No Place to Fall

by Jaye Robin Brown

Will sits back against another rocker. “Yeah, it’s why I decided to go tell my dad that I’m going to East Tennessee State University instead of Carolina. I can actually minor in bluegrass there.”

  Tar Heel memorabilia lines their family room. Judge McKinney is a proud alumnus and a huge basketball fan. “Is your dad upset?”

  “He wasn’t real happy. He worries that I won’t study something serious, and I’ll end up hanging out with an unsavory bunch.” Will rolls his eyes and pulls his chair closer to mine. “If I get into big trouble again, like I did before, the Judge will force my hand. And that means Carolina. It’s not like I have a big scholarship to either one.”

  “What happened?” I ask, curious. Devon had hinted about something earlier this fall, but I just figured Will got caught baking with alternative ingredients and that’s why he’d quit being the brownie guy.

  Will starts “Ave Maria” again, a little more slowly. “I traded Sammy an old prescription for some weed. Kind of a dumbass move, since my name was on the bottle. Somebody in the sheriff’s department gave Dad the heads-up, so I didn’t get in real trouble. It was stupid.” He plinks a banjo string. “But at least getting caught helped me finally tell Dad the truth about next year and what I really want. I’m still on thin ice with him and Mom, but it’s all good.”

  My stomach constricts. Sammy said there was no way anything could trace back to me, that the bottle was gone. I can’t stand Kush, but it doesn’t mean I want to get him in trouble for what I did. Why did I give Sammy that bottle?

  Will looks at me and starts playing the song again from the top. “Time to sing.”

  It’s hard to let go of everything I’m holding inside. But eventually, the singing takes my mind and clears it of all I’m holding on to. Will plays his banjo so confidently, so sweetly, and I let my voice soar and mellow and soar again, following Will’s song.

  After a while, Mrs. McKinney and Devon come out and sit on the porch swing with a bowl of popcorn, watching me and Will like we’re the latest film at the little theater in the next town over. We run through all three songs again and again until I don’t think I can even open my mouth to speak.

  “Won’t you stay for dinner, Amber? We’re having lasagna,” Mrs. McKinney asks me.

  “Thank you, but Daddy’s picking me up soon. It was all I could do to talk Mama into letting me come over after we left the hospital.” As I’m saying it, I hear the sound of my dad’s truck coming down the long driveway.

  When I get up to leave, after thanking Will and Mrs. McKinney, Devon follows me down the steps and to the truck. “So . . . what’s going on with you and Will?”

  I stop mid–crutch swing. “What do you mean?”

  He rocks back on his heels and whistles, a smug look on his face.

  My heart beats in a panic.

  “Oh, only that he broke up with his girlfriend. And I might’ve noticed your number on his cell phone.” Devon waggles his eyebrows. “Do you like my brother, Plain and Small?”

  “He broke up with Amber-o-zia?”

  “Last Friday night. That music was blasting to cover Amber-o-zia’s hysterics. And I noticed that you deftly avoided answering my question.” He puts his face near mine. “Plain and Small, is there something you’re not telling me? Something to do with how you feel about my older brother?”

  I blush to my toes. “We’re just practicing together. That’s all.”

  I reach for the door handle of Daddy’s truck.

  Before I get in, Devon meets my eyes and says quietly, “You and Will would be amazing together. You both love that music. You both love the woods.” He winks. “And best of all, Plain and Small, he’s like me, but straight.”

  I give Devon a quick hug. “I’ll think about it,” I whisper.

  As we drive away, I turn around and watch Devon walking back to his house, where Will has his head down, playing the banjo on his front porch.

  Will McKinney, who doesn’t have a girlfriend anymore.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  When I get home, Mama’s got my purse on the kitchen table, the six hundred-dollar bills fanned out beside it.

  “What’s this?” I ask, trying to keep my face composed.

  “I reckon that’s my question to be asking, isn’t it?” Mama’s hands are on her hips, a wooden spoon sticking out from one side like an extra appendage.

  Sammy and Whitney are already sitting around the kitchen table for supper. I glance over at them. Whitney is sizing me up and Sammy is sending a message with his eyes that says, “Please don’t screw this up.”

  “Oh, that,” I say. “That’s the collection money for my friend Sean’s guitar. Everybody put me in charge of buying it.”

  “Who’s everybody?” Whitney asks me, her eyes suspicious.

  But Mama already seems satisfied with my answer and starts to bustle over dinner. “Well, I’m sorry to doubt you, sugar, but I was looking for the prescription the doctor handed you and saw those bills. I didn’t know how you’d come across so much money. Your sister thought I should be concerned.”

  I glare at Whitney.

  “They, for your information, are my friends from school,” I say.

  Whitney sits back and crosses her arms. “Right. You managed to raise six hundred dollars from a bunch of high school kids.”

  Through this whole conversation, Sammy has been sitting with his arm slung across the back of Whitney’s chair, not looking at anyone, but he’s making me uneasy.

  “So what if I did?” I reply, unable to come up with anything better.

  “Enough of this,” Daddy says, walking in the kitchen. “I’m hungry.”

  After Sammy and Whitney take Coby back to the trailer, Mama and I sit on the living room sofa and watch reruns of sitcoms together.

  “You know,” she says. “Mrs. Whitson invited us to stop back by sometime. Why don’t I take you to pick up your friend’s guitar, and then we’ll have a reason to visit?” Mama’s staring at the television, but there’s a slight anticipation in her voice, like it’s something she’s given some thought to.

  “I don’t think you need a reason,” I say. “She invited you, Mama. You could stop by anytime. You don’t need me.” I’m a ball of nerves. I’ve rummaged in Mrs. Whitson’s makeup drawer, used her lipstick, and stolen from her. And I’d be happy to avoid Kush as much as possible until I can get the hell out of town.

  “No,” Mama says. “I guess not. But what you’ve done here makes me proud. I’d like to be there, to see their faces. I’ll take you tomorrow.”

  There’s no getting out of it. “Okay, Mama. If that’s what you want.”

  She pulls me in next to her and runs her fingernails through my hair. “Sweetheart, what I want is for your dreams to come true.”

  I hope to goodness I don’t ruin hers.

  The next day, Mama keeps me home. I guess she’s still reeling from the doctor’s accusatory words, because I feel fine. But I was up late worrying, so I sleep through most of the morning and around lunchtime I hear her coming up the stairs.

  Mama cracks open the door. “You up?”

  I waggle my cell phone at her. C.A. has been stealth-texting me with Kush news. Apparently, he’d called me an addict, a whore, and a drug dealer, among other things. I’m embarrassed, but my friends know it’s not true, and they’re the ones that count.

  “Brought you some soup. Think you can eat?” Ribbons of celeried and carroted steam drift across the room.

  “Smells good,” I say.

  Mama hands me the bowl and a spoon, then lays her hand across my forehead. There’s so much love in her eyes, it’s painful. How can my daddy cheat on her? She may not be as pretty or as skinny as some other women, but I’m holding a bowl of fresh-made chicken soup. She did that for me. And she’d do it for Daddy and Whitney, and anybody else who was feeling down. She’d even do it for Daddy’s lady if the whole truth was laid out on the table.

  “I love you, Mama,” I say, curling up next to her.

&n
bsp; “I love you, too, sugar. Now eat up, that soup will chase away the germs.”

  “Mama, I’ve got a broken ankle, not a cold.”

  She pats my cast and starts to get up.

  “Mama?”

  She stops.

  “What’s going to happen with Whitney?”

  Mama sighs and sits back down on the foot of my bed, creating a wave in my mattress. I hold the soup in two hands till she’s settled. “Your sister’s got herself into something, hasn’t she?”

  It’s not so much a question for me as a question for the universe.

  “It’s Sammy’s fault.” The words fall out harsh and I realize he scares me a little.

  “Your sister loves that boy. Like me and your daddy, she promised to love him through thick and thin. Right now’s their thin. And don’t forget, they have a child together.”

  I look down at my quilt. “Is that worker going to take Coby away from her?”

  “Not if she keeps her nose clean from here on out. Her going back to school will help.”

  I mutter, “Like keeping clean is likely.”

  Mama reaches over to press my good foot underneath the covers. “Amber, if something happens, we’ll all have to step up and take care of that baby boy. Your sister may just have to learn the hard way.”

  “Would you be upset if she got a divorce?”

  Mama looks toward the ceiling and runs her hand through her graying brown hair. “My first choice would be for them two to work things out, make things right for that baby.”

  “And if they can’t?” Because that’s the reality. Sammy won’t ever be the kind of man who makes a good daddy and husband. He’s talking about his guitar and his future, but really, it seems like his band is just another excuse to party.

  “Well, I suppose there are worse things that could happen in the world.” She pats my legs. “But let’s just keep saying prayers that those two will come to their senses and start behaving like grown-ups. Eat up, then get dressed so we can get your friend’s guitar.”

  I can’t eat the soup. My stomach’s in knots. I should give the money back to Sammy and forget this whole thing, get out of it as much as I possibly can. But what would I say to Mama about it?

  I drop my face in my hands and rub the blood up into my cheeks. Once the money has changed hands, it will be over. Eddie will have had a cash sale. Sean will have a guitar that he thinks is a gift from his friends, and nobody will know any better for it. Sammy promised me it wouldn’t be traceable and he’d be stupid not to keep it that way.

  I glance up at my map. Sevenmile, Winston, Wilkesboro, Bristol, Nashville, New Orleans, Telluride. Soon, with any luck, I’ll be starting on the first leg of my journey.

  The Gibson lies across my lap and, surprisingly, now that the money is out of my hands, some of the guilt is gone, too. Eddie didn’t even bat an eye when I gave him the balance, just brought the guitar from the back, already closed up in its hard black case.

  Mama looks nice. She’s wearing her go-to-town slacks and a pretty floral shirt I hardly ever see her wear. Her hair’s pulled back from her face in combs and she’s even slicked on some lipstick. When we pull into the Whitsons’ driveway, I hug the guitar closer.

  Mr. Whitson strides out of the new building next to the house to greet us. A white sign, painted with simple script letters in black, hangs above the door. Whitson’s Pottery.

  “Hello, Donna, Amber! Aneeta is so excited you’ve come by for a visit.” He eyes me balancing on my cast. “How’s that ankle?”

  I shrug. “Still hurts some.”

  “Go on up to the house. Aneeta and the boys are inside.”

  Mama runs her hand through her hair and presses her blouse down. She purses her lips. Mama doesn’t have any good girlfriends. She’s been all about Daddy and me and Whitney forever.

  “You okay, Mama?” I ask.

  She straightens her shoulders. “I’m fine, sugar. Let’s go surprise your friend.”

  At the door, Mrs. Whitson greets us with a big, warm smile. “Come in, come in. I’m so glad you two stopped by.” Behind her, across the bar dividing the kitchen from the foyer, I can see Sean filling up glasses with tea. I don’t see Kush anywhere around.

  “Amber.” Mama prods me forward with the guitar case.

  “What’s this?” Mrs. Whitson says, looking up at me with wide eyes.

  Oh God. I can’t even look her in the eyes. It’s your pink lipstick. It’s your pill bottle. It’s my greedy fingers all over your things.

  I look down. “Um, it’s for Sean.”

  Sean walks into the foyer balancing a tray of drinks in his hands, smiling at me. His eyes fall to the case and he freezes. Mrs. Whitson takes the drink tray from him and sets it on the coffee table. “Sit, please,” she says.

  “Go on,” Mama says to me, her face alive with pleasure.

  “So, um, we, well, some friends who want to remain anonymous, and the band, we got together and got this for you.” I hold the case out.

  Sean hesitates and then his hand crawls forward, the slow reach of a man sensing what he’s seeing is a mirage, but hopeful that, perhaps, it’s the real thing. When his hand connects with the hard plastic, he lets out a breath and he takes the guitar from me.

  He sits on the closest chair and opens the case. Slowly. Like I used to open my jewelry box with the spinning ballerina. The one that played “Clair de lune.”

  “The Gibson,” he says. His hand strokes the slick varnish and plucks the strings. He looks up at me, his blue eyes wide.

  Mama’s grin is so big now you’d think she might pop like an overripe plum. Mrs. Whitson’s hand is on her heart. Sean’s looking at me like I’m a field of inflatable bouncy games at a MHHS Field Day and he’s about to bounce.

  I feel conflicted. It’s everything I’d hoped. Sean is happy. My mama is proud. But I feel like a low-life criminal.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Later that night, I practice my songs alone. When I tire of them, I sing ballads I know by heart. “Pretty Saro.” “The House Carpenter.” “Barbara Allen.” I finish with “Amazing Grace.” The chorus burrows into my bones.

  I doubt I’ll get a do-over, but at least I can start fresh from this moment. I’d promised Sean we’d go to band practice tomorrow with Sammy so he could try out his new guitar. But once that’s over, I’m out. Maybe Sean, Devon, Will, and I can start our own band. We can figure out some eclectic mix of tunes so everybody’s happy.

  Sammy can go blow himself.

  My phone beeps from my nightstand.

  It’s a photo text from Sean. Of C.A. holding his guitar. I text back a smiley face.

  After a minute, I punch in a different number. Will’s.

  Hey, I type.

  —Hey.

  —What do you want to do when you grow up?

  —Don’t laugh.

  —I won’t.

  —I want to be a wilderness camp director and a weekend bluegrass player.

  —Really? A camp director?

  —Told you not to laugh. What about you?

  —I want to be onstage at a big music festival. And I’d like to hike the Appalachian Trail. All of it.

  —Me, too. I knew you were cool, Not So P & S. Can’t sleep?

  I wait to see if he’ll mention anything about breaking up with Amber-o-zia, but he doesn’t.

  —I heard Sean got his guitar.

  —Yeah.

  —So who all donated? You could have asked me, you know.

  I don’t want to lie to Will McKinney. But I can’t tell him the truth either.

  —I can’t tell you. Anonymous donors and all.

  —Practice again soon?

  He’s not going to say anything about Amber-o-zia.

  If there were an emoticon for a sigh, I’d use it.

  —Yeah. Audition’s getting close. See you tomorrow.

  I shut the phone and turn out my light.

  But it takes a long time to find sleep.

  Sean picks
me up in his uncle’s truck to go to band practice. Sammy’s managed to get us practice space on the stage at the Bobcat Lodge, a private club that sometimes hosts bands. They’re closed on Wednesday nights, so it’s just us, and the owner, who might be checking us out for a gig.

  On the way over, I ask Sean about Kush. “What’s his deal anyway? What happened between y’all?”

  Sean turns down the music, classic Zeppelin, and eases into the story. “I told you Kush has a hard time sharing.”

  “Right.”

  Sean sighs. “So there was this girl, Daya. I’d just moved in with Aunt Aneeta and Uncle Eric and I was feeling so lost. Daya was the daughter of an Indian friend of my aunt’s. Everyone was trying hard to make me feel welcome, really bending over backward, so I’d forget the shit with my mom. Anyway, Daya and I sort of connected. She loved music and had this big, raucous laugh. I liked hanging out with her.”

  I point at the road we need to turn on. “That doesn’t sound like a big deal.”

  Sean hangs the steering wheel to the right. “It was. What I didn’t know was that Kush had been crushing on Daya for a year.”

  “Oh.”

  “Right.”

  “So, that’s it?” I ask, peering over at Sean. He looks tired. “That was enough for him to attack me to get back at you?”

  We pull into the parking lot of the Lodge. It’s a nondescript cinder block building with tiny darkened windows and an enormous American flag hanging next to the door.

  “No.” Sean rests his arm on the open window and stares up at a crow sitting on a telephone line. “I pulled away from Daya. It was more than I could deal with then. And Kush swooped in. She was vulnerable, and pissed as hell at me. It was a way to get back at me, because I still liked her, even if I couldn’t show it.”

  “And?”

  Sean leans his head back against the headrest. “It got ugly. Kush took Daya to some big party. They got wasted. He snuck her into the house. I think she was getting back at me when she had sex with him.”

  I watch the drummer pull up in a black Camaro.

  “What a jerk.” I look over at Sean again. “I can see how that would suck for you, but why is Kush so broken up about it still?” I wrap my hand around my necklace and slide it along my neck.