No Place to Fall (14 page)

Wednesday rolls around quick.
Sean finds me at lunch and we firm up our plans to meet and play after school. Practice is being held in some guy's old tobacco barn way out on Honeysuckle Road. Sammy said we didn't have to be there till five, so I figure I've got time to take Sean by the pawn shop.

We pull into Eddie's and Sean lets the truck idle. “I don't know, Amber. There's no point in me even going in there.”

“Don't you want to see it? I swear it's the kind of guitar you were talking about. Maybe they have a layaway plan.”

That gets him to turn the truck off.

“Come on,” I say and limp out the door before he can
say no. I'd tried to ditch my crutches in the morning, but my stupid ankle still hurts if I put pressure on it.

The door chimes as we push in and Eddie looks briefly away from the TV in the corner of the shop. “Can I help you?”

I point to the reddish Gibson. “Can my friend see that guitar?”

Sean is staring at the guitar, behind me.

Eddie must sense a certain amount of reverence because he holds the guitar out like it's a piece of glass. “Here you go.” He points to a corner of the room. “There's an amp over there you can plug in to, if you want.”

Sean is stroking the guitar with a musician's touch. He flips it to his body and holds it, cradling it. “I can play it?” he asks. His voice sounds young. Eager.

Eddie actually smiles. “Yeah, man. Give her a go.”

While Sean plugs in the guitar, I ask Eddie about how a layaway plan works.

“Yeah, thirty percent down to hold it. Then two more payments.”

Sean starts playing, and Eddie and I watch him for a minute. Eddie nods his head and hits the mute button on his TV remote. “The kid's good. Tell you two what. He can have the cash price of six fifty for layaway. I usually ask list. And instead of one ninety-five, I'll let you do a
hundred and fifty down with four more payments instead of two. That guitar deserves him.”

I've got fifty dollars in my savings account. If I tell C.A., I bet she'd give me some money, too. I could ask Kush, too, or his parents. We can surprise him with the layaway ticket, then figure out how to come up with the rest later. Mrs. Early is always talking about paying it forward, and Sean is the perfect candidate. He's got a real gift. Why not find a way to let him share it with the rest of us?

“Will you hold it until tomorrow? I can bring you fifty dollars then and we'll get the other hundred to you by next week.”

Eddie frowns, but his eyes follow Sean's fingers flying across the strings. “Okay.” He pulls out a ticket. “Write his information on here and I'll hold her for your fifty until four tomorrow.”

I pick up the pen and start filling it out.

“But,” he adds. “If I don't have that other hundred by same time next week, you're going to lose your fifty dollars, and the guitar.”

The tobacco barn is way the hell out, at the end of a mile-long rutted gravel drive. Sammy and two other guys are smoking cigarettes at a half-rotted picnic table.

I get out of the truck. “Is there even electricity out here?”

“Yeah, baby sister, we've got the orange cord.” Sammy points to an extension cord running to a run-down cabin hidden by the barn. “Hey, man.” He nods at Sean. “What's up?”

“Hey,” Sean says, stepping next to me.

Sammy hops off the bench. “Come on, then. We're burning daylight.”

Inside the barn, locust logs crisscross above our heads. A few dusty, ancient tobacco leaves hang like bats from them, a testament to days gone by. The late afternoon sun sends shafts of light between the slats. In the corner, Sammy and his friends have set up a small stage, of sorts. A blue tarp covers the ground and on it is a drum kit, some mikes, a couple of amps, and assorted rickety chairs.

“Careful.” I grab Sean's arm as he starts to lean back against the wall.

He looks behind him.

“Poison ivy,” I say. Fuzzy brownish red vines crawl up the walls. The leaves are high, but the vine is more toxic.

“Thanks.” Sean is looking smaller by the minute. It's like he's folding into himself and if he keeps going, we'll hear a pop as he disappears.

I loop my hand around Sean's arm. “You're going to be fine.”

“What's the matter, man?” Sammy's plugging in his guitar and directing the other two guys.

“Um, I, um . . .”

“Spit it out, man.”

“He doesn't have a guitar, Sammy.” I squeeze Sean's arm.

Sammy stops for a second, thinking. “We got that acoustic you can play for now. But here.” Sammy takes the Strat off and hands it to Sean. “You play this for the first song and I'll play the acoustic.”

Sean takes the guitar and it's like watching one of those Mylar balloons inflate at the grocery store. He grows bigger with an instrument in his hands.

“First song is that song Amber sang for you in the truck the other night. But Amber, this time you only come in on the chorus.”

“Whatever, Sammy.”

“All right. Let's get this thing down.”

Sammy starts with the acoustic guitar. After the first stanza, the drummer starts tapping his cymbal, slightly out of rhythm. I glance at Sean. He puts a finger to his lips, then motions toward Sammy, whose eyes are closed, head thrown back. When Sammy gets to the chorus, I try to ignore that the drummer's off beat and step into the microphone next to him.

Sammy holds up a hand. “Wait. Stop.”

Finally, he's going to say something to the drummer.

But instead he turns to me.

“Baby sister, this is not your microphone.”

“What?” I step away from him.

Sammy points to the rear of the tarp, next to the drum kit. “Your microphone is back there.” I follow his finger and see that off to the side, in the corner, is a dinky microphone with a bent stand. I feel my face turning red.

Sammy grabs my shoulders. “Ah, sugar, don't get your panties in a twist. You're backup, remember?” He doesn't give me time to answer, just pushes in me in the direction of my time-out corner. He starts the song again.

This time, I come in on the chorus and blast my voice through the yard-sale microphone. Sammy glares back at me and makes the hand signal for lowering the volume, but he doesn't call for us to stop.

When we get to the part where the electric guitar goes wild, Sean's ready. He practically blows the roof off the barn. From where I'm standing I can see the drummer's smile, the bassist's approving head nod, and Sammy's scowl. I almost laugh out loud.

When the song's over, Sammy's quick to take back his Strat. “That was all right, man. But let's stick you with the acoustic.”

Sammy swaps guitars with Sean, then slaps him on the back. Hard. “Let's play.”

After Sean drops me at home, I pop in the CD Mrs. Early burned for me. It's kind of like what I heard on the internet. Girls with voices pulled from way deep inside, their notes hanging and rolling and bucking. It seems so complicated. So unlike me and the simple way I enjoy singing. I clip through the songs, immediately scratching a few off the list, knowing my voice doesn't have the training to even attempt them.

My phone lights up and I take off my headphones. It's a local number, but one I don't recognize.

“Hello?”

“Amber?” It's a guy.

“Yeah.”

“It's Will.”

I sit up fast against my headboard. “Hey, Will.”

“I hope you don't mind me calling. I found your number on Devon's phone.”

“No. It's fine.” I stare out the window, like maybe he's out there under my maples, but all I see is the dark of a new moon.

“Um.” He mutters. “I wanted to apologize.”

“For what?”

“For being so abrupt the other night. Things have been sort of complicated with my dad for the last few years, and now he's finally listening to me.
Really
listening. And the less I do to screw things up, the happier we'll both be. I was just sort of surprised by your brother-in-law showing up, that's all.”

“Yeah. I got that.” I take a breath. “And I kissed you, again, and you have a girlfriend who probably wouldn't have been too happy hearing we'd showed up to the dance together.”

He's quiet on the other end of the line. In the background, I hear the sound of the local radio station turned low. He clears his throat. “Yeah, so the other reason I called.”

I start to cut him off, but he says, “Let me talk, okay?”

“I'm listening.” I pull my good leg to my chest and prop my swollen ankle on a pillow.

“I want to help you.”

What is he talking about? “Help me?”

“Come on, Not So Plain and Small, don't make this tough on me.”

I blow out the thing that's been building in my chest. “Will, all I know is we have something when we make music.
And
when we're together. To you, what happened between us might mean nothing. But it was a big deal to
me.” I take a breath, then add, “And I can't even talk to my best friend about it. I can't talk to anybody about it.”

“Shit.” Will's voice is low. “I was only going to offer to help you with your audition.”

“You want to help me?”

“Forget it,” he says. “I shouldn't expect you to want to hang out with me.”

“No. You shouldn't.” It'd be easy to get worked up and give him a piece of my mind, but something in his voice makes me forget any anger, and I know we sound good together. “Actually, I could use your help.”

“You could?”

I scoot down on the pillows and push aside everything other than the music that hangs between us. “Yeah. I was listening to the CD Mrs. Early gave me when you called. It has a bunch of selections for the different categories that they require. It's all so lofty-sounding. I wish I could sing something like we did the other day in chorus.”

“That was pretty sweet,” he says.

He grows quiet again and so do I. The sound of his breath on the phone is rhythmic, like a lullaby.

We speak at the same time.

“Maybe I could . . .”

“I'll let you . . .”

We laugh. He lets me finish.

“I'll let you borrow the CD tomorrow. I'll tell you my favorites so far and you can tell me which ones you think would be good.”

“Sounds good. And Amber?”

“Yeah.”

Will's voice is even, and entirely sincere, when he says, “I'm sorry.”

When I hang up, I stare at the red tack on Sevenmile.

I'm not sorry. If nothing ever happens again, at least I said what I needed to say. And at least Will listened.

The sky is a killer
blue and at lunch everyone heads outdoors.

I lie with my head on Devon's stomach, C.A. lies with her head on mine, and Kush and a few other soccer players sit to the side. Sean's missing. Kush says it's the stomach bug.

“How was band practice?” C.A. asks. Her head feels weird bouncing against my belly when she talks. “Did Sean like it? Do y'all sound good together?”

“She sounds better with my brother,” Devon says.

I feel myself freezing against him.

“I thought Will had a girlfriend,” C.A. says from my stomach.

Devon picks up his head from the ground. “I'm talking about music. What are
you
talking about?”

C.A. rolls off my stomach and sits up. “
I'm
talking about Amber and Sean.”

I sit up. “God, y'all, we're only friends.”

C.A. flushes then pokes me. “Oh, come on. You have everything in common.”

“That doesn't mean he likes me.” I figure it's as good a time as any to tell them about the guitar. “I do have an idea, though.”

Kush is suddenly interested in our conversation and leans in. “Oh yeah, you've got plans with Sean?”

I have to tread carefully. It's not my place to spill Sean's story. “I think we should help him get this guitar he saw at the pawn shop yesterday.”

“Why?” Devon asks.

“Yeah, is it his birthday or something?” C.A. says.

Kush scoots closer.

“No, it's just, he doesn't have one, and he's really good. If we all chipped in together, we could surprise him.”

“Right, and I need a new laptop,” one of the soccer players by Kush's side says. “Y'all want to chip in for that?”

It's all I can do not to blurt out the whole story, but I don't. I understand what it's like to want to keep some family issues close.

“So you
do
like him.” C.A. pulls her ponytail over her shoulder and starts braiding it, focusing intently on her hair.

“Forget it,” I say. “Y'all don't understand, at all.”

Everybody lies back down in the sun. I watch the clouds shift as their shadows cross my face. Sean and I might be good together. Maybe. But that's not why I want to get him the guitar. To me, the guitar is the thing that will set him free from his past. The thing that will set him apart. And buying a guitar is tangible. It's solid. It's not some silly dream that's about as hard to pin down as one of those cumulous clouds floating overhead. It's not like my dream. This dream is something I can make happen—if I can find a way to collect the rest of the money.

After school, Whitney picks me up. I convince her to take me to the bank and to the pawnshop for Sean.

“So, are you in love with this boy or something?” she asks me.

“Or something,” I answer.

“Does Mama know you're wiping out your savings account?”

“Does Mama know you love Vicodin?” That shuts her up.

When we get there, Eddie takes my money and grunts.
“Remember, I need the other hundred no later than next Thursday. And then a hundred and twenty five for the next four months.”

“When can he have the guitar?”

Eddie raises the magnifying visor from his eyes. “Have the guitar?”

“Yeah, like next Friday?”

Eddie chuckles, but it isn't kind. “Girlie. I'm doing y'all a favor here. And that boy can flat play. But nobody, I don't care if you're Eddie Goddamn Van Halen, walks out of my pawn shop with an instrument until it's paid in full.”

“Oh, right.” I grab the ticket and receipt off the counter and shove them in my pocket. “Sorry.” I'm in such a hurry to get out of the door that I don't notice the generator sitting on the floor until I've banged it with my ankle. “Crap.” I lean over and rub the soft pad below my anklebone, but the pulsing has already started. I wish the thing would go ahead and heal already.

“Do you have any aspirin?” I ask Whitney when I get back into the car.

She rummages around in her bag and fishes out a blue prescription bottle. Inside are a bunch of different pills. She pours them into her hand and separates them. “You can't have these. But you can have this.” She holds out a white tablet.

“I don't want that, Whitney. Just an aspirin.”

She fishes in her purse and hands me a bottle of Advil. “Here.” As she's dropping it in my palm, Whitney spills the handful of pills she'd been holding. “Shit.” She jams her hand down between the seats, frantically looking for the lost pills. “Shit, shit, shit.”

“What's
wrong
with you?”

“
Those
are oxys. Sammy sells them for like forty bucks each. And I just gave this girl two hundred bucks for them for him to sell. He'll kill me if I lose the profit. Will you help me look, please?”

There's a panic on my sister's face I haven't seen before. I dig between the seats and find a couple of the tablets. “Here.” I hold them out to her and watch her face regain calm.

“Thanks.” She puts everything back in her bag.

I keep staring at her.

“Stop,” she says.

“Whitney.”

Tears well up in her big eyes. “I know what you're going to say, but don't, okay?”

“Why don't you go back to school, Whit?”

She wipes her cheeks with the back of her hand. “For your information, I showed Sammy those brochures you brought me from school and he said for me to apply.”

“Can't you make that decision for yourself?”

She stiffens, then turns the key in the ignition.

I want to slug myself. “Sorry, Whit.”

That song, “Stand by Your Man,” sneaks into my brain. I love singing it. My voice gets all twangy and melodramatic on the chorus, but right now all I can think is why? I take a breath. “Don't get mad, okay, but I need to ask you something.”

She sighs. “What?”

“How come you're sticking by Sammy and this business? Aren't you worried about Coby?”

Whitney hesitates. “You know why.”

I think I do. It's the words. The “for better or for worse” that Mama's always quoting when she reacts to the news of someone's divorce. To her those words are God's gospel. But I wonder, how worse does worse have to get before it's too far gone?

“Do you love him so much you're willing to risk going to jail?” I rub at the throb in my ankle.

“We're not going to jail, Amber.” Whitney backs out of the parking lot.

“How can you be sure?”

“How are you so naive? You know, there are powers that be that want people on the ground to do the legwork.”

“So, you're saying Sammy's working for the sheriff?”
It's common knowledge that our sheriff's department is as crooked as a broken-backed snake.

She shrugs.

I turn to look at my sister, hard. “They still arrest people, Whit. They make examples of people. And Social Services is quick to take kids. You know that.”

“I'm going to stop, okay? As soon as we get Sammy his van. But seriously, don't worry. Sammy won't go to jail. They won't take Coby.”

She turns on our road. We pass the Whitsons' house and I think, maybe I'll stop by soon and ask Sean's aunt and uncle about the guitar. Surely they'd want to help.

Whitney nudges me with her elbow. “I didn't say thanks.”

“For what?”

“For those pamphlets from the tech school. If they hadn't been lying on the kitchen counter, Sammy probably wouldn't have gone for it. But the caseworker saw them and suggested one of us working toward a degree would look good in our file.” She laughs. “Sammy thought it was his idea.”

“That's great.”

“Isn't it?” She grins, and everything between us feels right again. “Hey.”

“Yeah.”

“I missed hearing you sing Sunday. And I'm going to miss you next year when you're gone off to that fancy high school.”

“Mama told you she said yes to the audition?”

“Mama's told everybody. In her mind, you're already onstage at the Carter Family Fold and buying us all a Cadillac. Gold. Like Elvis.” She reaches over and grabs my hand to squeeze it.

This time I'm grinning—and even more determined not to let Sammy wipe the Cadillac out of my mama's mind.