No Place to Fall (4 page)

After I show Sean his
locker and his classrooms, I catch up to C.A. on our way to art. She links her arm through mine. “So, Amber Vaughn, tell me all about that bed-headed boy you were showing around. And how'd you get to him so fast?” She licks her glossed lips for emphasis.

“You did not just lick your lips.”

“Yes, I did. He looks like he could use a scrub behind the ears, but he's cute, and he was all eyes on you.”

“Only because I was being nice to him.”

She bumps me with her hip. “All I'm saying is he's cute. Go for it, girl.”

Devon catches up to us in the hall. “Go for who?”

“Bed-head boy,” C.A. says, turning to look at Sean again.

“She means Sean,” I clarify for him. “Anyway,” I say to C.A. “I've got my main man right here.” I pat Devon's hand. We've never directly said that we're together, but it never hurts that some people jump to conclusions. Let them believe what they want to believe.

C.A.'s not fooled for a minute, though. “Right. Uh-huh.”

We walk into the art room and sit at the same table we did last year, but everything's totally different. Gone are the piles of old canvases and plastic toys for still lifes. Instead, the room is tidy and neat, with bright arrangements of fresh flowers in place. My favorite box of crumpled acrylic tubes has been replaced with neat plastic watercolor trays. I'm not sure I like the change.

The bell rings and Ms. Thomas, the new teacher, starts taking attendance. She's interrupted by Vice Principal Smoker leading Kush in. “I found you a lost little lamb, hon. Don't mark him tardy. He's new.”

Kush does look sheepish. “Sorry,” he mumbles, and sits near the door.

C.A. whispers, “Cherokee Boy's pretty damn cute, too.”

I glance over at Kush again. She's right. Cute, really
cute. But Mama always says, pretty is as pretty does. And so far this Kush boy may have Devon fooled into thinking he's some big-city wunderkind, but I'm not convinced.

“I'm pretty sure someone in his family is from India. You know, the country?” I say.

“
Ohh
. But his last name's Whitson?” C.A. peers behind me to get a better look.

Devon leans in to whisper to me and C.A. “His mom is, indeed, Indian. But she grew up in Atlanta.” He sounds so smug when he says it I stick out my tongue.

Ms. Thomas shushes us and hands out the syllabus for Art II.

No way. Drawing. Pen and ink. Watercolor.

Where's the recycled sculpture, the printmaking, and the mud painting? Where's the fun stuff?

It doesn't take long to figure out that, for me, Art II is not going to be fun. We will do a watercolor landscape. We will draw from the right sides of our brain. We will create the perfect contrast of positive and negative.

What we won't be doing is exploring our inner landscape like we did with our old art teacher, Mr. Cottrell.

“Fuck,” I say under my breath, but still louder than I should.

“Did you say something, Miss Vaughn?” Ms. Thomas asks me, meeting my eyes.

“No, ma'am.” Surely she couldn't hear me.

“I'm pretty sure you did.” Ms. Thomas leans over and scrawls on the top of a familiar pink pad of paper. She rips the slip off the top and hands it to me. “Go see Vice Principal Smoker. Explain it to her.”

Did I just get written up in my first class on the first day of school for dropping an F bomb under my breath? Apparently, I did, because Ms. Thomas is standing with her hand on her hip, pointing to the door.

C.A. mouths, “Good luck.”

I hate new teachers.

Smoker keeps me waiting for my lecture till right before lunch. Apparently, I have been chosen as the poster child for how not to behave this school year, because I get a day of in-school suspension. I am the beacon, the first-day warning for the entire student body.

When she finally sends me on my way, I slam through the office doors and head for the lawn outside the cafeteria. My eyes burn with held tears. Mama's going to kill me.

Devon sees me first. “What happened?”

“Smoker gave me a day of ISS.”

“
No
way.” He gives me a hug. “You going to tell Donna?”

“I guess I have to. Save me a spot, will you?” On pretty
days we always eat outside on the lawn.

The cafeteria line snakes around one wall and it's moving slow. People don't have their accounts set up yet and the lunch ladies have to make change. I stand in the line for a second, before I say screw it and head for the vending machines.

I have to pass by the it-girl table, where Will's sitting with Amber-o-zia. I wonder how many wine coolers it took to make
that
happen. Not that he's the kind of guy who gets a girl drunk to hook up. Or that he's not hot. But I don't get it—they seem so different.

At the vending machine I fumble with my dollar bill and try to ignore the laughter from Amber-o-zia's table. I hit G-5 and watch as a package of strawberry Pop-Tarts drop. Nothing like a breakfast do-over.

“You tried the cinnamon roll flavor?”

I look behind me. It's Sean, holding a tray of food, hair still sticking up. He's biting at the corner of his lip, but his bright eyes make him look happier than they did at assembly. His nervousness is almost as cute as his smile.

“No. My mom always buys frosted blueberry. Are they good?” Are we really talking about Pop-Tart flavors?

Sean nods. “Yeah. My mom used to buy them sometimes.”

“You want to sit with us outside?” I point out the
window to where Devon and the other soccer players, Kush included, gather under the trees.

“Nah, it's okay. But I wanted to tell you something.”

Sean talks so deliberately that you have to really listen. I wait, trying not to be impatient. Finally, I say, “Okay?”

He blushes and nods down to his shirt. “I play. Wish I could play more, but I had to sell my guitar.”

I can hear it in his voice—the sound I hear my heart make when I think about not being able to sing. I look out the window. Devon's thrown his head back, laughing, and Kush gestures wildly beside him. They seem fine without me.

I hold up my lunch in one hand and point toward the door. “Hey, why don't we go sit out back, by the band room? It's quiet there. I'd love to hear about your playing.”

Sean's eyes meet mine. They're Carolina blue with a few flecks of gray. “Really?”

I glance back at Will. He's pinching tots from Amber-o-zia's lunch tray. When he sees me looking at him, he grins and sticks out his tongue, a tot balanced on the tip.

I turn my head quickly, not sure if I should laugh or blush.

Sean's still waiting for my answer.

“Yeah, really,” I say.

That afternoon, I walk out
to the parking lot to look for Devon. I hadn't seen him again since lunch. But it's Will who finds me, zipping up to the curb in his black Honda. The window rolls down and Will leans over it, grinning at me. “Amber Vaughn, as I live and breathe! Devon asked if I'd give you a ride. He's got soccer practice.” Will's hair's grown out over the summer, and it flops over his eyebrows. He brushes it away and unlocks the door.

I quickly shut my mouth before it drops all the way open, and try and play it cool.

“Yeah. Sure, thanks.” I open the door and climb in next to him. I notice that the seats are leather, with that new car smell. The McKinneys aren't mansion-rich, but
they do well enough for two brothers to have their own cars even though they go to the same school.

I drop my book bag onto the floor at my feet. Will's got an Avett Brothers sticker on his dashboard. “You like them?” I ask, rubbing my fingers across the gloss of the decal.

Will checks his mirrors and pulls out of the parking lot onto the road. “Yeah. Got to see them earlier in the summer.”

“Really?” I ask with a lilt in my voice that I hope doesn't sound like jealousy.

Will looks over at me. “You like them?” He sounds surprised. “I thought you were into the music Devon likes. That's all y'all are ever playing when I'm around.”

I'm a little disappointed he doesn't remember our front porch Nirvana bluegrass session last year. But Devon does pretty much take over when it comes to the music we play, for the most part. “No. I'm into a lot of different kinds of music.”

Will looks at me a little longer this time, and then turns his eyes back toward the road. “Cool. I didn't know. Hey, Devon said you got called down today.”

“Yeah. The new art teacher. It was like she needed to piss on some trees or something.”

Will laughs and slows the car down a little. “You ready to go home?”

I groan. “
No
. I dread telling my mama about the suspension.”

Will zips past the turnoff for the long country road where my house is and heads north.

“Um, where are we going?” I ask, peering over at him.

Will's eyes follow the turns in the road, but there's a wry smile crinkling around their edges. “You said you weren't ready to go home. I figured we could go burn one up on the bald. Got to admit, it's a gorgeous day.”

It's true. I'm not ready to go home. I look over at Will. His fingers tap on the steering wheel in time to the song blasting from his speakers. He has the same thick, dark eyelashes over liquid brown eyes that Devon does, but Will's face is sharp and lean where Devon's is softer. A tiny scar slices across Will's cheek, and I wonder how he got it.

He shifts gears and slows down a bit, looking over at me. “Do you need to go home? Can you hang out?”

“No, I don't have to go home. But, why?”

“Why, what?”

“Why do you want to hang out with me?”

We pass the Franklin house. Mr. Franklin is out front mowing, and the dirt-tangy smell of fresh-cut grass blows in through the window.

Will cuts his eyes toward me. “What, my brother is good enough to hang out with you, but I'm not?”

I shake my head. “I, it's . . .” That's not it at all, but I lose my words, and Will doesn't wait for my answer. He just guns his car around the curve and turns up the music.

This is strange, but after today, I'm ready to take it as it comes. I relax into the leather seat and turn my face toward the wind. The iPod switches to a local Southern rock band, Flat Trucker, and I sing along.

“Those guys would kill to have you in their band,” Will says loudly over the music.

I blush. “No way.”

Will's car hums around the curves. “No. Seriously, you're really good. I can't believe you're not already in a band, or at least in the chorus or something.”

I didn't think Will knew I even existed, other than being the girl who's always taking up half the sofa in his family's TV room, eating his parents' popcorn, and singing his brother's favorite songs on command.

“It doesn't matter. My mama would never let me be in a band. She thinks singing's only for church and baking.”

“What do you think?”

“I don't know. I don't think about it much.” I'm surprised at my own answer. I mean, of course I've thought about it. I thought about it Sunday when Sammy asked me to be in his band. I thought about it down by the creek
when Basil was talking about
American Idol
. I think about it all the time.

I glance at him. “I think I'd be too scared to sing in front of crowds like that.”

He opens his mouth and scoffs, then nudges my shoulder with the flat of his hand. “I bet you'd get over it.”

Will's taking the switchbacks at close to thirty miles an hour, way too fast, but I'm not scared. He's a good driver. I've got my hand out the window making swimming motions against the wind.

We come around the next curve and almost kiss headlights with a faded burgundy Ford truck.

“Whoa!” Will corrects the car but doesn't slow down.

Whoa
is right. That was my daddy's truck. I twist around to see if he noticed me. My answer to what he's doing way out here is in the wink of red taillights and a flounce of blonde hair right up next to my daddy. I pull my hand out of the open window and cross my arms over my chest, squeezing.

“Wasn't that your dad's truck?”

“Yeah. So?” I press my fingers into my sides.

“Doesn't he work for the railroad?”

My reply is fast. “Yeah, he does.” Then I lie. “But he promised to pick up his foreman's wife for an appointment. I heard them on the phone last night.”

I don't know who was in his truck, but it wasn't my mama. My mama's at the house, probably making homemade corn bread for his supper. I've known about Daddy's “habit” for a couple of years, but I still don't like seeing it. That woman was as far from the passenger side as she could get, and from the look of it, practically in Daddy's lap.

I scrunch down into the seat. I take a shovel and open up my heart and pour in load after load of grief and anger until everything is level and I can plant nice pretty green grass on top.

When the pain is good and buried, I pull my knees to my chest and clear my throat. “Where'd you get the scar?”

Will's voice is perfectly even as he says, “Fight with an alligator.”

I crack up and smile out at the road.

Will parks at the turnoff, shuts off the car, and jumps out, grabbing his banjo from the hatchback. I follow him, and we walk out among the rhododendrons, their blooms long since gone, and head up off trail to a rock outcropping. From up here, we can see the whole valley. It is beautiful—every color of green mixed with a tinge of blue here, a tinge of gold there. Red and gray barns stamp the sides of silver snaking roads. If I looked long enough, I could find the
roof of my own house hidden under the big sugar maples. It's easy for lies to get buried when you're surrounded by so much beauty.

Will settles into the grass at the edge of the rock and lights up a pipe. The burnt-sugar smell of green drifts on the air. “So, Amber Vaughn, you like the new kid?”

I fold cross-legged into the grass next to him. “Which one?”

“I don't know. Either.”

“I guess they're nice enough.”

“You know what I mean.” Will pokes me with his foot.

Of course I know, but why does he care? “Does it matter?” I ask.

He passes me the pipe. “It doesn't, particularly. Just making small talk.”

I take a small hit, despite my only-for-summer rules. When the smoke clears my lungs, I exhale and cough a little. “I think Kush might be sort of stuck-up.”

“He's all right.”

“How do you know him?”

“He's come over and hung out with Devon a few times this past week.”

Devon and I have talked. We've texted. Why didn't he mention Kush was Kush
Whitson
, and not a hiker, until I was standing in the hall staring at him?

“Devon likes him.” I say it out loud to justify why Devon might not have told me everything.

“I doubt that will ripen.” Will knows all about Devon. “I think Kush is a ladies' man.”

I take another hit when Will hands me the pipe. I ignore the voice telling me to lay off and the smoke settles in my chest.

I can't believe Devon. We talk about everything. I press my knees to my chest and lean against the big rock.

Will picks up the banjo and starts plucking aimless patterns. The sun is blazing, so I unhook the top part of my overalls and roll up the legs and lay back on the rock, soaking it in. I hum the melody to the song we were listening to in the car. Will finds the tune and plays along. No sense in wasting the afternoon. Summer days like this fade as quick as they come in the mountains.

“What about you? And Amber-o-zia?” I ask, during a pause.

Will shrugs and puts down the banjo. He takes off his shirt, wadding it up under his head for a pillow, and lies down in the sun. “She's good-looking. Nice enough.” He shades his eyes with his hand and looks at me.

Will is miles above the high school scene. Cool and self-assured. Funny and nice, but always a bit removed. I can't imagine him ever settling for one of us. Before I can
stop myself, I ask him, “But not good enough for you?”

Will rolls over to face me. My eyes wander to where his hip bones jut out above his shorts. He's slender, and looks like one of the guys on the Appalachian Trail with his Columbia shorts and trail runners. I resist the urge to reach out and touch his hip.

“What does
that
mean?” His eyes narrow.

“Come on, Will.” Some boldness within me takes over. “You know you're biding your time till you can leave all of us behind. Go out and follow in your judge daddy's footsteps. Move to Raleigh or somewhere big. I think I know what you think of us from-heres.”

Will flashes a goofy smile and props his head up on his elbow. “I'm not like that.”

“Yes, you are.” But then I smile and without thinking, reach out to touch the scar on his face before rolling over onto my back again and staring at the sky and trees above us.

We lie there, not talking, listening to the wind and the sound of the birds, taking in the smell of rich earth and summer hanging in the air. Far off in the distance I can hear the sound of cars.

I can also feel the energy from Will's arm, parallel to mine. Will starts humming the tune to a country song about a city girl and a country boy that the radio plays all
the time. After a minute, I join in with the words, quietly at first. And then I sing a little louder, belting it to the clouds. Will's humming is in perfect tune.

Just before the song ends, I feel Will move his hand to touch mine, tracing circles with his fingertips onto my skin. And I think to myself, Will has a girlfriend, sort of. Will is Devon's brother, definitely.

But I don't pull my hand away. I don't know why, but I can't. Instead, I turn to face him when we finish the song. He's staring at me, and I break our sudden eye contact to notice the way his upper lip forms a perfect cupid's bow. Will leans forward and places his lips on mine. A worried voice tells me I might be making a mistake, but I silence it. I hear his hesitant intake of breath. I answer with my tongue.

A new melody starts to circle in my brain and I let it stay as I explore Will's mouth and his lips with mine. A fine spray of stubble wraps the edge of his jawline, and I let my thumb rub against it. Will's hand slides over my hips and he softly pulls me toward him as our legs spaghetti through each other's. He sighs and moves his hand underneath the back of my shirt. I like the way he fits. I move my hand to his shoulder blade to pull him closer. He kisses my face, my eyelids, the corners of my mouth.

Every now and then I think, I'm kissing Will
McKinney. Will McKinney is making me feel this way. It doesn't matter, though, because I'm reading sheet music. Will's jawline, Will's ear, the hollow of Will's throat. The song I'm singing silently doesn't want to fade. Its chorus grows so loud I take off my shirt so I can feel Will's warm skin against mine. Will's lips trace the pattern of my ribs and raise goose bumps on the surface of my summer-tanned stomach. Once, a voice of reason tries to insert itself into my song, one that says
stop right now
, but it fades away as I let the melody soar to the top of my range.

“Are you sure?” Will whispers, his eyes even with mine. But his hands and his mouth play a different tune, and I don't let him stop.

Somewhere far overhead a hawk circles and screams. I can smell the crush of earth and rock beneath us. Then it's nothing but song and skin and the warmth of a boy against me and it's all I can think about. Will's all I want to think about. And then, almost as soon as we started, it seems like it's over.

Will lies down close to me and traces the tip of my ear with his finger, his eyes bright. “Wow.”

I hide my face in his chest.

The ultimate hookup. It wasn't exactly what I expected. Or how I expected it to happen. Definitely not with who I thought it would be. My best friend's older brother.

He lifts up my chin. “Are you okay?”

“You've got a girlfriend.” I put my hand on his chest and hope he's going to tell me it's just a rumor or that, as of right now, it's over.

Instead he just sighs. “Yeah.”

He doesn't try to say anything else, and I bite back my disappointment. “And you're Devon's brother.”

“Yeah.”

He's acting so nonchalant that I figure I should act that way, too. “So, I guess that's out of the way,” I say with a smile. The joy I'd been feeling only moments before gets replaced by something else. Something that feels kind of like grief.