No Place to Fall (16 page)

Kush is drunk and all
over me in the backseat of Sammy's car. Whitney's laughing in the front seat.

“Come on, Amber. Kiss me again.” His hand flails toward my face and I hold mine up, blocking him, and turn my head toward the window.

“Kush, no. You're a mess.” I don't know what all he took. He drank a ton of beer, I could see that from where I stood in the back with my tinny little microphone. But one of the guys had out a pipe, and who knows what else was going on. It was a free-for-all for the spectators.

Kush reaches across my waist, trying to pull me toward him, and collapses his head in my lap. “Don't be like that.” I meet Whitney's eyes in the rearview mirror and roll mine.

“Kush.” I look down at him and almost laugh. His eyes are squeezed shut and his lips are pursed like he's waiting for a kiss. “Hey.” I pat his cheek.

He opens his eyes halfway. “Hey.” He grins up at me, then lets his eyes rest on my chest.

He's completely gone. I hold out my hand. “Give me your phone. I need to call Sean so we can get you inside your house without your parents seeing you.”

Kush laughs and throws himself back against his side of the backseat. “I left them a note. Told them I went to the movies.”

Kush moves to kiss me again, but I'm already dialing Sean.

“Hello?” Sean sounds groggy.

“Hey, Sean? It's Amber.”

“Hey.”

“Look, can you help sneak Kush into your house? We're about five minutes out.”

Kush grabs the phone from me. “Guess what, cuz?” His voice is loud and obnoxious. There's a beat and then he slurs into the phone, “Your girlfriend let me kiss her.”

I grab the phone back from him and glare at Kush. “What the hell?” I whisper.

Kush's head lolls and he stretches his arms out like a
cat. “That's right. I kissed you. He's going to be so pissed.”

I manage to put the phone back to my ear. “Um, hi, Sean. You're going to meet us, right?”

“What was that about?” Sean asks.

“He thinks I'm your girlfriend, I guess.”

“So he kissed you?”

“Yeah, but it was nothing.”

Kush keeps mumbling. “Damn straight it was nothing. Like I would want to hook up with a country girl.”

At that, even Sammy's rolling his eyes at the spectacle in the backseat.

“Sean.” I feel the breath coming short in my chest and my brows hunching down over my eyes as I stare at Kush.

“Yeah?”

“We're on your street, and I suggest you come out to meet us.” I pause and push away Kush's hand. “Because, if you don't, I'm going to kill your cousin.”

When we cut the lights on the car and ease up to the edge of the Whitsons' property, Sean is waiting for us.

Kush stumbles out of the car and practically falls into Sean's arms. Then he flings his arm back toward me. “You can have her.”

Sean shakes him, to knock some sense into him or to wake him up. “Kush,
stop
. You're being a dick and you're
pulling Amber into our old business.”

Kush sways unsteadily, then leans over to puke in the yard.

I shrug, kind of embarrassed about returning Kush home in the state he's in. “Sorry. It was a little wild. I think he tried everything they passed his way.”

“It's okay.” Sean helps Kush to his feet. “Hey, Amber?”

“Yeah?”

“He's not really as much of a dick as he can act like sometimes.”

“Oh?” I cross my arms over my chest.

Sean turns Kush toward their house, locking his hands on Kush's shoulders to keep him upright, then grins at me over his shoulder. “Okay, maybe he's a little bit of a dick. But there's some history here. This really isn't about you.”

I mouth “thank you” to Sean, then climb into the backseat of Sammy and Whitney's car.

When I get home, the first thing I do when I get to my bedroom is call Devon.

“Plain and Small.” Devon sounds groggy.

“I woke you up.”

“S'okay. What's up.”

“I kissed Kush.”

“Oh.” I hear some rustling, and I imagine Devon
sitting up straight in bed, suddenly alert.

I sigh and let it out slowly. “He was . . . into it.”

“Oh. That's . . . what I figured.” Devon pauses. “Were
you
into it?”

I bark out a laugh, because it's the only thing I can do to not burst into tears. “God, no!” I tell him about the whole night. As I talk, I distract myself by rummaging in my hoodie pocket until I find the bottle of pills from Mrs. Whitson's drawer. I count them out into my hand, then slide them back in the bottle for safekeeping. There are twenty-two tablets left. Eight hundred and forty dollars. More than enough money for the guitar.

Kush's name is like an ugly scar staring up at me from the label. It would serve him right for me to help Sean get the guitar he wants so bad. Everybody else in this house does whatever they want to make themselves happy. Why shouldn't I?

“Listen,” I say to Devon a little later. “Don't tell
anybody
I kissed him. I don't want it getting around.”

“Of course not. It sounds like he was a total idiot. Can you forgive
me
for thinking this plan was sane?” Devon sounds as embarrassed as I felt earlier with Sean.

“Yeah. But, Devon, really. You're better off without this guy. I know you were hopeful, but there's somebody better out there for you.”

“I love you, Plain and Small.”

“I love you, too.”

As soon as I hang up, I text Sammy. I don't want to think too long about what I'm about to do. I might chicken out. But Sean deserves it. Kush is an ass.

—Meet me out front.

I sneak down the staircase, careful to avoid the left side, which squeaks and cracks. Mama and Daddy are in bed and I don't want to risk getting caught.

When I get to the front porch, Sammy's already waiting, leaning back against the maple tree, one leg cocked.

“What's up?” He loops his thumbs in his jeans pocket. “You need something from me?” He glances back toward his trailer.

“Yes. I mean no. I mean . . .” I hold out the bottle of pills. They clatter against the plastic as my hand jerks.

He relaxes and straightens, taking the bottle, then lets out a low whistle.

“I need six hundred from that.” I pull my shoulders back.

He counts out the pills in front of me. “Since you're kin, I'll give you four twenty. Half. Normally I only give a quarter of street value. The risk is all on me.”

“It's important, Sammy.” A shot of anger races into my fists as I close them tight.

“Fine, whatever. But only because you're family. It's my van fund you're cutting into, you know?”

The pawn shop opens at nine on Saturdays. I punch my fists toward the ground and lift my chin. “Can I have it tonight?”

Sammy shakes his head and pockets the bottle. “For real?”

“Yes. I told you, it's important.” I should probably ask him to empty the bottle and give it back to me. But I'm too scared to push the issue. He might change his mind about paying me tonight.

“This is my seed money, kid.”

“You've got more seeds in that bottle.”

Sammy sighs and pulls a roll of bills out of his pocket. He counts off six hundreds. Before he hands them to me, he hesitates.

I snatch the bills before either of us can think about it too much. As I stuff them in my pocket, I ask him, “We won't get in trouble for this, will we?”

The trailer lights come on and I see Whitney peek her head out of the front door. “Sammy?” she calls softly into the night.

“Shit,” he says. He leans over and tousles my hair before jogging back toward the trailer. “No worries, little sister.”

The next morning I wake up with a raw throat from singing and a sick feeling in my stomach. I'd hoped to buy Sean's guitar today and talk Mama into going over to the Whitsons' with me to give it to him, but I can't make myself get up. I'm not sure if it's from the beer or last night's scene with Kush. From the window, I see Daddy backing the truck out of the driveway. He avoids the pothole and drives off in the direction of town. I roll over and stare at my wall. Maybe he's going to work.

Mama knocks on my door and pokes her head in my room. “You okay, sugar?”

I hold my hand to my stomach. “I think I'm getting a bug.”

Mama puts her hand on my forehead and sets down the glass of apple juice she'd brought me. “Let me take your temperature. You are a might bit warm.”

“Mama?”

“Yes, sugar?”

“Is Daddy going to work?”

“Yes. Mr. Ward called in sick.”

I feel a little relieved, but know it may not be true. “Tell me about when you knew you were in love with Daddy.”

“Sugar, you've heard that old story a hundred times.”

“But I want to hear it again.” And I do. I need to be reminded of the foundation of my family. I need to know
why the two of them still sleep under the same roof every night.

Mama smiles big and squeezes my shoulder. “Your daddy was
such
a handsome man. Even more handsome than he is now. Girls from miles around heard tell of him. I never did figure why he settled on me.”

I close my eyes a little. “Because he loved your laugh, your smile, and your spice cake.”

Mama smiles and takes the now-empty glass from me. “See, you know this story inside out, I don't need to tell it again.”

“Yes, you do. Tell me.” I need to see my mama giggling in my daddy's arms. To hear the blush in her voice when she talks about him. I need to understand.

Mama settles next to me on the bed. “Well, his mama had finally got him coming back to church. I'd just turned seventeen. Your daddy was fresh home from a stint in the army. I'd heard his name, of course, because he'd been such a big football star for Mountain High.”

“Did they have his picture in the trophy case then?”

“Why, yes. And I recognized him straightaway that first day in church. He came walking in wearing his army clothes, all pressed with stiff creases. His hair was cut short, and the set of his jaw was hard and soft all at once, like the lines of these mountains. I was standing near the
receiving line and it was all I could do to keep from dropping my own jaw.”

“What were you wearing?” I ask softly.

“Me? Well, let's see. I was wearing a pretty little white eyelet blouse and a green skirt that twirled when I turned. My hair had been set in curlers overnight so it was full of bounce. I even had a brand-new pair of green Mary Janes to match. Like you, I was blessed and filled out that eyelet shirt pretty well.” Mama giggles.

“Mama!”

“So, after the service we're in the parish hall, and I'm standing behind the desserts and he walks right on up to me. That gold hair of his was thick, like yours, and his eyes, hazel green like your sister's. Lord, child, he made me nervous on the spot the way he kindly swallowed me with one look.”

“What'd he say?”

“He said, ‘I hear you make the best apple spice cake in all of Sevenmile and I intend to try a slice.' But the way he said it, I sure didn't think he was talking about cake.”

“Then what happened?”

“Well, I served him up a piece of cake.”

“Mama . . .”

“Your daddy asked me out
on a date. He took me out on a date every Sunday evening until he left again for the army and I made him a cake every week. That man loved my cooking. When he left, I was worried he'd find a prettier face, or a prettier figure, but he told me not to worry, that he aimed to marry a woman with a gorgeous smile and a steady hand in the kitchen and that he aimed to settle right back here in Sevenmile. I knew then I loved him and that I'd be that girl.”

I work up the nerve to ask her something that's been nagging at me. “Do you ever regret marrying him?”

Mama gets real still. “Where's that question coming from, girl?”

I look down at my hands. “I don't know. You were just so young, and Daddy seemed like he was kind of wild back then.”

“No. If I hadn't married your daddy, I wouldn't have had the two of you. Your daddy's made some mistakes, and so have I, but when I married, I swore for better or worse, richer or poorer, and I took those words seriously.”

I suppose I should have seen her answer coming. So I ask another question. “How come you never got a job?”

Mama's lips purse. “I'm looking at the reason.”

“Well, Devon's mom's an elementary schoolteacher and Sean's aunt does catering. She works with her cooking. You
could do that. They get up every day and get dressed and look good.” I think about that drawer full of department store makeup.

“Do you have something you're wanting to say to me, Amber Delaine? Are you saying that I'm not good enough for your daddy? That I don't do enough around this house looking after your sister and her baby and that husband of hers? That I don't work hard enough at being your mama? Now I need to get myself fixed up every day on top of it all?”

“Well, it might make Daddy love you more!” I realize I'm yelling.

Mama's eyes narrow and she stands. “Your daddy loves me just fine the way I am. The outside of a person don't make the insides any different. Jesus knows the real you, and that is all that matters. If there's something you need to tell me, you better spit it out.”

I can't tell her what's really bothering me. “Nothing, Mama. I just think he talks mean to you sometimes. I guess you're right. It's only the inside that counts.”

But I'm thinking it's not true. What I figure is that the outsides of a girl matter way more than anyone cares to admit.

At church on Sunday, I
want to tell Mrs. Early about the banjo arrangements Will found. I know she thinks I can sing like those girls on the CD she gave me, but even if I could stretch my voice out wide and deep like they do, I'm not sure I want to. My voice likes high and lonesome. But lonesome isn't feeling so good for me in real life. I can't shake the thought of Will and Amber-o-zia together, especially after singing “I Wish My Love Was a Red, Red Rose” to him on Friday.

Mrs. Early calls me to the front of the sanctuary and has me sing “I'll Fly Away.” The same song Will had me sing that night at Sizz's. It's not as fun this morning as it was that night onstage with Will, but I do love it. Through
the windows in the back of the church, I watch the colors shift over the congregation as the clouds cover and uncover the sun. I know the words are about going to meet your maker when you die, but I like to sing it like it's a song about leaving, and that I'm the bird escaping.

When I finish singing, Mrs. Early comes to my side and squeezes my hand. Normally I go sit down after I sing, but Pastor Early comes and stands on the other side of me. “Now, folks, we need some special prayers today. Our young Amber Vaughn has a big audition coming up soon. I'm sure you've heard about it from her mama, but let's give her some prayerful Evermore Fundamental support.”

I stand there, shocked and still, as the entire congregation bows their heads. Daddy actually has his arm draped around Mama's shoulders, and he's grinning like his prize bull got a ribbon at the county fair.

As Pastor Early prays over me, I feel a simple strength enter through my fingers and my toes. All of these folks, the people of my childhood, are praying for my success. Success that means leaving them. Leaving my mountains.

But I'm not like Kush. I won't be leaving because I hate this place. I just want a bigger life somewhere, and I want to sing.

As that sinks in, I realize that just because Kush was an
asshole, it doesn't give me the excuse to be a criminal and sell those pills.

When I sit back down at our family's pew, I fish a pencil out of my purse. On a scrap of hymnal paper, I write,
I need those pills back
, and lay it on the gap of dark wood between me and Sammy.

Sammy looks down and puts his finger on the paper, turning it so he can read it.

Whitney glances over and I crumple the note. She looks at Sammy, then takes his hand, pulling it over onto her leg.

I sit against the pew and feel my heart beating, the hard oak pressing on my spine. When we stand up to sing a group hymn, Sammy tilts his head toward me.

“Too late,” he whispers.

After the service, Whitney goes with Mama to set up the refreshments and I follow Sammy to the nursery. When we walk past a darkened Sunday school room, I push him through the door with the flat of my hand.

“Settle down, girl. What's got into you?”

“Sammy, I need those pills back. I need that bottle. I shouldn't have given them to you. It was late, and I was mad, and I don't know what I was thinking.”

“I thought you had a big emergency, Amber.” Sammy
looks at me sideways. “What, you're not pregnant?”

“Huh?”

He shrugs. “I don't know, after this summer, timing seemed right. I honestly figured you needed that much cash for an abortion.”

I throw my head down into my hands and choke back a sob. “For your information, I wanted that money so we could buy Sean a guitar. So he could help your band get somewhere.” I look up at him. “But I came about those pills in the wrong way.”

Sammy considers me. “He give them to you?”

“No.” I grab Sammy's arm. “Please, give them back. I need to fix this.”

Sammy puts his hand on my shoulder. “I told you. It's too late. I needed to make my money back and I sold them last night. But nobody's going to trace it. I don't sell them in the bottle. It's gone. Don't worry.”

And just then, the door to the Sunday school room swings open.

Whitney's framed in the hall light. It shines through her skirt, silhouetting her legs.

“What are y'all doing?” Her eyes cut between the two of us.

I drop my hand from Sammy's arm and he casually drops his from my shoulder, stuffing his fingers in his pockets.

I make up a story fast. “We came to get Coby, but I needed to ask Sammy something.”

Whitney's eyes narrow and she looks at me, then at Sammy again. “Is that right?” she asks him.

“Of course, sugar.” Sammy walks to her and drapes his arm over her shoulder. “What else would we be doing?”

She looks at me again. This time the look is different, like she's appraising me. “Is that my old dress?” she asks.

“Yeah,” I say.

“You look like a cow in it.” She turns and walks out, pulling Sammy with her.

In the nursery, getting Coby, I glance at the mirror on the wall.

“Hey, Deana May?” I ask.

“Yeah?”

“Does this dress make me look big?” I turn from side to side.

“Are you
crazy
? You're not big. You're curvy. The kind of curvy boys like.” She grins and hands me Coby's bag with his emergency pants, pull-ups, and sippy cup. “In fact, you should wear dresses more to school. All you ever wear is those old overalls, and you look beautiful today.”

I tug the fabric over my hips. “I guess,” I say. “Thank you.”

I wonder if my clothes are part of why Kush called me a redneck girl. If I get into NC-Arts, what will the other students think of me? I put my hands on my waist, cinching the dress tighter, and arch my back so my chest pokes out. I think about Amber-o-zia in that orange tank top and heels. And the hostess at the Fish House all those years ago. I suck in my cheeks a little and position myself at an angle to the glass. “You're probably right. I guess I need a change.” I touch the hair where it skims the back of my neck. “Maybe I should let my hair grow out.”

Deana May steps next to me and holds up her thick braid so it looks like it's attached to my head. “I don't know,” she says. “I like your hair short. You pull it off. And it makes you stand out.”

Coby reaches his hands up toward my waist. “Up, Ber.”

“Okay, buddy, let's go. See you at school, Deana May.”

She waves and I hesitate once more in the mirror. The girl looking back at me issues a challenge. Try it. For a week. Pull out Whitney's old clothes. Dress up for school. Find a new Amber.

After Sunday dinner, lunchtime at my house, I go up to my room. Whitney had been stony toward me through two helpings of squash casserole and a tender pot roast. Fortunately, Mama chattered through the silence.

In my bedside drawer, tucked underneath the Bible I got in sixth grade, is the money from Sammy. I lie back and fan it out in front of me.

I can't get the pills back.

The thought of sneaking the money into the Whitsons' house hovers somewhere, but that's just stupid. A random six hundred dollars would be way more suspicious than a missing bottle of Oxycontin. Thinking about how Kush acted the other night makes me want to punch my wall. And thinking about how Sean bent his head reverently over that guitar, the same way Whitney cradles Coby, makes me happy. The money's here. It might as well go to good use if I can't take back what I've done.

I hop off the bed and rummage through the closet and drawers, digging all of Whitney's hand-me-downs out from behind my T-shirts and jeans and overalls. There's even a few pairs of heels stuffed in the way back of the closet. My ankle's better, but I'm still careful as I slip on a pair of three-inch red spikes. I think about calling C.A. She'd get me fixed up in no time. But what would I tell her? I think I might really like Will McKinney, but I'm not pretty enough for him? Kush called me a redneck girl, so now I don't want to look like myself anymore?

I slip on a short black skirt and find a white tank with a built-in bra. Over that I put on a floral gauzy overshirt
with an open collar. I grab my hairbrush and pretend it's a microphone, and practice flirting with an audience. I'm tossing my head when my cell phone rings.

It's Will.

“Hello?” I hold the phone tight to my ear, and keep posing, trying to look sophisticated.

“Hey, Amber.” His voice is soft. “Sorry our practice got cut short Friday.”

I sit on the bed and curl my legs up beneath me. “It's okay. I understand.”

“Can we try again? Tomorrow after chorus? I've been working on ‘Ave Maria.'”

I look down at the quilt on my bed, and bunch it in my fingers. “Are you sure you want to?”

“I told you I'd help.”

“I know. I just don't want your girlfriend pissed off at you. Not that I'm a threat or anything, but—”

Will cuts me off. “Not So Plain and Small.”

“Yeah?” I grab onto the heel of one of the pumps and wiggle it back and forth on my foot. How do people walk in these things?

Then Will says, “It doesn't matter what she thinks.”

“It doesn't?”

“No.”

We're quiet for a minute, and then I get nervous. “Hey,
would you help me with an errand after school, before practice?”

“Sure. What do you need?”

“I've got to go by the pawn shop to pay for a guitar.”

“A guitar? Is it for you?”

I take a breath. “It's for Sean. I took up a collection and we got him a Gibson. Sean's really good. We should all play together sometime.”

Will's silent.

“Will? Is that okay?”

“Oh. Yeah, sure.” His voice sounds different than it did a second ago. Less certain. “Um, listen. I've got to run. I'll see you tomorrow, okay?”

When I hit the off button, I stare at the phone.