Sean’s face is buried in his uncle’s shoulder until they pull apart.
Mrs. Whitson slips past them and holds out her hand. “Open your hand,” she says to me. When I look down there’s a silver tube of lipstick shining up at me. She pulls me toward her and kisses me on both cheeks. “I’m sure it looks better on you. Thank you for caring about Sean.” She sighs. “And Kush. Most people would have left him that night you snuck him home.” She hugs Mama. “What hurts us makes us stronger, yes?”
Now we’re all crying.
Mr. Gunn scratches something down on his legal pad.
“Well then, you folks are free to go.”
Mama and I start to follow the Whitsons out the door, but Mr. Gunn calls us back.
“Not so fast, young lady. Judge McKinney is going to need to see you. The Whitsons might not be pressing charges for theft, but the state wants a little say in the matter of the narcotics.”
Mr. Gunn leads me and Mama up a flight of polished stairs to a small office. Will and Devon’s daddy is sitting in his shirtsleeves and slacks behind a wide mahogany desk that fills the room.
“Mrs. Vaughn, Amber, come in.” He pauses, letting the resonance of his deep voice echo away.
Mama seems as nervous as I am in the judge’s office. We perch on the leather chairs in front of him. He’s got the same laughing brown eyes as Will and Devon, but today they’re nothing but serious as he takes the paperwork Mr. Gunn hands him. I notice a framed photograph of Will and Devon on his desk. They’re sitting on the front porch of their house with guitars in their hands. A familiar ache throbs in my chest when I think about Will.
“Amber.”
“Yes, sir?” I grip the arms of the chair. My heart is pounding a thousand times a minute.
He rolls a fountain pen across the desk’s shiny surface as he finishes reading Mr. Gunn’s notes.
I want to curl up into a little ball. Judge and Mrs. McKinney have been good to me over the years.
He stops the pen under his hand. “In light of this situation”—he pauses and looks at me under bunched brows—“I’m recommending six months of probation.”
I can feel Mama stiffen next to me.
“You will report to your assigned officer once a month during that time. If you stay in school and stay out of trouble and comply with the rules, at the end of your probation period, your record will be clean.” He looks up. “Is that clear?”
I nod. Out of nowhere, Johnny Cash’s “Folsom Prison Blues” starts playing in my head, and then I remember standing in front of a different set of judges. Judges who thought I was talented. Ones who looked at me with delight, not disappointment. Panic beats in my small-bird breast.
“Judge McKinney?” I know the answer, but I still have to ask. To hear my sentence ring in my ears, like the note of a song tapering off in the wind. A note I won’t be singing in Winston-Salem this year.
“Yes, Amber?”
“Can I leave the county, like if I got into a special school for the arts?”
“No, you’ll have to stay here under your parents’ guidance. I trust they’ll help keep you on the straight and narrow. And away from Sammy Crowder.”
I glance at Mama. She’s nodding in agreement, her eyebrows furrowed.
“Mama, but . . .” I let the words trail away. It’s me. I’ve done this to myself. I’m just lucky he didn’t put me in custody.
“I understand, Your Honor,” I say, hoping he hears the sincerity of my words, but unable to keep the tears and flush of failure from my face.
Judge McKinney stands up to show us out. “Now, now, no need for tears. Think of it as a favor. An enforced separation from evil forces.” He opens the door and I swear he winks. “Besides, big city like Winston, young girl like you, better to stay home with your folks another year or two.”
Mama beams at his words, hugging me close. I hold her tight.
“I’m not going to see you in here again, am I, young lady?”
I turn from the door. “No, sir.”
Then he smiles. “Don’t be a stranger, then. We miss seeing you around the house. All of us.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
It’s been a month since Whitney was arrested, and outside, the first snow of the season is falling. I sit in my window seat and open the creamy paper for the millionth time.
Dear Ms. Vaughn,
We are pleased to inform you of your acceptance to the North Carolina School of the Arts for the spring term.
I don’t bother rereading the rest of the letter. None of it matters. I blew it. I’m not going anywhere.
There’s a knock on my door.
“Can I come in?” Whitney peeks her head inside my room and waits.
I motion for her to come and sit next to me.
Whitney climbs onto the window seat. “I never said thank you,” she whispers.
“For what?” I ask. It seems like all I did was peel back the layers of our family till each of us was raw and aching with the pain of our collected lies.
“For turning yourself in, for telling Mrs. Early, for giving that up,” she points to the letter. “For me, for Coby.”
Whitney pulls my striped socked feet into her lap. “I hate that I picked Sammy over you. I’m not sure I’ll ever forgive myself.”
“I’ve forgiven you,” I say.
“You have?”
“Of course. You’re my sister, but he’s your husband. I know that.”
She smiles and wiggles my toes. “How’d you get so wise?”
“Had a pretty good role model.”
She sighs. “I hope I will be again.” She flicks the letter. “What about going your senior year?”
I lean my temple against the cold glass. “Maybe.” I fold the letter up. “The more I’ve thought about it, I’m not completely sure the kind of singing they teach is the kind of singer I want to be.”
“You could learn. You’ve got the chops.”
“Yeah, maybe, but there’s more to it.”
“Oh, yeah?”
I wiggle my feet in my sister’s hands. “Don’t laugh, okay?”
She grabs my little toe. “Pinkie swear.”
“I’ve been so focused on getting out of here that I forgot about this.” I point out the window to the mountains. “And this.” I put my hand on my heart. “I want things to be right before I go off. Right with you, with Mama, with Daddy.” I pause. “With me.” With Will. “Besides,” I add. “I’ve spent my whole life here. And as much as it drives me crazy, and as much as I screwed up, what’s one more year? I need to fix things with my friends. Not just run away.”
Whitney smiles. “I get that.”
I stare at the map on the wall. The red tack C.A. put on Winston-Salem is still there, but I moved it back to Sevenmile. Because the thing is, even though I made pretty big mistakes, I found my something, the something that makes me unique. Wherever I go in my life, hiking the Appalachian Trail, off to college in some big city, singing with a local band, my voice is me. My voice. A gift from these mountains, from my parents, even from the folks at Evermore Fundamental who first paid attention to it. And Kush was right, even if he didn’t know what the hell he was talking about. This is no place to fall. It’s not possible. There are way too many people who love me.
I laugh. “You know, Mrs. Early would be happier than a bug in a cow patty if she knew I’m staying to sing in her chorus.”
“That’d make Mama happy.”
“Yep.” I smile. “I think it’d make her real happy.”
Whitney and I sit, watching as fat flakes of snow coat the maple trees and the yard. A truck pushing a plow blade approaches and my shoulders hunch for a second, waiting on the thud. I keep forgetting the county finally fixed the road. When it glides on past, I relax.
“You think Daddy’s going to stay true?” I draw a heart in the steam on the window.
Whitney sighs. “I hope so. I think Mama’s got him running a little scared now that her business with Mrs. Whits
on is taking off.”
I laugh thinking about my sweet mama giving him the what for, Daddy’s head in his hands on the kitchen table. But Mama’s a woman of her words, and whatever Whitney or I think of what our Daddy’s done, Mama’s not backing down from her vows. It’s like what she said about Whitney and Sammy. Right now she and Daddy are in their thin. But I’m hopeful it’s going to be thick again, real soon.
“And what about you?” I ask.
“I start classes January fifteenth.”
She grabs my hands and I squeeze them. There’s more she’s not saying. I know she met with a lawyer about filing for a divorce. It’s hard for her to give up what was once her dream. It’s been hard for her to realize Sammy’s never going to change.
“Whitney?”
“Yeah?”
The snow is gorgeous. “You want to go for a hike?”
“Now?”
I pull my feet back and cross them, excited by the idea.
“Yeah, now. It’s beautiful. It will be like old times.”
“Amber, hon, it’s cold. Call a friend. You’re not grounded anymore.” She pats my foot and leaves the room.
I think about who I could call.
Devon’s gone to Maine with Gil to ski.
C.A.’s in South Carolina with her dad.
The Whitsons are in India visiting relatives.
Sean was so excited when he left. He couldn’t stop talking about this guy Ravi Shankar and his influence on the Beatles, and I’m pretty certain he’ll be coming home with a sitar. All Kush was excited about were beautiful Indian girls.
That leaves Will.
He hasn’t started dating anybody else. In chorus we still sing together. Nothing like our Show-off Solos duet, but it’s still our voices, singing together. But in the halls we don’t talk, we don’t hang out on his parents’ front porch goofing on Nirvana songs, we don’t have a friendship anymore. I miss him.
I text Devon instead.
—I wish you were here for a hike.
My phone buzzes almost immediately.
—Call Will.
Then another text.
—Gil here. Please call Will. You’d be doing us a huge favor. He always wants to hang out with us. We’re in Maine to get away from him.
—Ha. I’ll think about it.
I can’t think about it long, or I know I’ll chicken out. I take the coward’s way and text him, too.
—Want to go for a hike? As friends?
I wait. The phone lies dormant. Lifeless. He’s not going to text back. He can pretend like he never got it.
Then.
It buzzes.
—With me?
I count off one-one-thousand, two-one-thousand. When I get to five, I text him back.
—Yes.
Again with the silent pause. Is he counting seconds, too? Another buzz.
—I’ll meet you at the hiker barn in fifteen.
I get dressed in a hurry and run downstairs. My family is gathered in the kitchen in all the usual places. Daddy in his recliner. Mama baking a cake for dinner. Coby rolling trains across the linoleum floor and Whitney, sitting at the table, nursing a sick baby kitten with a bottle. It’s peaceful without Sammy.
The local news guy teases us with a story of hypothermia and avalanche.
Mama glances at the TV, then at me in my hiking boots and layers. She flaps her whisk at the television, “That won’t happen around here. No avalanches in the Appalachians. And you’re too smart for hypothermia. Go on, but be back an hour before dark.” As I walk out the door, she yells at me, “But take your cell phone!”
I wave it at her as the screen door slams.
The snow swooshes under my feet as I walk the logging road behind the Earlys’ farm. A flash of a red cardinal darts through the brush to my right. The silence of winter sings its quiet melody. I can tell by the lack of boot prints that I’ve gotten to the barn first. I slip inside and let my eyes adjust to the dim light after the bright snow. My fingers bump over the names carved in the wood. One day, I’ll earn the right to put my name here. And year after next, I’ll go to college and study music. Maybe at ETSU, maybe in Winston. But for now, I just want to walk in the woods with a friend.
I peek through the boards to see if I can see Will coming.
Just then, the door cracks open, throwing a triangle of bright light across the dirt floor. Will’s standing there in his winter coat, his smile hesitant.
“So, Not So Plain and Small.”
“Will.” A mild disturbance still kicks up in my chest when I say his name.
We stand there, awkward. Me in the darkness. Him in the light.
Will clears his throat. “Thanks for asking me to hike.”
“No problem.” I flex my toes in my boots and shove my hands in the pockets of my coat. “It was too pretty not to get outside.” I clear my throat. “I’ve been trying to work up the nerve to call you.”
Now Will puts his hands in his pockets, his shoulders lifting toward his ears. “Really?”
Hope floods my insides when I hear the possibility in his voice. “Yeah. I’ve thought a lot about what I said the night of the party.”
“You know, you could have let me decide if it was worth the risk to hang out with you. I know what you were trying to do.”
Will looks at me, and I make myself meet his eyes. He’s biting his lip in a cute, worried way. “I heard what my dad did. It sort of messed you up, didn’t it?”
“I think your dad’s idea was to keep me out of a mess,” I say.
Will rocks back on his heels. “Yeah. He’s a big fan of tough love.”
We stand for another charged second, neither of us moving.
“So you want to go on a hike?” I ask him.
“In a sec,” Will says. He clears his throat and starts singing, slow at first.
“Come and listen to a story ’bout a boy named Will,
He really liked this girl who made
a mistake by stealing pills,
But then one day Will was feeling bad and alone,
When a ring, ring, ring started
chirping on his phone.
Amber Vaughn. Beautiful.”
He ends with a wicked smile and takes a step closer to me. The cupid bow of his upper lip quivers.
He drops his head so his forehead is touching mine. “Not So Plain and Small, can we be friends again? I miss you.”
I nod, which causes a funny friction between our skin. “Will you forgive me for being an idiot?”
“I already have,” he says.
My heart is racing like a girl who’s never kissed a boy before. But I have. I’ve kissed this boy, and I want to kiss him again. I take my hands out of my pockets.
“Just friends, right?” He takes a step back, away from me.
What? No way.
I close the gap. “Would you be terribly disappointed if I said I didn’t want to be just your friend?”
He thumps a hand over his heart. “What? You don’t want to be my friend? Not again.”
I step closer to him again. “Nope.” I shake my head and crawl my fingers up the front of his coat. “I have a better idea.”
“Oh yeah?” He catches my fingers and presses them against his chest. “What’s your better idea?”
I grab his other hand and drag him outside so we’re both standing in the light. Snow squeaks under my boots as I rise onto my tiptoes. I whisper in his ear. “Just friends don’t kiss.”
His brown eyes crinkle, laughing, as he tilts his head down. I wrap my hands around the slice of his shoulder blades and pull him forward. Will’s hands wrap my waist. When our lips meet, I kiss him like I mean it, letting it strike me warm in all the appropriate places. He doesn’t seem to mind.
When I’m breathless, I break away and touch the thin scar on his face.
He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, letting his fingers slide along my neck. “I missed you, Amber Vaughn.”
I look into his eyes and see mysel
f reflected there, smiling up at him. I’m ready to hear all about it. In bass and soprano. In songs of longing and love. In our voices, braided like the strongest cord.
I take off running up the trail, Will on my heels, the whole world waiting for us at the top of the ridge.
I’m ready to fly through the door and back again.
I’m ready to sing to the wind.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Now it’s time for my own song of thanks. Your voices, rising together, are what made Amber sing as brightly as she did.
First I need to thank my editor, Sarah Dotts Barley. In her graceful, yet determined, way, Sarah pulled the heart of this story out of me. She was my Mrs. Early, believing in me, knowing the raw lump of words could be turned into something amazing. Thank you for loving Sevenmile and its people. Thank you for challenging me to be a better writer and allowing me to find my way, even when my voice cracked and my throat grew dry. Your guidance inspires me, and look, we made a book! (P.S.—Will thinks you’re cute.)
Also first (because how can I put one before the other) is my indomitable agent, Alexandra Machinist. She’s my very own C.A. She flings all caps and exclamation points and adjectives like ADORE, and AWE, and INCREDIBLE at the perfect moments. She believed in this story from the moment she read it and I’m lucky to have her in my corner.
To the team at HarperTeen, who took my cover thoughts and made them a reality and who have helped craft this novel into a symphony—you are the resounding twang of the rarest New York City banjo ensemble. (And I think that’s pretty darn rare.)
To Pat Esden, Kip Wilson, Jen McConnel, and Samantha Vérant, my frontline readers who bravely listened to the tunings of lyrics in process and were always able to find the promise, I love you each. I couldn’t have done this without you. This is your story, too.
To Joy Neaves and my classmates at the Great Smokies Writing Program—you are my mentors, the ones who taught me to give and take, to listen and make changes, and how beginnings are never where they seem to be.
To the original YA-MG Critter group, Pam Vickers, Tara Stivers, Jeanne Ryan, Meradeth Houston, and Erika David, thanks for being awesome.
To later readers, Lynne Matson, Marieke Nykamp, and Kristen-Lippert Martin, thank you for the fine-tuning and the kudos. To Ruth Stevens for the chance. To the sweet and spicy, message-bearing, candy-heart club known as the YA Valentines, “More sinkhole, yo!” And to the communities of Verla Kay’s Blueboards, SCBWI-Carolinas, OneFour Kid Lit, #wipmadness, and #5amwritersclub—keep singing!
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