No Place to Fall (18 page)

My heart beats in a panic.

“Oh, only that he broke up with his girlfriend. And I might've noticed your number on his cell phone.” Devon waggles his eyebrows. “Do you like my brother, Plain and Small?”

“He broke up with Amber-o-zia?”

“Last Friday night. That music was blasting to cover Amber-o-zia's hysterics. And I noticed that you
deftly
avoided answering my question.” He puts his face near mine. “Plain and Small, is there something you're not telling me? Something to do with how you feel about my older brother?”

I blush to my toes. “We're just practicing together. That's all.”

I reach for the door handle of Daddy's truck.

Before I get in, Devon meets my eyes and says quietly, “You and Will would be amazing together. You both love that music. You both love the woods.” He winks. “And best of all, Plain and Small, he's like me, but straight.”

I give Devon a quick hug. “I'll think about it,” I whisper.

As we drive away, I turn around and watch Devon walking back to his house, where Will has his head down, playing the banjo on his front porch.

Will McKinney, who doesn't have a girlfriend anymore.

When I get home, Mama's
got my purse on the kitchen table, the six hundred-dollar bills fanned out beside it.

“What's this?” I ask, trying to keep my face composed.

“I reckon that's my question to be asking, isn't it?” Mama's hands are on her hips, a wooden spoon sticking out from one side like an extra appendage.

Sammy and Whitney are already sitting around the kitchen table for supper. I glance over at them. Whitney is sizing me up and Sammy is sending a message with his eyes that says, “Please don't screw this up.”

“Oh, that,” I say. “That's the collection money for my friend Sean's guitar. Everybody put me in charge of buying it.”

“Who's everybody?” Whitney asks me, her eyes suspicious.

But Mama already seems satisfied with my answer and starts to bustle over dinner. “Well, I'm sorry to doubt you, sugar, but I was looking for the prescription the doctor handed you and saw those bills. I didn't know how you'd come across so much money. Your sister thought I should be concerned.”

I glare at Whitney.

“They, for your information, are my friends from school,” I say.

Whitney sits back and crosses her arms. “Right. You managed to raise six hundred dollars from a bunch of high school kids.”

Through this whole conversation, Sammy has been sitting with his arm slung across the back of Whitney's chair, not looking at anyone, but he's making me uneasy.

“So what if I did?” I reply, unable to come up with anything better.

“Enough of this,” Daddy says, walking in the kitchen. “I'm hungry.”

After Sammy and Whitney take Coby back to the trailer, Mama and I sit on the living room sofa and watch reruns of sitcoms together.

“You know,” she says. “Mrs. Whitson invited us to stop back by sometime. Why don't I take you to pick up your friend's guitar, and then we'll have a reason to visit?” Mama's staring at the television, but there's a slight anticipation in her voice, like it's something she's given some thought to.

“I don't think you need a reason,” I say. “She invited you, Mama. You could stop by anytime. You don't need me.” I'm a ball of nerves. I've rummaged in Mrs. Whitson's makeup drawer, used her lipstick, and stolen from her. And I'd be happy to avoid Kush as much as possible until I can get the hell out of town.

“No,” Mama says. “I guess not. But what you've done here makes me proud. I'd like to be there, to see their faces. I'll take you tomorrow.”

There's no getting out of it. “Okay, Mama. If that's what you want.”

She pulls me in next to her and runs her fingernails through my hair. “Sweetheart, what I want is for your dreams to come true.”

I hope to goodness I don't ruin hers.

The next day, Mama keeps me home. I guess she's still reeling from the doctor's accusatory words, because I feel fine. But I was up late worrying, so I sleep through most
of the morning and around lunchtime I hear her coming up the stairs.

Mama cracks open the door. “You up?”

I waggle my cell phone at her. C.A. has been stealth-texting me with Kush news. Apparently, he'd called me an addict, a whore, and a drug dealer, among other things. I'm embarrassed, but my friends know it's not true, and they're the ones that count.

“Brought you some soup. Think you can eat?” Ribbons of celeried and carroted steam drift across the room.

“Smells good,” I say.

Mama hands me the bowl and a spoon, then lays her hand across my forehead. There's so much love in her eyes, it's painful. How can my daddy cheat on her? She may not be as pretty or as skinny as some other women, but I'm holding a bowl of fresh-made chicken soup. She did that for me. And she'd do it for Daddy and Whitney, and anybody else who was feeling down. She'd even do it for Daddy's lady if the whole truth was laid out on the table.

“I love you, Mama,” I say, curling up next to her.

“I love you, too, sugar. Now eat up, that soup will chase away the germs.”

“Mama, I've got a broken ankle, not a cold.”

She pats my cast and starts to get up.

“Mama?”

She stops.

“What's going to happen with Whitney?”

Mama sighs and sits back down on the foot of my bed, creating a wave in my mattress. I hold the soup in two hands till she's settled. “Your sister's got herself into something, hasn't she?”

It's not so much a question for me as a question for the universe.

“It's Sammy's fault.” The words fall out harsh and I realize he scares me a little.

“Your sister loves that boy. Like me and your daddy, she promised to love him through thick and thin. Right now's their thin. And don't forget, they have a child together.”

I look down at my quilt. “Is that worker going to take Coby away from her?”

“Not if she keeps her nose clean from here on out. Her going back to school will help.”

I mutter, “Like keeping clean is likely.”

Mama reaches over to press my good foot underneath the covers. “Amber, if something happens, we'll all have to step up and take care of that baby boy. Your sister may just have to learn the hard way.”

“Would you be upset if she got a divorce?”

Mama looks toward the ceiling and runs her hand through her graying brown hair. “My first choice would
be for them two to work things out, make things right for that baby.”

“And if they can't?” Because that's the reality. Sammy won't ever be the kind of man who makes a good daddy and husband. He's talking about his guitar and his future, but really, it seems like his band is just another excuse to party.

“Well, I suppose there are worse things that could happen in the world.” She pats my legs. “But let's just keep saying prayers that those two will come to their senses and start behaving like grown-ups. Eat up, then get dressed so we can get your friend's guitar.”

I can't eat the soup. My stomach's in knots. I should give the money back to Sammy and forget this whole thing, get out of it as much as I possibly can. But what would I say to Mama about it?

I drop my face in my hands and rub the blood up into my cheeks. Once the money has changed hands, it will be over. Eddie will have had a cash sale. Sean will have a guitar that he thinks is a gift from his friends, and nobody will know any better for it. Sammy promised me it wouldn't be traceable and he'd be stupid not to keep it that way.

I glance up at my map. Sevenmile, Winston, Wilkesboro, Bristol, Nashville, New Orleans, Telluride. Soon, with any luck, I'll be starting on the first leg of my journey.

The Gibson lies across my lap and, surprisingly, now that the money is out of my hands, some of the guilt is gone, too. Eddie didn't even bat an eye when I gave him the balance, just brought the guitar from the back, already closed up in its hard black case.

Mama looks nice. She's wearing her go-to-town slacks and a pretty floral shirt I hardly ever see her wear. Her hair's pulled back from her face in combs and she's even slicked on some lipstick. When we pull into the Whitsons' driveway, I hug the guitar closer.

Mr. Whitson strides out of the new building next to the house to greet us. A white sign, painted with simple script letters in black, hangs above the door.
Whitson's Pottery.

“Hello, Donna, Amber! Aneeta is so excited you've come by for a visit.” He eyes me balancing on my cast. “How's that ankle?”

I shrug. “Still hurts some.”

“Go on up to the house. Aneeta and the boys are inside.”

Mama runs her hand through her hair and presses her blouse down. She purses her lips. Mama doesn't have any good girlfriends. She's been all about Daddy and me and Whitney forever.

“You okay, Mama?” I ask.

She straightens her shoulders. “I'm fine, sugar. Let's go surprise your friend.”

At the door, Mrs. Whitson greets us with a big, warm smile. “Come in, come in. I'm so glad you two stopped by.” Behind her, across the bar dividing the kitchen from the foyer, I can see Sean filling up glasses with tea. I don't see Kush anywhere around.

“
Amber
.” Mama prods me forward with the guitar case.

“What's this?” Mrs. Whitson says, looking up at me with wide eyes.

Oh God. I can't even look her in the eyes. It's
your
pink lipstick. It's
your
pill bottle. It's
my
greedy fingers all over your things.

I look down. “Um, it's for Sean.”

Sean walks into the foyer balancing a tray of drinks in his hands, smiling at me. His eyes fall to the case and he freezes. Mrs. Whitson takes the drink tray from him and sets it on the coffee table. “Sit, please,” she says.

“Go on,” Mama says to me, her face alive with pleasure.

“So, um, we, well, some friends who want to remain anonymous, and the band, we got together and got this for you.” I hold the case out.

Sean hesitates and then his hand crawls forward, the
slow reach of a man sensing what he's seeing is a mirage, but hopeful that, perhaps, it's the real thing. When his hand connects with the hard plastic, he lets out a breath and he takes the guitar from me.

He sits on the closest chair and opens the case. Slowly. Like I used to open my jewelry box with the spinning ballerina. The one that played “Clair de lune.”

“The Gibson,” he says. His hand strokes the slick varnish and plucks the strings. He looks up at me, his blue eyes wide.

Mama's grin is so big now you'd think she might pop like an overripe plum. Mrs. Whitson's hand is on her heart. Sean's looking at me like I'm a field of inflatable bouncy games at a MHHS Field Day and he's about to bounce.

I feel conflicted. It's everything I'd hoped. Sean is happy. My mama is proud. But I feel like a low-life criminal.

Later that night, I practice
my songs alone. When I tire of them, I sing ballads I know by heart. “Pretty Saro.” “The House Carpenter.” “Barbara Allen.” I finish with “Amazing Grace.” The chorus burrows into my bones.

I doubt I'll get a do-over, but at least I can start fresh from this moment. I'd promised Sean we'd go to band practice tomorrow with Sammy so he could try out his new guitar. But once that's over, I'm out. Maybe Sean, Devon, Will, and I can start our own band. We can figure out some eclectic mix of tunes so everybody's happy.

Sammy can go blow himself.

My phone beeps from my nightstand.

It's a photo text from Sean. Of C.A. holding his guitar. I text back a smiley face.

After a minute, I punch in a different number. Will's.

Hey,
I type.

—Hey.

—What do you want to do when you grow up?

—Don't laugh.

—I won't.

—I want to be a wilderness camp director and a weekend bluegrass player.

—Really? A camp director?

—Told you not to laugh. What about you?

—I want to be onstage at a big music festival. And I'd like to hike the Appalachian Trail. All of it.

—Me, too. I knew you were cool, Not So P & S. Can't sleep?

I wait to see if he'll mention anything about breaking up with Amber-o-zia, but he doesn't.

—I heard Sean got his guitar.

—Yeah.

—So who all donated? You could have asked me, you know.

I don't want to lie to Will McKinney. But I can't tell him the truth either.

—I can't tell you. Anonymous donors and all.

—Practice again soon?

He's not going to say anything about Amber-o-zia.

If there were an emoticon for a sigh, I'd use it
.

—Yeah. Audition's getting close. See you tomorrow.

I shut the phone and turn out my light.

But it takes a long time to find sleep.

Sean picks me up in his uncle's truck to go to band practice. Sammy's managed to get us practice space on the stage at the Bobcat Lodge, a private club that sometimes hosts bands. They're closed on Wednesday nights, so it's just us, and the owner, who might be checking us out for a gig.

On the way over, I ask Sean about Kush. “What's his deal anyway? What happened between y'all?”

Sean turns down the music, classic Zeppelin, and eases into the story. “I told you Kush has a hard time sharing.”

“Right.”

Sean sighs. “So there was this girl, Daya. I'd just moved in with Aunt Aneeta and Uncle Eric and I was feeling so lost. Daya was the daughter of an Indian friend of my aunt's. Everyone was trying hard to make me feel welcome, really bending over backward, so I'd forget the shit with my mom. Anyway, Daya and I sort of connected. She loved music and had this big, raucous laugh. I liked hanging out with her.”

I point at the road we need to turn on. “That doesn't sound like a big deal.”

Sean hangs the steering wheel to the right. “It was. What I didn't know was that Kush had been crushing on Daya for a year.”

“Oh.”

“Right.”

“So, that's it?” I ask, peering over at Sean. He looks tired. “That was enough for him to attack me to get back at you?”

We pull into the parking lot of the Lodge. It's a nondescript cinder block building with tiny darkened windows and an enormous American flag hanging next to the door.

“No.” Sean rests his arm on the open window and stares up at a crow sitting on a telephone line. “I pulled away from Daya. It was more than I could deal with then. And Kush swooped in. She was vulnerable, and pissed as hell at me. It was a way to get back at me, because I still liked her, even if I couldn't show it.”

“And?”

Sean leans his head back against the headrest. “It got ugly. Kush took Daya to some big party. They got wasted. He snuck her into the house. I think she was getting back at me when she had sex with him.”

I watch the drummer pull up in a black Camaro.

“What a jerk.” I look over at Sean again. “I can see how that would suck for you, but why is Kush so broken up about it still?” I wrap my hand around my necklace and slide it along my neck.

“Because his mom walked in on them.”

“
No
.
Way
.”

Sean cracks his knuckles. “Yep, it was pretty bad. Aunt Aneeta grew up in a superconservative Indian immigrant family. She was mortified not only that Kush brought a girl back to the house drunk, but that he did it with the daughter of an Indian friend of hers.”

Mrs. Whitson reminds me a little of Mama, but I bet she's a real tiger when she's pissed.

“But how could he blame
you
that he got caught?”

“He blames me for us living here.”

Sammy sticks his head out of the door of the Lodge and yells out to us. “Are y'all coming or what?”

I hold up a finger. “One minute, Sammy.”

He slams the door.

I turn back to Sean. “I still don't understand.”

“Uncle Eric and Aunt Aneeta made the decision to move us here not too long after it happened. They said it was because I needed a stable home environment, not in a big city. But I think it's because Aunt Aneeta can't face her friends in Atlanta. But it doesn't matter. Kush has found a
way to connect it all in his head and now I'm the spawn of Satan to him. It doesn't help that I'm working in the pottery studio and really love it. It all boils down to jealousy.”

“What a prick,” I say.

Sean shrugs. “Nah. He's a good guy deep down. He'd been an only child forever. He went from being the only one to being the one in trouble.”

“Is it okay if I don't like him? He said some crazy shit about me.”

Sean rubs his wayward hair. “Yeah, sorry about that.”

“It's not your fault,” I say, and smile. “And I'll try and see him through your eyes.”

Sean smiles and grabs his guitar from behind the seat.

After we're finished, the Lodge owner calls Sean to the bar.

“What are they talking about?” Sammy's wrapping up cords and watching the two of them talk. Sean's nodding in his shy way and the owner claps him on the back every so often.

My hunch is the Lodge owner is trying to book Sean in for a night, on his own.

“I don't know.” I slide onto the table. “He's probably asking him where he's from or something. Small town and all.”

“Is that Whit's old shirt?”

I look down. “What, I don't meet your approval in this either?”

“You look nice. I was only going to say I don't remember that shirt looking so good on Whitney.” He sets the extension cord on the table and brushes his arm against mine. It's almost like he did it on purpose.

When it's time to go, he insists on driving me home.

“You sure?” Sean asks, looking between us.

“Yeah, we're going to the same place, it's fine. Besides . . .” I look at my phone. “A certain blonde friend of ours has been texting
me
wanting to know if
you
are finished with practice.”

Sean grins at the floor.

“Uh-huh. So maybe Daya is fading into memory?”

Sean looks at me. “Do you think C.A. would go out with me? I mean, she's a junior and I'm only a sophomore.”

I throw my hands up and slide off the table onto my good leg. “You two are ridiculous. And perfect for each other.”

As I follow Sammy out the door, I notice Sean's typing into his phone.

On the way home, I'm about to tell Sammy my decision. But then I stop. Sure, I can confess the party to Mama, but I can't confess my theft. It's a spiral of lies. I know Sammy.
He'll trade one blackmail for a worse one.

We drive on the back roads, cutting across hollers and down gravel roads. Sammy's like a watchdog, or the neighborhood patrol of drug dealers, always wanting to know who's up to what. As he drives, commenting on who's hanging out where and what their particular brand of poison is, I fret. There's got to be a way to get out of singing with him. If I'd only told Mama the truth about the party before this mess, then I'd be in the clear. But then Sean wouldn't have his Gibson.

Ideas swarm in my brain like gum balls. It's like I'm cranking the silver dial, waiting for the right one to drop into the hole and spiral down the curved shaft into my hands.

Sammy hits the pothole in front of the house and my shoulder knocks against the glass.

“Damn.” I rub the sting as we pull up to Sammy and Whitney's trailer. But no great scheme knocks loose from the others.

When we park, I get out of the car. Lights shine out from the house. Sammy opens the trunk and starts pulling out gear to take inside.

“Do you need my help?” I lean against the open trunk.

Sammy puts the amp down on the ground. “I was thinking.”

“Yeah?”

“What would you say to sharing the front of the stage with me, and I let Sean go.”

I look up at the night sky. “God, Sammy. Are you serious? He's an amazing guitar player. He might actually get you some gigs.”

Sammy's mouth jumps at the corners. He reaches into the trunk for his guitar case and pauses. “Yeah, he's good enough, but I'm just thinking one lead guitar is plenty. And with you co-fronting the band, it'd be as good as two guitar players.”

“I don't know, Sammy. Playing with you makes Sean happy.” For some reason I can't fathom.

Sammy lets go of the guitar and stands, grabbing my hand. “C'mon, Amber. Tell him he's out. Be my lead singer.” He plays with my fingertips and I pull my hand away. He puts his hand on my hip and steps closer, his eyes intense.

“What the hell, Sammy?” I push against his chest, but he doesn't let go.

He puts his hand on my cheek and strokes me with his thumb. “God, you are so beautiful, and you don't even know it. Don't you want to front the band with me? Think of the places we could go.”

I pause for a second when Sammy steps in and mashes
his lips against mine. I try and wriggle free, but he wraps his arms tighter around my waist.

His mouth is all over me, one hand holds me to him, and the other climbs to the back of my head, locking me into his kiss.

I hear the screen door slam and try to push him off of me. “Sammy, stop. Whitney,” I mumble.

Whitney rounds the corner of the raised trunk. “Sammy? Do you need help carrying . . .” My eyes are wide as I stare at her, staring at us.

Sammy jumps away from me. I stagger backward, wiping his spit off my mouth as I regain my balance.

“What the hell!” Whitney yells.

Sammy turns and holds out his hand to her but Whitney charges past him, knocking his hand sideways as she passes it. When she gets to me she takes her palms and smacks me backward toward Mama and Daddy's.

“I knew it. I knew it.” Her voice is shrill and loud. She keeps coming at me, like she's going to push me to the ground and stomp me into oblivion, before she suddenly turns and goes after Sammy. “Both of you, you kept saying you were talking about the band.”

Her voice cracks as her anger caves into a high-pitched grief, and then she wheels on me again. “The Sunday school room. The texts. I thought he was pulling you into
the drug thing, but this . . .” She buckles and drops her face into her hands, then starts rocking and keening like a wild animal.

“Whitney.” I look at Sammy. “Tell her, Sammy.”

He only flicks his eyes in my direction before returning them to Whitney, who's still rocking and hiding her face in her hands. “What? I don't have to tell her anything. She already knows, Amber. She's known you've had a crush on me since you were thirteen.”

I scream. “That's not true! Whitney, it's not true!”

“Just fucking go.” Her words fall like ashes. When she moves her hands and looks at me, I take a step back. Her eyes burn with anger.

As I limp across the yard, Giant following on my heels, I hear Whitney laying into Sammy again before Sammy's car starts up and he guns out of the driveway. When the car bangs in the hole out front, I hope it sent Sammy sailing through his own windshield.

The pleasure doesn't last long, though. My sister accused me of going after her husband. How can she really think I would do something like that to her? Can't she see it's Sammy she should blame?

That night I dream about flying. I'm soaring above the trees and the horizons are spread in every direction. Endless. Possible. I'm a bird of happiness. But nearby, the
timpani beat of heavy wings grows louder. The scream of a hawk cuts across the sky. Panic beats in my bird breast. The hawk dives and cuts into my flight. I roll, beating frantic soft wings, and turn. The hawk stares back at me. Its eyes are filled with rage.

I sit bolt upright in bed.

Outside the clouds have gone and pinpricks of starlight shine through the window. I clutch Giant to me and let him lick my cheek.

What has Sammy done?