No Place to Fall

by Jaye Robin Brown

  She smiles and instead of a handshake, offers the glowing red joint pinched between her fingers. “You the girl he told us about?”

  I wave it off. “No thanks, and no, I don’t think so.”

  Will rests his hand back on my waist. “Yeah, she’s the one. I’m hoping I can convince her to sing with me.”

  “What?” My body goes rigid, and I turn to him. “What are you talking about, Will?”

  Will’s eyes snap with excitement. “Remember that day in the car, when I told you any band would kill to have you sing with them?”

  I step out of Will’s loose hold. “Yeah.”

  “Well, a couple of the guys from Flat Trucker come over on Fridays, when they’re not gigging, to hang out and play with Sizz. I’ve been trying to figure out a way to get you over here, ever since that . . . well, ever since that day we sang together for the first time. I tried to talk to you about it after chorus, but you keep running off before I can ask you.”

  Terror teases its way into my legs and arms. The songbird I’ve thought was so trapped goes still inside her cage, the open door more frightening than the cage itself. I whisper, “Will, I can’t. I don’t know these people and there are like . . .” I look around. “Twenty of them or something.”

  Nicole puts her arm around my shoulder, all warm and friendly like Whitney used to be. “Sure you can, honey. You look amazing. Don’t you want to feel that rush of being onstage? It’s not like an audition or anything, we’re just hanging out, having a good time.” She takes another hit.

  “Come on.” Will grabs my hand. “We’ll just go watch for a while, then you can decide. No pressure.”

  In the den, Will sits in the last chair and pulls me toward his lap. I pull away, looking for another chair, but my only other option is an open spot on the couch between two guys wearing camouflage.

  Will grins as I give in and perch lightly on his knees, trying hard not to mold into him like I want to. But Will wraps his arms around my waist and pulls me closer, despite my attempt to be proper. In a conspiratorial whisper, he says, “See, isn’t this nice? You. Me. A rock-and-roll band.” He makes a game-show gesture to the room at large.

  This makes me laugh, and I turn around to look at his face. “Yeah, a mother’s worst nightmare.”

  Will’s face goes still. And I feel mine go still, because right now, right here, there is nothing more I want to do than put my lips on his.

  Then, the band wraps up its jam and Sizz hauls Will out from under me and onto the makeshift stage.

  They take a few minutes to tune guitars and adjust microphones. Will rubs his hands on his jeans and gives me a thumbs-up. I curl my legs underneath me and take a sip of the cold beer. Then the guitar and bass player start with the opening chords, and Will steps onto center stage. He puts both hands on the microphone stand and closes his eyes as the guitars come to life behind him. Then, Will steps closer, his mouth barely brushing the silver of the microphone. “From the bright lights of Memphis . . .”

  His voice, deepened to a low growl, is perfect for the song they’re playing. He hangs onto the stand with his foot, letting it pivot on the floor when he pulls his shoulders to his ears or leans forward on a phrase. Every now and then he reaches out sideways with his hand and grabs some invisible note, or pushes his bangs off his forehead only to have them flop over his eyes again.

  Onstage, Will is completely transformed.

  I always thought music was a deep hobby for Will, something for Friday nights on the front porch. But looking at him up there, hanging on to the microphone, letting his voice play with the song, I know I was dead wrong. Will McKinney loves this as much as I do.

  I glance around the room, feeling braver as the beer goes down. Twenty or so people. How hard would it be to get up in front of them and sing? I could pretend I’m at church like I did at the campfire this summer. I notice two girls whispering and looking at Will, batting their eyes. I glance back at him. He’s oblivious, howling into the microphone. When the music stops, one of the girls unfolds her long college legs and slithers up to the stage. I hold my breath. But Will doesn’t even see her, and jumps off the stage in front of where I’m sitting.

  “What’d ya think?” he asks, settling on the arm of the chair, before tugging on a strand of my short hair.

  “I think you may have a music career, Will McKinney,” I say, poking him in the ribs, even though what I really want to do is pull him into my lap.

  Will grimaces and pulls his hand away from my hair, before pushing his own sticky mop off his forehead. “Yeah, right.”

  “Why not?” I look at him, noticing once again, like I always do, Will’s perfect, kissable lips, the scar, the veins running down his tanned, masculine hands, the way his dark lashes tilt up over his eyes just so.

  “The judge,” Will says quickly.

  Judge McKinney? “What do you mean?”

  “Don’t worry about it. Come on, they’re playing one just for you.” Will leads me onstage and adjusts the microphone to my height. A few of the boys catcall me, and I start to sweat, but I notice Nicole giving me a wink from behind them. Will whispers, “Don’t be scared. Just close your eyes and feel the music.”

  I grab his arm, panic beating in my chest. “Wait, don’t go. What am I singing?”

  Will grins. “A song you know, but we’re going to play it like you’ve never heard it. I’ll be standing right over there with my banjo.”

  He leaves me standing there and walks a few feet away to the edge of the small stage. I feel like a geek, my arms slack and nervous by my side, my eyes not knowing where to land, my feet twisting in my boots. I wonder if all these people can see my heart pumping under my suddenly too-tight shirt. Then, the drummer picks up a beat, and a bass joins in. The electric strains of the guitar break into a faster “I’ll Fly Away.” Somebody’s brought Will’s banjo in for him, and I hear his unmistakable style.

  I know this song. I could sing it in my sleep, we sing it so often in church. My hands move away from my sides and find the microphone. I pull it closer and wait, closing my eyes so the only senses I have are the sound of the music and the smells of smoke and sweat swirling in the air. My feet start to tap in rhythm to the beat. Someone whistles.

  When I open my mouth, the bird surprises me. She’s not scared one little bit. It’s like she knows she’s been waiting for this moment her whole life. She opens her wings and heads for the sky, soaring higher and higher with each note, and I forget that I’m in front of people. I forget about Will. I forget about Daddy and Whitney. I am free. Nothing is holding me to the earth but the sound of the song, the music, and my voice pouring out of me.

  When the music stops, I’m breathless. Exhilarated. Transformed. I am not Herman and Donna Vaughn’s daughter, Whitney Vaughn’s sister. I am all Amber. I am somebody and these people like me. I hear the drummer mumble behind me, “Damn, that girl can sing.”

  I open my eyes, and Will, his eyes bright with something I think looks like pride, is in front of me, holding his arms out.

  I jump into them and wrap my hands around his neck, then throw my head back laughing. When I catch my breath we both take half steps back to look at each other. He starts to say something but I stop him with my lips before he can ruin this gift of a moment. I feel him start to pull away, but I want Will, and I want this. It’s my turn. I press my hands to his hips and walk him backward into the kitchen, the band cranking up into the next song.

  “Amber, wait, what . . .”

  “Shut up, Will,” I say, and let my tongue slip into his mouth when we reach a dark corner of the kitchen.

  Will’s hands slide from my shoulders down my back, as he leans against the counter, pulling me with him. I don’t want the feeling of exhilaration to end, and besides singing, there’s only one way I know. I don’t say a word as Will’s hand slips under my skirt, just relish the feeling of his skin on mine. I press my lips harder, pushing against him, feeling him want me the way the crowd did before, just a
minute ago.

  It’s like this, Will and I slung up against a stranger’s kitchen counter, when I hear a horrible, familiar voice.

  “Well, look what we have here.”

  I freeze and then turn toward the voice as Will’s hand slides out from underneath my skirt.

  Sammy’s leaning in the door frame, fingers hooked in his belt loops, grinning all bright-eyed, like he just won the lottery.

  “Your mama know you’re here?” he asks, lifting one eyebrow.

  I step away from Will. From the other room, I hear the band starting up again.

  Sammy laughs, a sound sort of like a bark, and sidles up next to us at the counter. “Yeah, that’s what I figured.” He claps Will on the shoulder. “What’s up, judge’s boy?”

  Will looks at me. “You know him?”

  Sammy drapes his arm over Will’s shoulder. “Of course she knows me. I’m her big brother.”

  I interrupt. “Brother-in-law.”

  Will knocks Sammy’s hand off his shoulder.

  Sammy chuckles. “Come on now, man, you’re not still mad at me, are you?”

  Now it’s my turn. I look at Will. “You know Sammy?”

  Sammy grabs a beer out of the fridge. “Of course he knows me. We did a little business and he’s still pouting because his name got mixed up with mine, scared his daddy would take away his toys.”

  The sound of the beer tab opening cracks through the kitchen. Sammy chugs the beer. He looks at me. “So, little sister, first practice is this Wednesday at five o’clock. Bring that other fella of yours.”

  I open my mouth to protest. Sammy twitches his forefinger back and forth like an elementary schoolteacher. “Ah-ah-ah. I wouldn’t say a word, little darling.” He grins wide before hooking the beer can into the garbage bin. He whispers in my ear, loud enough for Will to hear. “That way, I won’t say a word to your mama about where you’ve been.”

  As he strolls out of the kitchen, whistling, the band breaks into “Runnin’ with the Devil.”

  Just great.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Will is silent as we walk back to his car. The gravel crunching beneath our feet is the only sound. On the short stretch of interstate before we take the exit to the drive back across the mountain, he turns the music up too loud to talk over. He doesn’t even sing along, just stares ahead at the road.

  Finally I crack. I can’t take his cold shoulder, especially since I’m not sure what happened. “Did I do something wrong? Is it because I kissed you?”

  He sighs and pushes his fingers through his dark hair. “No, Amber. I mean, yeah, we shouldn’t have done that. Technically, I’m dating a different Amber.”

  Technically? An hour ago, my heart might have done a backflip for “technically.” But now, unlike when Will suggested going to Sizz’s in the first place, unlike the way we were together onstage, unlike when we kissed, Will is distant.

  “What did Sammy mean about your other ‘fella’?” Will looks at me for the first time since he started the car. It’s a quick glance, then his eyes are back on the road.

  “Well, technically, I have no ‘fellas.’ But I believe he was talking about Sean. He gave me a ride home the other night, and Sammy met him.”

  Will turns onto the access road to our school. “Look, Amber. If you don’t mind, I’m going to just drop you off. I’m not so into football game dance nights, and I think I’d rather go home.”

  My pulse gets faster. Just because Sean gave me a ride home one time, and my sister is married to Sammy, Will wants to go home? There’s some stupid irony.

  “Sean’s only a friend, Will.” Does he think all of my rides home end up like the one he gave me on the first day of school?

  Will pulls up to the curb, his hands locked on the steering wheel. He slumps forward and lets out a breath. “No, not because of Sean. I mean, who am I to say if you like the guy or not? Remember?” He points to himself. “Girlfriend.”

  “I don’t . . .” I realize my voice is uneven, so I breathe in and repeat myself. “I don’t like him.”

  “It’s not about Sean, Amber. It’s about me. And my dad.”

  “Your dad?”

  “My dad will crucify me if he finds out I’ve been hanging out with dealers. Tonight was fun, and you’re a great singer. Really great.” He pauses and looks at his hands.

  I feel my face getting hot. “But I didn’t invite Sammy! He showed up at Sizz’s on his own. He would’ve showed up, whether or not you took me.”

  Will stills his hands. “I know that. But things are complicated.”

  A couple of girls walk past the car toward the cafeteria doors. They look excited, grabbing on to each other’s arms and giggling. I recognize one of them from Amber-o-zia’s table at lunch.

  I reach for the handle, open the door wide, and step out onto the curb, watching them disappear inside the school. “Yeah, I got it,” I say. “Complicated.”

  He starts to say something else, but I shut the door and walk away.

  When I hear him drive off, I turn around and follow the side of the building until I slip into a window alcove. Inside the cafeteria, colored lights refract off a tiny disco ball hanging from the ceiling. Blue, green, hot pink, and white beams bounce around the silhouettes of awkward dancers. I slide down the wall, pulling my knees to my chest.

  I press my forehead against them and sit for a while. The music shifts and I stand up to watch the dance through the window. We must have won the game because I can see burgundy bobcat stickers on everybody’s cheeks. I spot C.A. laughing, dragging Sean out onto the dance floor. He’s dressed in his normal T-shirt and jeans, hair flying everywhere, but there’s the shyest smile flickering around his lips.

  C.A. bounces on the balls of her toes, egging him on, and when she finally gets him moving, I can tell he’s not a half-bad dancer. I watch them. C.A.’s dancing around him, and Sean’s keeping up. There’s no sense in me going in there. My dance rhythm is nonexistent and my mood would only bring them down. I pull out my cell phone and call Daddy’s phone. It goes to voice mail.

  I sit for another second, staring off at the black mountains. Some asshole’s defied the ridgetop laws and built a house right on top of one. The lights look unnatural shining out from the black.

  My phone rings. Daddy.

  “Can you come and pick me up?” I ask him.

  “Now?” Daddy asks. There’s country music playing in the background and I hear a sudden, sharp sound, like ice hitting glass.

  “Yeah. I’m ready to go home.”

  I hear Daddy whispering. He never whispers to Mama. Then he gets back on the line. “Give me about thirty minutes.”

  “Okay.” I hang up and stare at the lights near the ridge again. It’s bound to be a vacation home. I wonder what those people think of us. The wife probably stood in the middle of a tangle of rhododendrons, a wild wind at her back, and held her hands out in a tiny square. “Oh look, honey,” she might have said. “We can put a picture window right here.” Because that’s the thing. The folks that move in, they don’t care so much about the actual view. Life looks too real back in the holler.

  The rumble of Daddy’s diesel, followed by a quick blow on the horn, draws me out of my hiding place.

  Daddy grins as I climb into the truck. “Evening, Amber girl.”

  He’s whistling Rosanne Cash’s “My Baby Thinks He’s a Train” with a big smile.

  “What? Did you get a promotion? Win something from a scratch-off ticket?” Daddy’s good mood is infectious, but I’m skeptical.

  “Nah, just a good day, baby girl, just a good day.” He stretches his arm over and gives my shoulder a squeeze.

  Gross. Lilac.

  “Did you get a new air freshener?”

  If he knows I’ve figured out he smells like perfume, maybe it will knock some sense into him. But Daddy doesn’t even blink before answering.

  “Might’ve, I pick those things up so often, I forget what’s what. Hey, look down there, I got a
n old farmer’s almanac calendar in the mail today from eBay.”

  I pull the yellowed, musty calendar out of the padded envelope—1932. There’s a picture of the Clinchfield Railroad engine on the upper part. “Cool, Daddy.”

  “Yep, I thought so. Going to frame it for the train room.”

  I’m struck with an urge to be Daddy’s little girl again. To act like Mama and just blind myself to the obvious. While Whitney was my daddy’s princess, I was his train girl, always up for heading to the tracks to lay pennies down or count the cars. I used to love going with him to the depot and listening to the engineers tell ghost stories. But now that I know how he really is, how can I ever be that girl again?

  Like with so many other revelations in my adolescent years, Whitney made the Daddy situation crystal clear. About three years ago, we’d gone to eat at the Fish House, just Daddy and his little girls. The hostess had flushed and looked everywhere but at Whitney or me. Daddy called her sugar and put his hand on her arm, and the lady had gone all red and silly. I remember asking Whitney why the lady acted that way, and she’d said, “That’s Daddy’s girlfriend.” At first I didn’t understand. Boys could have friends who were girls. Couldn’t grown men?

  Whitney had stood up, glaring down at me. “Grow up, Amber,” she’d said. “It means they’re screwing.” I sat for a long time that night, just staring, watching the bats swoop in and out from the barn through the maple leaves, wondering if this meant Daddy didn’t love us anymore.

  The next morning, later on, when I’m sure she’ll be awake, I walk the acre back to Whitney’s trailer. Giant barks and jumps behind the chain-link fence Daddy put up for Whitney’s ever-rotating foster animals.

  “Hey, big man,” I say to the tiny dog. It’s Sammy’s only redeeming quality, his acceptance of Whitney’s animal obsession. Left to his own devices, he’d probably be as neglectful as the folks she rescues them from. I slip in through the gate and knock on the door. Nothing. I knock louder.

  Sammy pulls it open. “Amber.” He hangs on the door frame, bare chested with his Strat strapped across his shoulders.