast. When we start in on our second beer we manage to make small talk about school and teachers. When I get halfway through my third can, the question I've been dying to ask comes flying out of my mouth. “So, how's it going with you and Devon?”

“What do you mean?” Kush pushes a piece of hair behind his ear. He takes a swallow from his can, and when he pulls it away a single shining droplet hangs from the curve of his lower lip. I watch the bead quiver. He reaches up and wipes the liquid away with the back of his hand.

I make sure my voice holds the weight of truth. “I was just wondering. I mean, y'all hang out a lot these days. And it seems like you're having fun.” I can't believe I'm asking him this, but I'm doing it for Devon.

Kush leans away and looks at me. “Did Devon say something?”

I shrug.

“So, just because I'm friends with a gay guy, I'm queer, too?” He pauses, looks down at the ground, and then back up at me. “And just because some girl hooks up with a random hiker, she's a slut?”

“
Ha
.” I say it harshly. “So you
do
think I'm a slut.”

“I don't care what you did that night.” Kush steps closer.

“Does Devon know you're not into guys?”

Kush tosses his head back in exasperation. “I'm sure.”

“Then why did he ask me to get C.A. to kiss you as a test?” I clap my hand over my mouth.

Kush tosses his beer can into the corner of the barn. It lands with a
clink
and I turn, watching it roll under an old bush hog.

When I look back, Kush takes my empty can out of my hand and throws it, too. It arcs away from us.

Kush's mouth lifts at the edges. “Maybe you should administer the kiss test.”

I laugh. “No way. I'm not kissing you.”

Kush grabs my hands.

“Forget it.” I try to wriggle my hands out of his.

“No, really. You'd be doing me a favor, and I'm a good kisser. Please. Just one kiss. Devon wants to know, right?”

I don't like Kush. But the boy I do like is back at home with his
girlfriend
, and my head is humming with three
beers and Kush is looking at me so intently. And Devon did ask me, sort of. I tilt my chin up. “Fine,” I say.

Kush wraps his arms around me and pulls me to him gently, his hands on the small of my back. My eyes close, and then our lips meet. He teases at my lower lip, then tries to open my mouth with his tongue.

“Whoa.” I push him off.

Kush doesn't let go of me. “Why? Is it because of Sean?” he whispers.

Outside, the guns start firing one after the other after the other, and everybody's hooting.

“Jesus,” I say and try to break free to see what the hell they're doing out there.

Kush barely even looks back at the door. “You didn't answer me.”

I look up at him again. “What? Oh, Sean. No. That's not it.”

“Then let me really kiss you, Amber.” He's practically begging.

Curiosity, and maybe Bud Light, gets the better of me, and I let his lips explore mine. I can tell Devon pretty certainly that Kush likes girls. But I push him off when he pulls me tight against him. “Enough, Kush.”

“Come on. Weren't we having fun?”

“It doesn't matter. I don't like you
like that
.” I put air
quotes around the last two words.

I lean back to see Kush's cocky smile. “No? Funny. This summer, I got the impression you had a kind of secret life. That you wanted out as much as I did. That maybe a . . .” He raises his fingers, imitating my air quotes, “. . .
friendship
of convenience could make life more tolerable for both of us.”

“What?” Something deep and heavy vibrates around in my rib cage. I try to keep my face calm, but inside, I'm furious. Is
that
how Kush sees me?

“You and me, hanging out, at least it'd be something to do while we're stuck here. Because, come on. This is no place to fall. Once you're down, you'll never get up. Like your sister and brother-in-law.” Kush nods toward the door. “Listen to them.”

He may have a point. But he's also talking about my home, about my family. And it's one thing for me to tell him he doesn't want to hang out with them, but another thing for him to bad-mouth them without even knowing who they are.

Sammy and the other guys trickle into the barn to set up their instruments. “You about ready to sing?” Sammy asks me, before looking at Kush then back at me.

“Definitely,” I say, relieved, and for the second time in the same night, I'm glad that Sammy is here.