No Place to Fall (2 page)

I hold up my hand.
Devon stops behind me.

We creep up the spur trail. The big barn is just around the bend.

I can already hear the murmur of voices and bursts of laughter. The smell of camp smoke swirls on the breeze.

We sneak closer and I see sleeping bags hanging out on lines. A hose has been rigged from the creek to wash the hikers' stuff and the tail end of a bright August sun is drying earth-colored clothing.

I feel Devon at my right shoulder. “Are you ready?” he asks.

I see a group of dreadlocked hikers, two guys, one girl.

Another guy, a little older.

There are more bags on the line. That means more hikers. Either in the barn or down at the creek.

“Ready,” I say. “The dread guys are kind of cute.” It's still hard to believe how easy this has been. Sliding in by the campfire, talking, singing. The first time we showed up I was nervous, but each visit since has been easier. Especially since they've all been so nice, and so eager to hang out with anyone new and different.

Devon purses his lips and gives me his best Marilyn Monroe. “All right, darling, let's go find us a man.”

We walk into the clearing. The dreadlocked cluster looks up. The older guy is more suspicious, glancing at us sideways. I sigh under my breath so only Devon hears. He knocks me with his elbow and whispers, “Say your greetings.”

“Hi, how you'uns doing?” My voice sounds extra tangy with a side of hillbilly as it bounces down the path.

Devon elbows me again.

“I mean, how are y'all doing?”

“Tired.” The boy with the dark dreadlocks smiles up at me, but the girl, super-pretty despite being fresh off the trail, instinctively wraps her arm snug around his waist. I guess hippies get jealous, too.

“Long day on the trail?” I look at the blond dreadlocked boy. He raises his arms behind him, cradling his
head as he leans against the barn's exterior. His eyes linger on my face before doing a quick trip up and down the rest of me. I don't really mind. He's definitely hiker cute.

“Yeah.” He pauses, a wry grin settling at the corner of his lips. “Long day. Y'all just sightseeing or did you actually bring a little trail magic for some tired hikers?”

The dread girl speaks up. “Basil, be nice. Anybody that arrives at camp with a guitar and something in foil wrapping is all right by me.” She smiles at me. “What's in there?”

Devon points to the tray. “Brownies. Plain or Secret Ingredient.”

The girl smiles and turns to Basil. “See, Basil. Secret Ingredient brownies, your favorite.”

The older guy speaks up. His voice is nasal and his words are clipped. Yankee. “You two live around here?”

I nod.

“Curious or Good Samaritans?”

I figure honesty is the best policy. “Both. We've met people from all over the place this summer.”

He smiles and even though he's bound to be at least twenty-eight, he has kind eyes. “Well, pull up a log. We've got a little stone soup cooking. My buddies hitched a ride to the store for some supplies.” He looks at Devon. “Can you play?”

Devon sits down and pulls the guitar around. He starts with “Blackbird” by the Beatles.

“Righteous.” The dread girl's boyfriend lays out long on the dirt and pulls her in to his side. Basil comes and sits next to me. He smells like he's been in the woods for days.

“How old are you?” he asks.

“Eighteen,” I lie and unwrap the foil. I point to the ones that Devon's older brother, Will, baked. “I think you might want one of those.”

Devon says Will's in an experimental phase, one that's intended to piss their judge daddy off. But Will claims his dad won't find out and besides, his pot-infused butter is worth it. Better than smoking. Not that I do much imbibing of any sort during the school year. It's too big of a risk. The whole town's already seen my sister's fall. All I need is everyone assuming I'm headed down the same path.

The foil crinkles as the hikers gather around and take brownies. The girl reminds them to save a few for the guys who hitched to the store. I notice the older guy takes a plain old sugar-and-butter variety.

Devon finishes his song. “So, what are your trail names? Where are you from?”

I take a bite of one of Will's brownies—it is the last hurrah of summer after all—and wait to hear the answers.

Dread girl says her trail name is Whiskers, something
to do with a rogue hair that sprouts when she doesn't have a mirror to pluck it. She, her boyfriend, and Basil are all from Athens, Georgia.

The Yankee guy laughs. “Mine's Cheese Steak. Because I'm from Philadelphia. But most folks on the trail just call me Philly.”

“What would our trail names be?” Devon asks them. It's a question we've asked every group of hikers.

Philly laughs and the sound is more melodious than his speaking voice. It makes me wonder if he can sing. Basil edges closer to me.

Philly points at Devon. “We've only just met, but let's see. I think we'll call you the Picker.”

Devon rolls his eyes. “I
do
hope you're referring to my guitar.”

“And her,” Philly says, winking at me, “we'll call her Pixie, because of that haircut and her impish grin.”

I giggle, the brownie already taking effect.

Basil is close enough I feel the warmth of his leg on mine. I glance sideways at him. He might be really handsome without all that nappy hair. I wonder if he's in college, taking the summer off to hike the AT. He shifts slightly, the hair on his arm brushing mine. I look down as a shiver rises on my skin. When I look up, he's staring at me.

Basil arches one eyebrow and stretches his leg out long
so that it nudges me in the process.

I look away but feel the flare rise to my cheeks and a tickle jump in my belly.

Philly throws logs on the fire and Devon cranks up his guitar again, slipping into Johnny Cash mode. He plays “Jackson” and I sing the June Carter Cash parts. Basil, Whiskers, and her boyfriend all squeeze in on me as we raise our voices. Then, Devon switches to “Poker Face” and we're laughing and singing and making crazy faces at each other, the brownies a good half hour into our system. Philly watches us with laughter in his eyes. I'm definitely stoned, but tonight I don't care.

A group of guys walks up the logging road from the direction of the old Whitson house. Hikers, two who look like they belong with Philly, and one younger, surprisingly clean, loner. They're loaded down with bags of groceries and a case of beer.

“Beer!” Basil jumps up from his spot next to me and rushes the approaching hikers. He grabs two bottles and returns, twisting the caps, then passes one my way. “Here you go, Pixie.” He loops his arm over my shoulder. I should move out from under it—he's probably too old for me and I've just met him. But it's not like I'm ever going to see these people again.

“You know, you've got a great voice.” Basil's voice is
low and conspiratorial, like he's telling me a secret.

I take a sip, the rim of the bottle cold on my lips. “You think?” My heart rate picks up a beat or two, and I fight the urge to move out from the heat of his arm across my shoulder.

“I do,” he says. “Come on, I want to hear you sing something else.” His arm drops but he grabs my hand instead.

I let him pull me back toward the campfire.

The new hikers settle around
the fire. Two sit near Philly, and the loner guy sits next to Devon, across from me and Basil.

“Hey, man.” He holds out his hand to Devon. “I'm Kush.”

“Devon.” Devon grabs the guy's hand and pumps the hell out of his forearm.

I try not to laugh.

Kush retrieves his hand. “Whoa, some grip. Y'all from around here?” His glance skips between us. He sounds close enough to be local, but he doesn't look like anybody I know. Shoulder-length black hair. Big sleepy eyes the color of goldenrod in the fall. Bronze skin. I think he must be part Indian.
India
Indian, not Native American.

Devon's gone all tongue-tied. “Right here in Sevenmile,” I say, speaking for him.

Kush nods like he already guessed. He points at the foil in Devon's hands. “Can I have one?”

“Oh, right, sure.” Devon recovers and squares his shoulders. His voice drops an octave. “Here you go.” He doesn't point out there are two varieties, and Kush takes one of Will's doctored delights.

Basil casually slides his arm behind me before nodding at Kush. “They do things different here than in Georgia. Am I right?”

“You can say that again. There is nothing out there.” Kush points beyond the trees.

I guess Kush is from Athens, too. It surprises me they're hiking together. Basil and his other friends seem granola crunchy compared to Kush, but what do I know?

Philly and one of his friends leave our circle and start seasoning burgers over by the charcoal grill.

Basil leans in. “So, you going to sing for us, or what?” The thumb that had been casually touching the side of my thigh lifts up and explores the hem of my shorts.

Devon inclines his chin so slightly in my direction I almost miss it. Then he purses his lips.

I shrug. He knows, like I know, that after this week, our fun is over. It's back to school and homework and life
as usual. But I also know Devon won't judge me. What happens at the hiker barn stays at the hiker barn. And so what if I hook up with Basil? It's not like I'm going to marry him or have his baby. I'm not Whitney.

“Well, what do you want to hear?” I clutch the beer bottle in my hands.

Basil leans closer. “Sing something hot.”

Kush snort laughs. Then Devon starts giggling. Pretty soon we're all laughing and Basil's taken his hand off of me and is waving it in the air for us to stop. “All right, all right. I get it.” He nudges me. “Sing what you're good at.”

“Play ‘Amazing Grace,'” I say.

Devon pulls his guitar around and hits a chord. His eyelids are hanging low and he's wearing this goofy sort of half smile. I wonder if I look as stoned as he does.

He starts strumming the guitar and I pretend I'm in our family pew at my church, Evermore Fundamental. It's the place I feel safe singing it loud. My voice rises up. I open my mouth and the notes fly to the trees and swoop up and down and around our little party. It's almost like I can see them up there, glistening with promise. Tiny sound bursts that sparkle and fall. When I finish, everyone is silent. Basil has his eyes shut and he's smiling.

Devon strums absently on the guitar.

Kush stands and stretches out his legs. He pushes his
hair back from his face and shakes his head. “Man, that was a downer. That's seriously what you like to sing?” He runs his hand down the sides of his mouth, and then reaches for a beer.

Basil puts his hand protectively around my shoulder. “Dude, don't. That was tight.”

Kush shakes his head. “Church music. It's what all these people up here are into. That and country.”

Blood rushes into my face, and I press my lips to keep from calling him an asshole. I'm about ready to walk on home when Philly calls out from the grill. “One more song and dinner's ready.”

Devon nudges Kush's foot with his own. “So what do
you
want to hear?”

“Can you play anything real?”

Devon hits the opening chords for “Smells Like Teen Spirit.”

One night last year, we were messing around and came up with a bluegrass version of it. Even Will, who usually never has time for us, joined in on his banjo. It sounded great. For real, great, and I've been wanting to play it again like that ever since.

But tonight Devon plays it regular, and I go ahead and sing, growling out the lines. I'll show this city boy church music. I'm high enough that I grab someone's walking
stick, turning it into a make-believe microphone. I even swing my beer bottle in my other hand, taking swigs when Devon plays guitar solos.

When I finish, I bow and let Basil pull me toward him in a hug. “Girl, you ripped that.”

It's then that I get a little self-conscious. What do these people see when they see me? A country girl with a twang and no future, or do they see me as someone who really might be able to fly?

Philly calls us to dinner. His buddies pass out plates and we all fall silent. I eat another one of Will's brownies and say yes to the second beer Basil hands me.

Philly's friends spin tales about the trail. They crack us up with their interpretation of the speed hikers and the crazy hermits that shun the company of others out in the woods.

Devon starts playing good old James Taylor sing-alongs and even Kush doesn't complain.

Basil is next to me again, and I notice he leans in when we laugh, and gives me a little nudge with his arm. It doesn't feel all that bad.

“So, Kush?” Devon asks. “You're from Athens, too?”

“Atlanta,” Kush says. “The city. Nothing like this place.” The way he rolls his eyes and tilts his head in the
vague direction of town puts me off.

I remember when Devon first moved here from Raleigh. He'd do the same thing. Roll his eyes. Make fun of us. Like if you weren't from a city, you couldn't possibly be a worthy human being.

Philly's friend, Larry, yawns and starts gathering up the pots and pans, mumbling about an early start and cleaning up. It's a good break, so I jump up to help.

“Hey, man,” Basil says to Larry. “We got that. Go on to bed. I'll leave your things by your pack.” Basil smiles and walks over next to me, piling dishes in his arms.

What's the harm? It's just dishes, after all. Isn't this why I'm here? To meet new people?

Basil sings along to the song Devon is playing as we traipse down the skinny track through the woods.

He slows until I'm walking next to him. “So, Pixie, you ever think of taking off up that trail? Why don't you come with us?”

Because I'm barely sixteen, my mama's a fundamental Baptist, and my daddy has a thirty-aught-six rifle. Though lately, he hasn't seemed to care too much about what I'm up to.

What I say is, “Not this year.”

“Too bad.” He hip-checks me. “Gets sort of lonely out
there, when you're hiking with a couple.”

Before I know what's happened, he's leaned in and kissed me, real quick.

“Uh, I've gotta pee.”

“That's not usually the effect I have on girls.” He laughs.

We reach the stream and I put down the dishes I'm carrying. “No, really. Be back in a sec.”

From the woods, I can hear him singing and washing dishes. I squat and realize just how buzzed I am and place my hand on a tree trunk to steady myself. What am I doing? I'm acting like Whitney. But what does it matter? They'll all be down the trail in the morning anyway, and with school starting next week, it's back to plain old me. I stand and pull my shorts up.

Basil smiles as I walk back. We wash the remaining dishes while I hum the tune to “Pretty Saro.” It's my favorite old Appalachian ballad.

When we're done, Basil takes my hand and leads me to a grassy spot near the bank. “Will you sing that? For me?” He pulls me to sit next to him. I recognize where this is going and picture my map, with a new thumbtack stuck on Athens, Georgia.

I take a deep breath and feel the notes resonate in my
belly. I close my eyes, then press my hand against the dirt to steady myself, before bringing up the first words.

“Down in some low valley in some
lonesome place,

Where small birds to whistle their
notes do increase . . .”

I keep singing with my eyes closed, only catching my breath when I feel Basil's fingers tickling the skin on the back of my neck.

When I finish, I open my eyes and he's there, waiting for me with a kiss. I turn so I'm facing him and put my hand on his shoulder. We kiss for a minute and then he pulls back. “You know, you're really good.” Basil pushes short wisps of hair behind my ears.

“Thanks.”

“No, I mean, like,
really
good. You should let somebody record you.”

I shake my head and blush. “No, it's only for church and hanging out with my friends.”

Basil moves his hand down to the side of my neck. His expression is earnest. “I'm not punking you, Pixie. I don't
know that much about it, but I'd guess you have near perfect pitch. You ever watch
American Idol
?”

I giggle at his suggestion. Singing in front of crowds is my dream—and my biggest fear. But I'll never get to that level. I'm just a girl who sings at church and around a campfire.

His eyes focus in on mine, and then he pulls my mouth to his. At first, he's real gentle.

But his kisses get more urgent, and he parts my mouth with his tongue.

He tastes like chocolate and beer. My head buzzes but my tongue meets his, circling and tasting. His lips press harder against mine and I kiss him back.

I could tell him to stop and head back to the rest of the group. But I don't.

A groan escapes his lips and he leans against me, his arms easing me toward the ground.

I lie back getting lost in the feeling of his mouth on mine.

His hand eventually works its way under my tank top, unhooking my bra. “You're so beautiful,” he whispers. “One day, when I see you singing at some amphitheater, I'm going to remember this night, my brush with fame.” He kisses down my stomach.

I gasp as every feeling in my body settles between my
legs. I'd come prepared for something like this. Devon and I'd planned all summer about what it'd be like to hook up for real—the ultimate hookup. It'd been easy to get a condom. All I had to do was rummage deep in the glove box of Daddy's truck. Tonight could be it. Basil could be the one. Lord knows I wouldn't let it happen with someone from here. Sevenmile's gossip train has a loud whistle.

Basil's dreads scratch my skin, as he reaches to push down my shorts.

“Wait.” I put my hands on his arms.

“No, baby,” he moans.

I hold his arms tight.

“Seriously, wait.” I move my hands to his head and lift his face up.

His eyes meet mine and I guess he sees I'm serious about stopping. “No fucking way.” He groans and rolls off of me. He lies there for a minute before getting up and gathering dishes.

“Sorry,” I say.

He shrugs and waves me off.

As he disappears up the trail, I look through the leaves at the stars.

American Idol
. Now that'd be something.