No Place to Fall (7 page)

The shrill cry of the coach's whistle cuts across the evening.

Sean pulls up to the front of my house and three points the car around so he's facing back in the direction of his aunt and uncle's house.

“I still don't understand why you did that for me.” His hand rests on the top of the steering wheel.

Sean's uncle's truck is cluttered like my dad's. But instead of smelling like a stranger's perfume, it just smells
like dirt. Streaks of clay mark the vinyl on the interior doors. It's an old one, with roll-down windows and hand-operated locks. It suits Sean.

“Me neither.” I look toward the lights in the house. I sigh. “I'll be okay, though. Mama will for sure ground me for the F bomb, but she'll probably cut me some slack for helping you. She knows I don't smoke and you'll get a free pass.”

“I don't want her not to like me. We're neighbors.”

I reach for the handle. “You don't know my mama. She's the world's most forgiving person.” I turn to push the door open and let out a yelp when Sammy's head appears in the window.

“Hey, baby sister.” He smells like he wallowed in a still. “Who's this?”

I groan. Sammy's family must have figured out a way to pay his bail. “You're out. Great.”

He pushes his arm in the truck, reaching across me to shake Sean's hand. “Hey, man. I'm Sammy.” Then he notices Sean's shirt. “Guns N' Roses. Hell, yeah.” He stumbles back a step and starts ripping the air, playing an imaginary guitar, then straightens.

Sean nods. “Yeah. Rock and roll, man.”

Sammy leans back in. “Did you know this little girl has one of the sweetest singing voices in all of Sevenmile?” He opens the car door and sits on the edge of the seat, making
me scoot over closer to Sean. “Come on, Amber, sing with me. Show your new boyfriend what you can do.”

“Sammy, stop, you're being an ass.”

“I'm not moving till you sing for him. I want to see his face when he hears you. I want you to see it so you know what it'll be like when all those boys line up to hear our band and hear your sweet voice.” Sammy burps.

“Sammy, I told you no.”

“You think I listened? I need you, Amber, and you know we'll be great.”

Sean nudges me. “I wouldn't mind hearing you sing.”

Sammy's resting his chin on my right shoulder, whispering, “Sing.”

“Fine.” I lean forward and flip through a box of cassette tapes on the floor.

Sammy reaches past me and grabs one of the tapes. “Play that one.” He hands the cassette to Sean, who shoves it in the player.

I drop my forehead into my hands and tilt my head toward the house. Hasn't someone in there heard the truck idling out front?

Sean turns up the volume and I hear the intake of breath on the tape, then the slow guitar start. I sing along, and when I fade off from the first chorus and the guitar solo starts I feel like I'm trapped between bumper cars.
They're both jamming, their fingers crawling across invisible frets. I reach forward and hit stop on the tape. “Enough. Sammy, let me out.”

Sean's laughing. “Sorry, Amber. But he's right. You do have an amazing voice.”

That softens me for a second. “Thanks.”

“So y'all are starting a band?” Sean asks.

At the same time Sammy says yes, I say no.

I reach across Sammy, push open the door, and then push him out. He falls onto the grass. From his prone position, he yells up to Sean. “Yeah, man. A band. You should play with us.”

I get out, careful to avoid stepping on Sammy. “See you, Sean. Thanks for the ride.”

Sean leans over and says, “No problem. And thank you. Again.”

He drives away, and I walk toward the house. I'm halfway there when Whitney's Chihuahua mix, Giant, meets me. My sister has a thing for wounded and stray animals. Giant's no exception, his leg crippled from a long-ago fight with somebody bigger and tougher. “Hey, buddy.” I lean down and scoop him up. “What are you doing out of your fence?”

Sammy catches up to us and grabs me from behind. “Amber, go get Whitney for me.”

I manage to get Giant to the ground without dropping
him, but Sammy ends up knocking me down. He's so drunk he can barely stand.

I try to get up but he flops down next to me and grabs my hand.

“Sammy, get up. You're freaking me out.”

He starts giggling like a madman and looks at my face. Then he pushes my hair off my forehead.

“Jesus, Sammy.” I squirm away from him and sit up.

Sammy lunges for my wrist, holding it tight before letting it go. “Tell your parents to send my
wife
and
child
back out to our house.”

I pick up Giant, my arms trembling, and clatter up the stairs. Maybe Daddy will come to the door and send Sammy off with a shotgun greeting.

But it's Whitney who meets me on the porch, with eyes red-rimmed from crying. I can hear Mama and Daddy screaming in the kitchen.

“What happened?” I ask shakily.

“Phone,” she says, with a shrug. “Got cut off.”

Well, that's one thing that's gone my way. We won't get a call from the school now about my suspension tomorrow.

“What's Giant doing out?” Whitney starts to take him out of my arms and I move to block the open door, but it's too late.

“Sammy,” Whitney whispers. “Oh, baby, you're home.”
Her voice cracks and her hands fly to her heart, then she pushes me out of the way. She runs down the stairs into the yard and throws herself into Sammy's arms.

I can hear Mama shrieking about money and Daddy telling her to shut her yap, that he's working his ass off and why doesn't she go and get a job. Coby toddles over from the den, where he was watching
Blue's Clues
, and grabs my leg. “BerBer,” he says and reaches up.

I put down Giant and swing Coby to my hip.

In the front yard, Sammy and Whitney are on their knees, hugging and crying. I can hear him apologizing, then Whitney's, “It's okay, baby. It's okay.”

“Come on, Coby.” He buries his face into my neck. I whistle for Giant. He may as well escape with us, too. The stairs creak as I climb to the bedroom Whitney and I used to share. I shut the door, waiting for the click, then turn on the public radio station to classical music.

The three of us—me, Coby, and tiny Giant—huddle under the blankets, blocking out the sounds from downstairs. I make up a story about a singer who rides a magical bird and performs for kingdoms far and wide.

As we fly out of the window and up into the night sky, my voice stops working.

Because, honestly, I can't see how I'm going to get out of here.

The first thing I think
about when I wake up the next morning is Sean. I've never even heard him play, but I know, from the sound of his voice, from the look in his eyes, that the guitar is the thing that keeps him together. My instrument is part of me, and I'll never lose it. Nobody can sell it out from under me.

The smell of bacon floats up the stairs. Mama's downstairs frying up eggs and pouring juice. I roll over on my pillow, not yet ready to open my eyes. I could fake sick. I could meet Devon like normal, then have him drop me off somewhere for the day.

I open one eye and stare at the map on the wall. Winston-Salem jumps off the paper in bold print, like a
warning. If Mama catches me in a lie, I'll be in way worse trouble than just coming out with the truth. The folder from NC-Arts lies on my bedside table. All I've been able to bring myself to do is stare at the cover. It's a dream. Opening it and figuring out the requirements for getting in, that's reality. And right now, the dream's as real as it gets.

I sit up and jam my feet into the slippers Whitney and Coby bought me for my birthday. Coby loves them. He claps and screams, “Boo feet!” when he sees me wearing them.

I pick up my phone and text Devon.

—Suspended. Don't need a ride.

—I heard. Sucks. Talk later?

—Game?

—Won! 4–1

—!!!

I tug the belt of my robe tight around my nightshirt and head for the stairs. Better get this over with.

Downstairs, Daddy sits in the recliner drinking a cup of coffee. “Morning, caboose.”

I sit on the couch across from him and tuck my feet underneath me. He's staring at the television. His profile is handsome. His hair is still thick and only a little darker than mine and Whitney's. There's a little gray shining
from the stubble of his beard. He rubs his face, then holds out his coffee cup. “Get me another cup, will you?”

Get him another damn cup of coffee? Is that all we are to him? How
dare
he cheat on Mama?

When I don't immediately take the cup, he turns and looks at me. “Is there a problem?”

I don't say anything, just look at him.

“Is this about the phone? Not you, too. I paid the bill online last night, and it should be coming on any second.”

Sure enough, the phone jangles on the table next to him like it was waiting for the word.

“Hello?” Daddy cradles the phone against his ear.

My anger drains as it rises on Daddy's face. He's saying “Uh-huh,” and “Is that right?” and staring at me all the while. I sink back into the sofa cushions. When he hangs up, he yells, “Donna, get in here!”

Mama trundles through the doorway from the kitchen holding the pot of coffee. “Who was on the phone?”

Daddy holds out the cup. Mama fills it. Daddy takes a sip before answering.

“That was the school. Seems our Whitney's not the only one kicking up some dust.”

After my parents' explosion, the dust settles around my feet. I can clearly see a week of purgatory. No Friday night
at Devon's. No hiking. No television. No cell phone. I am at school, at home, or at church. End of story.

Even though Mama believed me about the smoking, both of my parents are convinced I was taking advantage of the phone being cut off. They're madder than hornets they had to find out from a phone call from the school and not from me, no matter how much I protest I really was about to tell them.

“Can I at least talk to Devon about tonight? It'd be rude for me not to show up at his house when he's expecting me.”

By this time, Daddy's gathering up his keys and his tool bag.

“Herman?” Mama's voice is a question.

Daddy looks at me. “The McKinney boy?”

I nod.

Both Mama and Daddy like our friendship. They think me being in with the judge's son is good for our family. He nods at Mama.

“One phone call,” she says.

I wonder if this is how Whitney felt in jail.

I shut the door to my room and pull the quilt over me. It's raining outside, which makes me feel less dreary about being stuck inside. The North Carolina School of the Arts
brochure's slick surface shines from the lamplight spilling over it. One piece of paper sticks out a tiny bit. I can see the words
Admissions Requirements
at the top. I turn on the radio to the local AM station as a distraction.

Sandwiched between the swap and shop listings and the lost pet announcements, the station plays beautiful gospel, ballads, and the bluegrass I love. I was raised on this music and it feels as soothing to me as a piece of Mama's spice cake. I like other music, but these songs, they are my heart.

I sing along as the rain falls out my window. Drops of water gather on the windowpanes like a shimmering audience. I play with my voice, testing out my range, creating new sounds, trying to both imitate the radio singers and to be myself. Finally, I can't stand it anymore. I roll over and grab the folder.

The list of requirements is long. Transcripts. A long application. Two letters of recommendation, at least one from someone who has been your instructor in your art form. An artist's statement. An audition. The applicant must perform three pieces from the following list. My eyes scan the options. I push the paper back in the folder and shove the whole thing under the bed. I don't even know what half of that music is. I ball the quilt up under my chin and scoot deeper under the sheets. Mama would never have let me go anyway.

That afternoon Mama gives me my cell phone so I can call Devon. “Hey,” I say.

“Hey.” He sounds breathless.

“I won't be coming over tonight.” I wait for Devon's dramatic outburst, knowing it will make me feel better. Instead, he just says, “Okay.”

I hang on the line, waiting for more. Finally I say, “Okay?”

“Well, you know you're grounded and all.”

“You don't sound disappointed.” I hear Whitney's and Coby's voices downstairs.

“I . . .” Devon hesitates. “Of course, I'm upset, but it might be better this way.”

Panic beats in my chest. “Better?” I ask. Did he find out about me and Will?

“Yeah. Look, I'm sorry I didn't talk to you first, but last night, after the game, I gave Kush a ride home, and I might have suggested he come over so we could work on some beats.”

My panic turns into something red. “You invited Kush! Friday nights are
our
nights and you don't even like rap.”

There's silence on the other end of the line. Then Devon speaks low into the phone. “People can change, Amber. I don't appreciate you putting me, or Kush, in a box.”

“Wow. Okay.” My hand starts to tremble. I've never had a fight with Devon before. “Sorry, Devon, I just . . . I'm surprised, that's all. Do you really like him?”

Devon exhales and sounds more like himself again. “Enough to try to write some sick rhymes. Plain and Small, don't be mad. We have room to expand, right?”

“I'm not mad,” I say, then pause. “Devon?”

“Yeah?”

“Why'd you tell Will about the hiker barn this summer? He made a crack about it when he dropped me off on Monday. Did you tell him how wild I was all summer?”

“Amber. God! Of course not.”

“Did you tell Kush?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?” I squeeze the phone tight in my hands.

“Why would I
do
that?” Devon asks. He sounds innocent. But Will knew about the hiker barn. And Kush is everything the rest of us aren't. Worldly. Different. Interesting. New. Devon might be glad to have someone new to swap stories with.

“Sorry. I'll see you Monday.” Then, “Have fun, Busta Rhymes.”

Devon laughs and the phone goes dead, beginning my weekend of exile.