No Place to Fall (8 page)

Whitney opens the door to
my room after lunch on Saturday. “Daddy says you need to go scrub the water troughs.”

“Why me? All I did was get suspended for cursing. Seems like you're the one who should be getting hard labor.”

Whitney rolls her eyes. She looks like shit. Actually, she looks high.

“What are you on?” I ask.

She walks over and flops backward on my bed. “What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean.”

She rolls over on her stomach and reaches her hands
down to the floor. “I took half a Valium. Want the other half?”

“Whitney.”

“God, don't get all preachy on me. I'm really stressed out.”

I pull on my work jeans and an old T-shirt and don't say anything.

“Hey, what's this?” Whitney pulls the NC-Arts folder out from under the bed.

“Nothing. Give that to me.” I try to grab the papers from her. She rolls across the bed, holding it out of my reach, and reads the cover. “North Carolina High School of the Arts.” She rolls back and stares at me. “Have you shown this to Mama?”

“No. I told you, it's nothing. Are you done?”

She sits up cross-legged and flips through the folder. “Are you going to apply?”

I fall onto the bed. “No.”

“Why not?”

“Because.” I shove the audition page into her hands. “This.” I point at the list of audition choices and name a few off. “An aria from the seventeenth or eighteenth century, an English art song, and a German lied, sung in German! Do you know what any of this is?”

“No.” She lies back on the bed and reaches her fingers
up to the ceiling. “But I bet Mrs. Early does.” Then Whitney starts laughing. “Look at you, Miss Dreamy Face. Do you really think a place like that would take someone like us?” She closes her eyes and starts humming.

I shove the paper in the folder.

Then I pull it back out.

The next morning, Mama doesn't let up until she gets everybody ready for church. It's the six of us, spit-shined and polished, showing up at the doors of Evermore Fundamental. I can feel eyes looking at us every way I turn.

Today's opening hymn is “Amazing Grace.” The organ swells in my chest and I breathe deep into my diaphragm. If I'm really going to try to audition for NC-Arts, I better get used to folks watching me. I leave our pew and walk to the front of the sanctuary and turn to face my family and our neighbors. They quiet down, their expressions expectant.

“Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound,

That saved a wretch like me.”

It's a song I never get tired of. The sanctuary reverberates with sound and I close my eyes. As I sing, I don't have time to daydream. But when I finish, in those seconds before I return to our pew, I picture myself on the stage of
a mega-church like you see on TV. There are thousands of parishioners and their hands are all waving back and forth. I feel larger than life, larger than the sum of my family, larger than Sevenmile.

In the receiving line after the service, I watch Mrs. Early purse her lips as I approach.

“I understand school got a little rocky this week.” She clasps my hands.

“Maybe,” I mumble. I want to ask Mrs. Early about the songs on the NC-Arts audition list, but I don't want Mama to hear. “Mrs. Early?” My voice is a whisper. “Do you know what an oratorio aria is?”

“I do,” she says. She smiles and I smell peppermint on her breath. “Why do you ask?”

“I was hoping you might have some sheet music,” I say.

“Why don't you join my after-school chorus? That way your mama won't have to worry about you hanging around with the wrong friends, getting into trouble, and I can teach you all about arias.”

I look up at this. “Sean's not trouble.”

I hear Pastor Early say his final “We'll pray for you, hon,” and Mama is standing next to me.

“Donna, dear, how are you? Amber and I were just discussing my after-school chorus.”

“Oh?” Mama's voice is hopeful. She's bugged me to
join since I started high school.

I talk fast. “I'm sure it's too late. My schedule's all set.” Which I know is lame—chorus won't affect my other classes at all. The thing is, I do want Mrs. Early's help, just not in front of other kids. The ones who will think it's a joke I'm even trying to get into an arts magnet school by auditioning.

Mrs. Early pats my hands. “It's no problem. I'll get you added tomorrow morning, first thing.” She looks at Mama. “We even have a chorus bus, if pick-up is a problem.”

Mama is radiant. “Amber?” Mama looks at me, her eyes full of light.

I don't say anything, but shrug my shoulders.

Mama kisses my cheek, then wipes off the smudge of her Sundays-only primrose pink lipstick. She grabs Mrs. Early's hand. “Oh, thank you. I don't know how you finally convinced her, but there's nothing like hearing my baby sing.”

I sure hope she keeps smiling once I tell her why I'm joining.

Devon picks me up Monday
morning.

“I've missed you,” he says, and holds out a travel mug of mocha his mom made using the McKinneys' new espresso machine.

I take a sip. “Oh, delicious goodness. Why can't Sevenmile even have a coffee place?” I ask lightly, trying to tread carefully, “How was your date?”

Devon shrugs. “Okay.” Devon sighs. “I can't read his meter. I think I was wrong.”

“Are you going to give up?” I try to keep my voice from sounding hopeful.

“I dropped some boy-on-boy hints into our stupid rhymes and he didn't react. But it could just be because
he's from the city and his dad's an artist.”

“Devon. You should tell him how you feel.”

“I can't. What if he starts talking? I need to live under the radar here.”

I hold the travel mug up as Devon navigates his Jeep around the pothole they refuse to fix in front of our house. “What if you, I don't know, have a party or something? Get him a little drunk.”

Devon starts laughing. Then he turns to me and asks, “What if you got C.A. to kiss him?”

“What?”

“It's the perfect solution. Boys who like girls
like
her.”

“Ouch,” I say.

“Oh, come on. I didn't mean it like that.”

“Uh-huh.”

Devon blows out an exasperated sigh. “Stop. You're beautiful.”

“But not enough for a guy to want to kiss.”

“Really?” Devon asks, throwing his head back in mock irritation. “Are we going there? Because I have an entire summer I can catalog for you. Besides, you can't stand Kush. But if you want to be the one, go for it.”

I laugh. “True.”

“So? Will you ask her?”

I look down at my feet. “I'll ask, but Devon, I don't
think she's going to agree to it. And if she does, and he kisses her back, then what are you going to do?”

“Then I can stop wondering. The mystery is making me crazy.”

In the commons, I'm surprised to find Sean and Kush standing together.

When we join them, Sean reaches into his backpack and hands me a mix CD. “Sorry you got grounded. I thought you might like these songs.”

Kush blows out a breath of irritation before I can thank Sean. “What?” I ask. “I did get him out of trouble, didn't I?”

“Yeah. You did,” Kush says. “Everybody's always saving Sean.” He looks at Devon. “I promised Coach I'd stop by his office. Are you coming?”

“What? You're captain now?” I ask him.

“Yes.” Kush slings his backpack onto one shoulder and looks down at me with his catlike eyes. “You got a problem with that, too?”

I hold up my hands. “No. I'm just surprised, that's all.”

“Why? Because I'm not from here?”

I glance at Devon. I've stepped into something deep and I'm not sure what it is. Devon shrugs.

“Sorry, Kush. I didn't mean anything by it.”

Devon leans over and grabs my arm. “See you in art, okay?”

“Yeah, okay.” I watch them walk away together, heads close in conversation, and I wonder if I've been as much of a jerk to Kush as I think he's been to me.

Sean steps closer and says, “He's spoiled.” His voice is so quiet I barely hear him. “He was an only child, until I moved in a year ago. He's still learning how to share.”

“His friends?” I ask, with a small smile.

Sean shakes his head. “It's more complicated than that.”

Just as I'm about to ask what Sean means, C.A. bounces up to us. “So, are y'all coming to the game Friday night?” Though the question's directed to both of us, she's looking right at Sean.

Sean stutters. “I, um, football's not my thing.”

She slugs him. “Not for the football, silly. For the dance. They're actually kind of fun.” Her eyes go wide. “
I
know. You two could go together.”

“Um,” I sputter. I've thought more than once about C.A.'s suggestion, but I'm still not sure I'm ready to make a move. Or that it's the right one.

“You
never
come to any dances, Amber.” C.A. taps her foot. “And I want you both there.”

“I usually go to Devon's on Fridays.”

Devon reappears with Kush right before the bell and sticks his head into our little conversation. “What are y'all talking about?”

“Friday night,” I answer—and then I think of a plan, for me, and for Devon. “C.A., can you drive me home on Friday?”

“Well, I have to get ready before the game, but yeah, I can come over for a little while.”

“Great. I need you to help me. You know, with the thing.”

She clasps her hands and nods. “Oh.” She draws it out. “The
thing
.”

“The
thing
?” Devon asks.

I know what he's asking—is the
thing
the
kiss
. The thing is actually C.A. helping me convince my mom to let me audition. But I say, “Yes, the thing,” because Friday after school will be as good a time as any to talk to C.A. about Devon's favor.

Devon flushes.

“Then we'll come to your house, Devon. We can have a pre-party before the football game and the dance.” Daddy has a stash of apple brandy out in the barn I can bring. Kush won't miss a chance to brag to his friends back in Atlanta that the country kids he's hanging out with really do drink moonshine. And once that's fired up Kush's
system, Devon might be able to find out what he's dying to know.

Will chooses that moment to walk over, sans Amber-o-zia, to ask us, “Did I hear
party
?”

“At your house,” C.A. answers, swiping the baseball cap off his head and handing it to him with a flourish. “Before the game.”

Will looks to Devon. “What say you, bro?”

Devon pumps his fist. “I say par-
ty
, yo!”

The bell sounds in agreement.

At the end of the school day, I head to chorus, still riding the high of my plan from this morning. Mrs. Early greets me with a clap of her hands. “Amber,
so
nice to see you!”

The list of audition song options is tucked inside my book bag, but I figure I'll wait to talk to Mrs. Early about them until Mama's on board.

She points me to a chair in the soprano section. A motley assortment of students filters in. Chorus seems to be a combination of the devout, church-singing crowd and fringe kids who play in bands or want to.

Then, Will McKinney walks through the door. His dark hair flops over his forehead and now that it's afternoon, I can tell he didn't shave this morning. I watch him walk across the room in his faded Levi's, a vintage plaid shirt, and
red Converse. All that's missing is his banjo.

He sees me and pauses before walking toward the bass section. As he passes me, he whispers, “How's it going, oh Forceful one?”

A slice of hot lightning bolts straight to a point below my belly button. I shift in my chair. I can't let him see how he gets to me. “It's going
nowhere,
Will.”

He ducks his head, but not before I see a flash of color on his cheeks. “Too bad. I'd be more than happy to give you another ride home.”

But I can't find the words for a snappy comeback, because when I look up at him, his eyes look open and sincere.

Mrs. Early claps twice and I'm startled out of my thoughts. “Ladies and gentlemen, let's get started. As you can see, we have a couple of new additions to the chorus.” She gestures toward me, then Will.

I lean over my book bag as an excuse to sneak a glance in his direction. Will's all focused on Mrs. Early. I'd even venture to say he looks excited. For some reason, seeing his face so open, like he's waiting to be filled, fills
me
with happiness. Like I don't care if he knew what I was up to this summer, or if the moment between us never happens again. Because what I care about is singing, and I liked singing with Will.

Mrs. Early passes out sheet music. The song they've been working on is called “Shenandoah.”

I figured school chorus would be an extension of church music, but I can already tell that I was wrong. The song is hard. So is working with a group of kids all trying to sing together. But Mrs. Early is good at what she does, and by halfway through the hour and a half, we're at least all coming in on the right parts.

After chorus is over, I rush out of the room. It's Will's voice I couldn't stop hearing over the others' in there. Will I imagined singing with onstage. I've got to get him out of my head.

Outside, on the circle, a car horn honks.

I look. Whitney's there in her dented Chevy Cavalier. Coby's sleeping in his car seat.

I slide into the front.

“You dating that guy?” she asks me.

“What? Who?”

“That one.” She points.

I look over to see Will standing on the curb, waving his sheet music at me.

“
No
.” I say it too quickly.

Whitney smiles. Even under her new pallor of popping pills and stress, my sister is still beautiful to me. “Too bad.
He's hot.” She starts the car. “You know, I gave you all those old clothes of mine. You ought to work it more. You
are
pretty.”

“Thanks.” It feels good to hear Whitney say it, even if I don't always believe I am, compared to her.

Whitney drives down Main Street and turns on Reserve Road.

Maybe she's visiting a friend. Or maybe she's picking up something for Coby. But everyone in town knows Reserve Road is a hangout for users. “Where are we going?” I try to keep the panic out of my voice.

Coby wakes up in his car seat and starts fussing.

“Just give him his sippy cup and don't worry about what I'm doing.”

“Whitney, they'll revoke your bond if you get caught dealing. Mama and Daddy had to put a lien on the house to get you out.”

Whitney pulls up to a dirty white trailer in Reservoir Hills. An old trampoline frame stands guard next to a Toyota truck up on blocks, its tires long gone. I hear the yapping of small dogs.

“Look.” She turns toward me, eyes exhausted. “I need to do this. Sammy needs the money.”

My sister is out of the car before I can ask why. She
glances around, then climbs the rickety wooden steps. Her long hair is tied up, and her T-shirt hangs out over old sweatpants.

The door cracks and I see a weathered, dark-haired woman peek her head out. Whitney disappears into the trailer.

The apple juice is perking Coby up and I'm torn between making faces at him and keeping an eye on the door Whitney vanished behind. I look around for the law. They cruise this place regularly. I know because Frog lives over here and he tells stories. And the sheriff is bound to know Whitney and Sammy's car now.

Finally, Whitney reappears, tucking bills into her shirt.

She gets in the car and turns around. “Hey, baby boy.”

Coby reaches out his hands to his mama and Whitney leans over and grabs them, kissing his fingers.

How can she do this? How can she think that she can sell pills, get caught, and still keep selling pills, and not have Coby taken away from her?

“I've got to run to the store. Sammy needs a six-pack and Coby needs diapers.” Whitney's voice is I've-got-a-bra-full-of-cash bright.

It's out before I stop myself. “That's what Sammy needs the money for? Beer?” I slam my hand against the dashboard. “Are you an idiot? You know Mama and Daddy
would help you with diapers. You don't need to make money this way!”

Whitney's hands grip the steering wheel. “Lay off, Amber. There's more to it than that.”

“Then
what
? Explain it to me. We weren't raised this way, Whitney.”

She doesn't talk, just drives. Her lips are set and her fingers drum on the steering wheel. After she picks up what she needs at the store, she pulls in to Eddie's Pawn. “Are you coming?” she asks.

“I'm coming.” I pull Coby out of his seat and carry him with us inside.

A guy I'm guessing must be Eddie slides off the stool behind the counter. The display at the front of the store is an assortment of DVDs, jewelry, power equipment—and musical instruments. I can't believe I've never been in here before. My hands brush over a beautiful black mandolin, inlaid with mother-of-pearl.

“That's a nice one,” he says.

I flip over the tag. Nine hundred dollars. I put my hands in my pockets.

Whitney hands him a ticket. “I need to get this out.”

He gives her a hard look. “You were about out of time.”

“I've got the money,” she snaps. “We took out a loan, didn't pawn it to you.”

Eddie disappears behind a mirrored wall. I'm guessing he can see us from the other side. As Whitney pulls bills out of her bra, I jostle Coby on my hip and look at all the guitars on the wall. I'll have to tell Sean about this place.

Eddie comes back and I recognize Sammy's Strat.

“That's what the money's for?” I ask.

Whitney nods and I see her, seventeen, beaming from the front of the stage at a younger, guitar-playing Sammy. I feel a pang of guilt. Maybe he is going to try and clean up his act.

Coby starts crying and Whitney takes him. I grab Sammy's guitar and start to follow her, but I turn around.

Eddie's stuffing Whitney's drug money into one of those zip bags from the bank.

“Excuse me?” I say.

“Yeah?”

“Is one of those guitars a Gibson? Les Paul?”

When Sean and I had eaten lunch together that first day, he'd told me what kind of guitar he'd played. Before I knew his mom had sold it.

Eddie looks up and stares at me. When I don't lose eye contact, he grunts and points toward a reddish orange guitar hanging above his head. “Got a Studio. Six hundred fifty dollars. Cash.”

“Thanks,” I say and walk out to the car.