No Place to Fall (3 page)

Sunday morning and Mama is
yelling at me to hurry up. “We're gonna be late to church, Amber Delaine!”

I grab my church skirt and blouse out of the closet and slip them on. Good enough. It's not like there's going to be anyone at church to make a fuss for anyway.

Downstairs, Coby is in his high chair, his bib covered with Cheerios.

“Hey, buddy, you finished?” I ask him.

“BerBer.” My nephew grins and waves his chubby fists.

Mama waddles into the farmhouse's kitchen and I jump out of the way. Daddy says she's two ax handles worth of love. That means her rear end is as wide as two
ax handles. I hate when he says it, but Mama acts like she doesn't care.

You don't want to get in Mama's way on church day. “Well, don't just stand there. Get that baby out of his chair and clean him up.”

“Where's Whitney?” I huff as I say it, but I know the answer. Running late because she and Sammy were out till God knows when. But my sister knows better than to skip church, even if it means showing up halfway through the sermon looking like death warmed over.

I get Coby cleaned up and head out to the yard.

Fog is settled into the folds of the valley and I hear Daddy walking over from the cow barn. “August fog means . . .”

“A snowy day this winter,” I say.

Daddy sheds his coveralls to reveal his Sunday slacks and shirt. I've never seen him in a tie, ever. But that doesn't stop half the women in Sevenmile from noticing him. Coby toddles over and holds up his hands. Daddy obliges, hoisting him onto his hip.

Daddy looks me over. “Amber, girl, I don't know why you don't let your hair grow long. Wear some nice heels. You might be as pretty as Whitney if you did. Might even get yourself a boyfriend.”

My mind flashes to the hiker barn. Girls don't need to
look like Whitney to get guys to notice them. Basil didn't seem to care that my hair's short and I don't wear fancy clothes. He thought I was interesting. He liked to hear me sing. I roll my knuckles against my thigh and ignore Daddy.

The porch railing creaks as Mama grabs it and takes the three stairs down to the yard. “You haven't started that truck yet, Herman?”

“Hold your britches. I'm going.”

Daddy cranks the engine while Mama pulls herself up into the passenger seat. I strap Coby into his car seat in the back.

At church, Pastor Early stands on the front stoop greeting the early parishioners. We are always there first. Mama thinks it will somehow make up for our sins.

I take Coby to the toddler room in the parish hall and linger. Deana May, the babysitter, goes to my school. Even though she's right up there with Mama on the devout-o-meter, I've always liked her.

She comes through the door leading the youngest of her five siblings. “Hey, Amber,” she says when she sees me. “You going to sing today?”

“Hey, Deana May. Yeah, Mrs. Early expects me to. Ready to start junior year?”

She shrugs and tightens her ponytail. “I guess. I'm in the baby class this fall.”

I laugh. “You'll definitely get an A, then.” The baby class is this stupid class where the teacher assigns everybody a robot baby. If you manage not to kill it from neglect or shaken baby syndrome, you get an A. With five younger siblings, it'll be a cakewalk for Deana May.

“Hey, did you hear?” Her pretty blue eyes go wide.

“No, what?”

“Some new family's moved in and they have sons. High school age.”

“Really? Where'd they come from?”

Deana May leans in because if there's one thing about her, she loves a good story. “I'm not sure. But the father is a Whitson. My papa knew his father. Said the family moved off for work but now the son is moving back in to reclaim the old property.”

The hiker barn sits at the edge of the Whitson land. Is that the property she's talking about?

The church bell rings and I say good-bye to Deana May before heading inside the sanctuary to our family pew.

Sammy and Whitney show up late and squeeze in. Sammy lets his legs splay open, so he's pressing against me. It's embarrassing, but it used to give me a thrill when he'd notice I was around. He was the ultimate bad boy, a musician, and I was only one degree of separation away, being
Whitney's little sister. But now it's just annoying. And weird. I scoot closer to Mama, but there's not a lot of room.

Pastor Early starts preaching and at first he holds my attention with talk of family and community. But then the slender beam of sunlight illuminating the pulpit's crimson carpet disappears and he switches gears. Before long I'm tuning him out. Blah, blah, blah, sinner. Blah, blah, blah, darkness. I slink down the wooden pew so my head rests on the back of it.

Mama hisses at me. “Sit up, girl.”

Mrs. Early, the preacher's wife, the choir director, and my high school's guidance counselor, smiles a sweet-tea smile at me from her place up front and motions for me to stand. She raises her arms and hums the opening notes of “River of Jordan.” As I sing my solo, I don't think about Pastor Early's condemnations, or the way that hiker, Kush, curled his lip at me. All I think about are the notes and how they purify me. Make me whole and wash me clean of anything but the sound of my voice.

“I'm on my way to the River of Jordan,

Gonna walk right in, in the rushing waters,

I'm going down to the River of Jordan,

And let the cool waters cleanse my soul.”

The folks in our congregation, no more than a hundred, look up and nod when I'm finished. They're the only audience I've ever really had, besides Devon, sometimes his brother, my family, and the hikers this summer.

Mrs. Early motions for me to sit down on the last note with a smile.

When I sing, I'm free.

Sammy decides it's a good time to drape his arm across the back of the pew and lean over. I smell the strange mix of his wintergreen Skoal and my sister's sour apple shampoo. “I need to talk to you.”

I glare at him and put my finger to my lips. “Shhh.”

Whitney leans forward and stares at us, then latches on to Sammy's arm.

I flip open the prayer book and bow my head, praying loud, ignoring the pressure from Sammy's leg. Mama pats my other leg and whispers, “That's right, honey, give it all to the Lord.”

If only it were that simple.

After church, Sammy follows me to the nursery to get Coby, while Whitney helps Mama set up refreshments in the fellowship hall.

Before we get there he pulls me into a darkened Sunday school room.

“Sammy, what are you doing?”

“Listen.” He pulls the door shut behind him and I look around for a light switch. He takes a step closer. I back up, bumping a wooden chair onto the floor.

He laughs. “Careful. You might bruise something.”

I find the switch and flick it on. “You're being weird. What do you want?”

Sammy gathers his hair, still damp from a shower, and flips it onto his back. “Don't be like that. Aren't I still your favorite guitar player?”

“Please, the only place you play anymore is around the console of your Guitar Wars game.” Sammy's guitar's been gone for months. Whitney told me they'd pawned it to invest in their “business.”

Sammy licks his finger, presses it against his forearm, and makes a sizzling sound. “That burned, baby sister.”

“So? Truth hurts.”

“But, see, that's what I have you in here for. I'm thinking of forming a new band. I met a drummer and another dude who plays bass.”

“Great.” I try to push past him toward the door, but he grabs my arm.

“Not so fast, I'm not finished.” Sammy pulls me close enough that I feel uncomfortable.

“Then finish. Coby's waiting for us.”

Outside in the hallway, I hear the sound of children's voices as parents gather them up for Sunday lunch.

“Please, Sammy, hurry up. What do you want?”

“I want you to be our backup singer.”

My head snaps up and I meet his eyes. “What?”

“You heard me. I know you've got a rock singer in there somewhere. Besides, if you're in on it, then Whitney won't give me grief.”

I'm stunned. Two years ago, I would have given the moon for Sammy to ask me to play in his band. But now, he's a burnout and a drug dealer and there's no telling who his other so-called band members are. Sure, I want to sing, but with Sammy? He's got to be kidding.

“No way.”

“Aw, come on.”

“Forget it, Sammy.” I push past him and fling open the door. “Deal with Whitney yourself.”

As I hurry down the hall, curiosity sneaks around the edges of my thoughts. The first band Sammy played in was pretty good. The old drummer moved to Nashville and picked up session gigs. He isn't famous, but he's living a real music life. Maybe this could be the start of something.

Inside the nursery, Coby's rolling a truck across the
windowsill. He looks up and grins at me. “Ber.”

No
. That drummer made it on his own. He didn't need Sammy. Sammy can't even pick up his own kid from the nursery without thinking of himself first.

That's not my dream. It's not my music. No matter how bad I want an audience.

Thank God for school starting
and thank God for Devon's daddy.

That's all I can think as I hear the horn beep out front and appreciate that Devon has the Jeep. Which means I don't have to take the bus on the days Daddy can't drive me. I give myself one more glance before heading out the door. First-day attire: fitted Carolina T-shirt, baggy overalls with perfectly placed knee holes, a black crocheted pair of Toms shoes—Mama about had a cow when I told her I wanted fifty-dollar shoes that we had to order off the internet, but Daddy said yes, since they were feminine—and black hoop earrings. Devon had fought me on the overalls, but they
are
my trademark.

I give Mama a kiss and grab a package of Pop-Tarts and a bottle of water. “Bye, Mama, love you.”

She shifts in her seat and waves her hands at me, like she's conducting a symphony. She gets all misty, her first-day-of-school ritual, and I wait for it. “Come give me a hug.”

I wrap my arms around her. People may make fun of fat people, but I like having a squishy mama. She's comfortable.

“I can't believe you're a junior. Lord, two short years and you'll be graduating. I hope you won't be in a hurry to grow up as fast as your sister did.”

I cringe. Mama doesn't get it. Though I might like to go out and have fun like my sister, I don't plan on getting pregnant, or picking a guy anything like Sammy. I want to travel, hike the trail, and maybe even go to college.

“I gotta go, Mama.”

She hangs on tighter. “You be a good girl.”

“Yes, Mama.”

Devon honks again.

“Mama, I gotta go.”

She releases me and wipes a tear from her eye. “Have a good day, sugar.”

I fly out the front door and down the steps. Devon is beaming from the front seat of his Jeep. I slide into
the passenger seat. A plush soccer ball dangles from the rearview mirror. Devon's our team's goalie and he's pretty good for a mountain kid. Most boys around here are into football or baseball. But then again, he's a hybrid, what with his mama being from off and his daddy, the judge, only returning with his family two years ago when he got a wild hair to run for a district court seat. I still marvel that Devon picked me to hang out with.

Devon lowers the rim of his aviator glasses, checking me out from head to toe. “You know, Amber P & S, you could work it a little more.”

I shake my feet for him. “I've got cool shoes. Ordered them online.”

He smiles at my feet. “I can't believe you talked
your
parents into putting their credit card number into a computer.”

“Right? Daddy's got an eBay addiction now. Hunting up old Clinchfield Railroad stuff.”

Devon laughs hard and backs out of the yard.

It takes about ten minutes to drive to Mountain High and park.

Devon loops his arm through mine after we get out of the Jeep. “You ready to kill this year?”

“Let's kill it,” I say. But there isn't any of the excitement I felt this summer, when Devon and I hit the hiker barn.

We trudge up the hill from the parking lot and slide into Mountain High's commons. Groups of kids are already forming, and there's nothing new, except the clothes and haircuts.

I glance around to see if I can spy the new boys Deana May told me about. “Did you hear about the new kids?” I ask.

Devon's Adam's apple bobs. “Oh, yeah, about that.”

“About what?”

Will, Devon's brother, interrupts us. “Hello, young subjects,” he crows, throwing his arm over Devon's shoulder. Will and Devon are the same height, even though Will's a year older. Today, he looks effortlessly cool in his loose “My Grass Is Blue” T-shirt, a pair of hiking shorts, and faded trail runners. It's sweet, I guess, the way Will's always hovering, making sure nothing bad happens to Devon. He doesn't usually pay much attention to me, but when he does, my palms sweat a little.

“Hey, Will. I like your shirt,” I say, looking up at him. I stand with my hands by my sides, then in my pockets, then back by my sides.

It's stupid how nervous I get around him, but there are reasons. One, Will's as cute as Devon, but straight. Two, he hangs out with the cool seniors, and by that I don't mean the cheerleaders and jocks. I mean the artsy
kids—once they're gone, they're going to have a life. Three, hanging out with Will involves the likelihood of getting suspended—he's irreverent. And four, I always feels like he's making fun of me. Like he knows that if it weren't for me being friends with Devon, I'd just be some random girl at his school.

“You are looking fashionably unfashionable as always.” Will raises one brow and grins at me. “And I mean that in the best way possible.”

Then I hear the voice of Amber Rose Slagle. Amber-o-zia. “Will.
There
you are.”

Amber-o-zia is our school fashion plate. She's part Cherokee and has perpetually tan skin, long, gorgeous dark hair, always wears makeup, and, according to Devon, hooked up with Will two weeks ago at a party out on the lake.

“Dahling . . .” Will, suave even when he's kidding, turns and holds out his arms, and Amber-o-zia tucks into them. He kisses her right there in the commons. I see Amber-o-zia's hand slip into the back pocket of his jeans. Territory established. An odd couple—Amber-o-zia's about as straight arrow as Deana May—but she and Will look good together.

I wipe my hands on my overalls.

“Come on.” Devon pulls me toward the double doors
and the soccer crowd. “There's someone we need to say hello to.”

“Amber. Devon. Hey! Wait up!” Cheerleader Amber, or C.A., untangles herself from a cluster of burgundy-ribboned girls decked out for the opening-day pep rally. “I need y'all to do me a favor.”

“C.A., we're right here.” Devon pokes his fingers in his ears.

“Sure. Whatever.” C.A. directs her request to me. “We need juniors to win opening-day spirit. Can you get them to yell a little louder?” C.A.'s hands are on her hips, her face serious.

“Sure, C.A.,” I say.

“Thanks!” She clasps her hands and bobs her head like she's just finished a cheer. She turns to go, then stops and speaks to me. “You taking art, again, Amber?”

“Yep, Devon's in, too. You?”

Last year, C.A. and I forged a surprising friendship over silk screen prints. Devon had been in a different block, but this year we'd be together.

“Yeah, but I hear the new teacher is a bitch.”

Before I can respond, C.A.'s friends have pulled her back into the squad and Devon's tugging on my arm. “Amber, I need you to listen to me.”

“What?” I look at my cell phone. Bell's about to ring for opening assembly.

“You know we had our first soccer practice a couple of days ago.”

“Yeah . . .”

“Well, we've got a new player.”

I see Principal Hedges walking in our general direction and I quickly slip my phone in my pocket.

“That's great. Is he any good?” Mountain High's soccer record is abysmal.

We're walking in the direction of the soccer team and the girls that hang out with them.

“No, it's not about that, it's . . .”

“Shit.” I stop dead in my tracks. Ahead of me, surrounded by the team and soccer groupies, is Kush, the guy from the campfire. Why did I assume he was a through-hiker? He must be one of the new boys Deana May was talking about.

I can feel Devon's crush energy radiating off of him. Me, all I feel is mortal embarrassment. I acted like Whitney out there. Making out with Basil, getting high. All I need is for the new guy to start spreading rumors about me and for them to get back to Mama and everyone else in Sevenmile.

And then he's standing across from us, shouldering a first-day book bag.

Devon's practically giddy. “Amber, you remember Kush? Kush Whitson? He moved here. From Atlanta. Isn't it awesome?”

I look at Devon, look at Kush, then look at my feet. “Hey,” I mumble. I'm torn between feeling sorry for the guy, and feeling a little freaked out he's going to run his mouth. And now he's hanging out with us?

The bell rings and the shuffle starts toward the gym.

I grab Devon's arm. “Um, sorry, Devon, I forgot I told Deana May I'd sit with her for assembly.”

“Wait, what . . .”

But I ignore him, and push my way into the crowd, leaving him, and Kush, behind.

I never do find Deana May in the gym, but instead, I settle smack dab in the middle of the burnout crowd.

“Hey, Amber.”

“Hey, Frog.”

Anthony Speller has been Frog as long as I can remember. He's actually sort of cute in a moppy hair, stoner sort of way.

“You met Sean yet?” Frog asks me.

I look past Frog and see another new boy. His hair is a light brown razor-cut mess, sticking up in the back. His
eyes, which are a pretty blue, seem hidden behind clouds.

Sean lifts his chin. “What's up?”

“Hey. Are you new?”

“Yeah, me and my cousin.” He points several rows below us at the soccer team. “The dark-haired dude down there.”

“Oh.”

So,
this
is the other Whitson. Sean looks nothing like Kush. And it's weird they're not hanging out on the first day. If I were at a new school, I'd be clinging tight to the people I knew.

“Where's your homeboy?” Frog asks me.

I point in the same direction Sean had. Devon's sitting next to Kush and waving his hands while he talks.

Sean glances my way. “Your boyfriend?”

“No. He's my best friend, though.”

“I never have understood why you two don't date, Amber.” Frog tilts his head.

Frog is clueless, but so is most of Mountain High.

“I don't know. We make better friends.”

“Friends are good,” Sean says quietly.

I glance over at him and see him twisting the bottom of his T-shirt. I hear my mama's voice expounding on the virtues of being welcoming and generous.

“Do you play?” I ask.

“What?” Sean asks.

“Your shirt. It says ‘Fender.' Do you play the guitar?”

Sean pulls out the shirt and looks down at it. It takes a minute for him to answer. “I got it at a thrift store. Thought it was cool.”

“Oh.” I slump back against the bleachers.

Cheerleader Amber, newly promoted to cocaptain of the squad, bounces out on the gym floor and tries to whip the junior section into a frenzy.

“Come on, y'all.” I stand up halfheartedly, remembering my promise to help bring on the spirit.

C.A.'s nodding her head in little choppy up-and-down movements in time to the clapping of her hands. Her mascaraed eyes twinkle. She points at me and gives me a thumbs-up.

I watch Devon get the whole soccer team and their friends up, even Kush, and pretty soon they're screaming and fist pumping and chest flailing. I turn to my ragtag section of the bleachers. “Spirit, y'all. Come on. Get up.”

Frog groans and stands, pulling Sean to his feet. A few more kids stand and clap limply.

I look down and see that Devon has the soccer team doing the wave.

My group is pathetic. I elbow Frog and whisper, “Mountain High
high
, y'all,” and air toke. He grins and
holds out a fist. I bump mine against his and he takes over for me. Frog gets the section laughing, and soon they're all on their feet screaming, “Mountain High
high
, y'all.”

Soon, Principal Hedges comes out onto the center of the gym floor and tries to settle us down, but he's laughing as he does it. Seniors win spirit, of course. They always do. Then, Vice Principal Smoker (no joke) comes out for her yearly lecture on how to be a model Mountain High citizen. She plays bad cop to Principal Hedges's good cop, and just as we're wondering why we even bothered coming back to school, she switches gears and gets all sparkly like she loves us so much, and throws MHHS pencils into the crowd.

I watch Kush grab a pencil in flight. Devon must pick up on my vibe because he turns, searching the bleachers till he finds me. He looks at who I'm standing with and asks a question with his raised eyebrow. I shrug. I know he'll tell me I'm being paranoid, and I am, but the last thing I need is a new kid telling people how hard I was partying this summer.

After the assembly, I push down the stairs, elbowing past a group of huddled, wide-eyed freshmen. The surge of the student body pushes me out into the commons and I start looking for Devon.

He finds me first. I see his hand shoot up from near the windows, waving me over. I cut through the crowd to him.

“Who's the new guy?” Devon asks in a low voice, nodding past my shoulder.

I turn around and Sean's right behind me. I'm surprised Devon doesn't know who he is yet. I grab Sean's elbow and pull him into the conversation.

“Um. Kush's cousin? Sean? You haven't met?”

“No.” Devon looks sideways at Kush as he joins us. “Hey, man, why'd you leave your cousin hanging? You should've brought him out to practice.” He turns to Sean. “I'm Devon, by the way.”

Sean stuffs his hands into his pockets. “It's okay. I'm not so into sports. Besides, I'm only a sophomore.”

Devon rolls his eyes. “Like that matters? We'll take any live body.” He looks again at Sean. “I'm surprised, though. I would have guessed you for older.”

Kush pushes a strand of hair behind his ear. “He
is
older. He should be a junior.”

Sean doesn't say anything, just looks away from us.

“Hey,” I say. “Come on, Sean. I can show you where your classes are. Let's see your schedule.”

His eyes meet mine and he exhales. “Thanks.”

I turn to Devon. “See you in art?” I don't bother saying good-bye to Kush.