No Place to Fall

by Jaye Robin Brown

  No. That drummer made it on his own. He didn’t need Sammy. Sammy can’t even pick up his own kid from the nursery without thinking of himself first.

  That’s not my dream. It’s not my music. No matter how bad I want an audience.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Thank God for school starting and thank God for Devon’s daddy.

  That’s all I can think as I hear the horn beep out front and appreciate that Devon has the Jeep. Which means I don’t have to take the bus on the days Daddy can’t drive me. I give myself one more glance before heading out the door. First-day attire: fitted Carolina T-shirt, baggy overalls with perfectly placed knee holes, a black crocheted pair of Toms shoes—Mama about had a cow when I told her I wanted fifty-dollar shoes that we had to order off the internet, but Daddy said yes, since they were feminine—and black hoop earrings. Devon had fought me on the overalls, but they are my trademark.

  I give Mama a kiss and grab a package of Pop-Tarts and a bottle of water. “Bye, Mama, love you.”

  She shifts in her seat and waves her hands at me, like she’s conducting a symphony. She gets all misty, her first-day-of-school ritual, and I wait for it. “Come give me a hug.”

  I wrap my arms around her. People may make fun of fat people, but I like having a squishy mama. She’s comfortable.

  “I can’t believe you’re a junior. Lord, two short years and you’ll be graduating. I hope you won’t be in a hurry to grow up as fast as your sister did.”

  I cringe. Mama doesn’t get it. Though I might like to go out and have fun like my sister, I don’t plan on getting pregnant, or picking a guy anything like Sammy. I want to travel, hike the trail, and maybe even go to college.

  “I gotta go, Mama.”

  She hangs on tighter. “You be a good girl.”

  “Yes, Mama.”

  Devon honks again.

  “Mama, I gotta go.”

  She releases me and wipes a tear from her eye. “Have a good day, sugar.”

  I fly out the front door and down the steps. Devon is beaming from the front seat of his Jeep. I slide into the passenger seat. A plush soccer ball dangles from the rearview mirror. Devon’s our team’s goalie and he’s pretty good for a mountain kid. Most boys around here are into football or baseball. But then again, he’s a hybrid, what with his mama being from off and his daddy, the judge, only returning with his family two years ago when he got a wild hair to run for a district court seat. I still marvel that Devon picked me to hang out with.

  Devon lowers the rim of his aviator glasses, checking me out from head to toe. “You know, Amber P & S, you could work it a little more.”

  I shake my feet for him. “I’ve got cool shoes. Ordered them online.”

  He smiles at my feet. “I can’t believe you talked your parents into putting their credit card number into a computer.”

  “Right? Daddy’s got an eBay addiction now. Hunting up old Clinchfield Railroad stuff.”

  Devon laughs hard and backs out of the yard.

  It takes about ten minutes to drive to Mountain High and park.

  Devon loops his arm through mine after we get out of the Jeep. “You ready to kill this year?”

  “Let’s kill it,” I say. But there isn’t any of the excitement I felt this summer, when Devon and I hit the hiker barn.

  We trudge up the hill from the parking lot and slide into Mountain High’s commons. Groups of kids are already forming, and there’s nothing new, except the clothes and haircuts.

  I glance around to see if I can spy the new boys Deana May told me about. “Did you hear about the new kids?” I ask.

  Devon’s Adam’s apple bobs. “Oh, yeah, about that.”

  “About what?”

  Will, Devon’s brother, interrupts us. “Hello, young subjects,” he crows, throwing his arm over Devon’s shoulder. Will and Devon are the same height, even though Will’s a year older. Today, he looks effortlessly cool in his loose “My Grass Is Blue” T-shirt, a pair of hiking shorts, and faded trail runners. It’s sweet, I guess, the way Will’s always hovering, making sure nothing bad happens to Devon. He doesn’t usually pay much attention to me, but when he does, my palms sweat a little.

  “Hey, Will. I like your shirt,” I say, looking up at him. I stand with my hands by my sides, then in my pockets, then back by my sides.

  It’s stupid how nervous I get around him, but there are reasons. One, Will’s as cute as Devon, but straight. Two, he hangs out with the cool seniors, and by that I don’t mean the cheerleaders and jocks. I mean the artsy kids—once they’re gone, they’re going to have a life. Three, hanging out with Will involves the likelihood of getting suspended—he’s irreverent. And four, I always feels like he’s making fun of me. Like he knows that if it weren’t for me being friends with Devon, I’d just be some random girl at his school.

  “You are looking fashionably unfashionable as always.” Will raises one brow and grins at me. “And I mean that in the best way possible.”

  Then I hear the voice of Amber Rose Slagle. Amber-o-zia. “Will. There you are.”

  Amber-o-zia is our school fashion plate. She’s part Cherokee and has perpetually tan skin, long, gorgeous dark hair, always wears makeup, and, according to Devon, hooked up with Will two weeks ago at a party out on the lake.

  “Dahling . . .” Will, suave even when he’s kidding, turns and holds out his arms, and Amber-o-zia tucks into them. He kisses her right there in the commons. I see Amber-o-zia’s hand slip into the back pocket of his jeans. Territory established. An odd couple—Amber-o-zia’s about as straight arrow as Deana May—but she and Will look good together.

  I wipe my hands on my overalls.

  “Come on.” Devon pulls me toward the double doors and the soccer crowd. “There’s someone we need to say hello to.”

  “Amber. Devon. Hey! Wait up!” Cheerleader Amber, or C.A., untangles herself from a cluster of burgundy-ribboned girls decked out for the opening-day pep rally. “I need y’all to do me a favor.”

  “C.A., we’re right here.” Devon pokes his fingers in his ears.

  “Sure. Whatever.” C.A. directs her request to me. “We need juniors to win opening-day spirit. Can you get them to yell a little louder?” C.A.’s hands are on her hips, her face serious.

  “Sure, C.A.,” I say.

  “Thanks!” She clasps her hands and bobs her head like she’s just finished a cheer. She turns to go, then stops and speaks to me. “You taking art, again, Amber?”

  “Yep, Devon’s in, too. You?”

  Last year, C.A. and I forged a surprising friendship over silk screen prints. Devon had been in a different block, but this year we’d be together.

  “Yeah, but I hear the new teacher is a bitch.”

  Before I can respond, C.A.’s friends have pulled her back into the squad and Devon’s tugging on my arm. “Amber, I need you to listen to me.”

  “What?” I look at my cell phone. Bell’s about to ring for opening assembly.

  “You know we had our first soccer practice a couple of days ago.”

  “Yeah . . .”

  “Well, we’ve got a new player.”

  I see Principal Hedges walking in our general direction and I quickly slip my phone in my pocket.

  “That’s great. Is he any good?” Mountain High’s soccer record is abysmal.

  We’re walking in the direction of the soccer team and the girls that hang out with them.

  “No, it’s not about that, it’s . . .”

  “Shit.” I stop dead in my tracks. Ahead of me, surrounded by the team and soccer groupies, is Kush, the guy from the campfire. Why did I assume he was a through-hiker? He must be one of the new boys Deana May was talking about.

  I can feel Devon’s crush energy radiating off of him. Me, all I feel is mortal embarrassment. I acted like Whitney out there. Making out with Basil, getting high. All I need is for the new guy to start spreading rumors about me and for them to get back to Mama and everyone else in Sevenmile.

&nbs
p; And then he’s standing across from us, shouldering a first-day book bag.

  Devon’s practically giddy. “Amber, you remember Kush? Kush Whitson? He moved here. From Atlanta. Isn’t it awesome?”

  I look at Devon, look at Kush, then look at my feet. “Hey,” I mumble. I’m torn between feeling sorry for the guy, and feeling a little freaked out he’s going to run his mouth. And now he’s hanging out with us?

  The bell rings and the shuffle starts toward the gym.

  I grab Devon’s arm. “Um, sorry, Devon, I forgot I told Deana May I’d sit with her for assembly.”

  “Wait, what . . .”

  But I ignore him, and push my way into the crowd, leaving him, and Kush, behind.

  I never do find Deana May in the gym, but instead, I settle smack dab in the middle of the burnout crowd.

  “Hey, Amber.”

  “Hey, Frog.”

  Anthony Speller has been Frog as long as I can remember. He’s actually sort of cute in a moppy hair, stoner sort of way.

  “You met Sean yet?” Frog asks me.

  I look past Frog and see another new boy. His hair is a light brown razor-cut mess, sticking up in the back. His eyes, which are a pretty blue, seem hidden behind clouds.

  Sean lifts his chin. “What’s up?”

  “Hey. Are you new?”

  “Yeah, me and my cousin.” He points several rows below us at the soccer team. “The dark-haired dude down there.”

  “Oh.”

  So, this is the other Whitson. Sean looks nothing like Kush. And it’s weird they’re not hanging out on the first day. If I were at a new school, I’d be clinging tight to the people I knew.

  “Where’s your homeboy?” Frog asks me.

  I point in the same direction Sean had. Devon’s sitting next to Kush and waving his hands while he talks.

  Sean glances my way. “Your boyfriend?”

  “No. He’s my best friend, though.”

  “I never have understood why you two don’t date, Amber.” Frog tilts his head.

  Frog is clueless, but so is most of Mountain High.

  “I don’t know. We make better friends.”

  “Friends are good,” Sean says quietly.

  I glance over at him and see him twisting the bottom of his T-shirt. I hear my mama’s voice expounding on the virtues of being welcoming and generous.

  “Do you play?” I ask.

  “What?” Sean asks.

  “Your shirt. It says ‘Fender.’ Do you play the guitar?”

  Sean pulls out the shirt and looks down at it. It takes a minute for him to answer. “I got it at a thrift store. Thought it was cool.”

  “Oh.” I slump back against the bleachers.

  Cheerleader Amber, newly promoted to cocaptain of the squad, bounces out on the gym floor and tries to whip the junior section into a frenzy.

  “Come on, y’all.” I stand up halfheartedly, remembering my promise to help bring on the spirit.

  C.A.’s nodding her head in little choppy up-and-down movements in time to the clapping of her hands. Her mascaraed eyes twinkle. She points at me and gives me a thumbs-up.

  I watch Devon get the whole soccer team and their friends up, even Kush, and pretty soon they’re screaming and fist pumping and chest flailing. I turn to my ragtag section of the bleachers. “Spirit, y’all. Come on. Get up.”

  Frog groans and stands, pulling Sean to his feet. A few more kids stand and clap limply.

  I look down and see that Devon has the soccer team doing the wave.

  My group is pathetic. I elbow Frog and whisper, “Mountain High high, y’all,” and air toke. He grins and holds out a fist. I bump mine against his and he takes over for me. Frog gets the section laughing, and soon they’re all on their feet screaming, “Mountain High high, y’all.”

  Soon, Principal Hedges comes out onto the center of the gym floor and tries to settle us down, but he’s laughing as he does it. Seniors win spirit, of course. They always do. Then, Vice Principal Smoker (no joke) comes out for her yearly lecture on how to be a model Mountain High citizen. She plays bad cop to Principal Hedges’s good cop, and just as we’re wondering why we even bothered coming back to school, she switches gears and gets all sparkly like she loves us so much, and throws MHHS pencils into the crowd.

  I watch Kush grab a pencil in flight. Devon must pick up on my vibe because he turns, searching the bleachers till he finds me. He looks at who I’m standing with and asks a question with his raised eyebrow. I shrug. I know he’ll tell me I’m being paranoid, and I am, but the last thing I need is a new kid telling people how hard I was partying this summer.

  After the assembly, I push down the stairs, elbowing past a group of huddled, wide-eyed freshmen. The surge of the student body pushes me out into the commons and I start looking for Devon.

  He finds me first. I see his hand shoot up from near the windows, waving me over. I cut through the crowd to him.

  “Who’s the new guy?” Devon asks in a low voice, nodding past my shoulder.

  I turn around and Sean’s right behind me. I’m surprised Devon doesn’t know who he is yet. I grab Sean’s elbow and pull him into the conversation.

  “Um. Kush’s cousin? Sean? You haven’t met?”

  “No.” Devon looks sideways at Kush as he joins us. “Hey, man, why’d you leave your cousin hanging? You should’ve brought him out to practice.” He turns to Sean. “I’m Devon, by the way.”

  Sean stuffs his hands into his pockets. “It’s okay. I’m not so into sports. Besides, I’m only a sophomore.”

  Devon rolls his eyes. “Like that matters? We’ll take any live body.” He looks again at Sean. “I’m surprised, though. I would have guessed you for older.”

  Kush pushes a strand of hair behind his ear. “He is older. He should be a junior.”

  Sean doesn’t say anything, just looks away from us.

  “Hey,” I say. “Come on, Sean. I can show you where your classes are. Let’s see your schedule.”

  His eyes meet mine and he exhales. “Thanks.”

  I turn to Devon. “See you in art?” I don’t bother saying good-bye to Kush.

  CHAPTER SIX

  After I show Sean his locker and his classrooms, I catch up to C.A. on our way to art. She links her arm through mine. “So, Amber Vaughn, tell me all about that bed-headed boy you were showing around. And how’d you get to him so fast?” She licks her glossed lips for emphasis.

  “You did not just lick your lips.”

  “Yes, I did. He looks like he could use a scrub behind the ears, but he’s cute, and he was all eyes on you.”

  “Only because I was being nice to him.”

  She bumps me with her hip. “All I’m saying is he’s cute. Go for it, girl.”

  Devon catches up to us in the hall. “Go for who?”

  “Bed-head boy,” C.A. says, turning to look at Sean again.

  “She means Sean,” I clarify for him. “Anyway,” I say to C.A. “I’ve got my main man right here.” I pat Devon’s hand. We’ve never directly said that we’re together, but it never hurts that some people jump to conclusions. Let them believe what they want to believe.

  C.A.’s not fooled for a minute, though. “Right. Uh-huh.”

  We walk into the art room and sit at the same table we did last year, but everything’s totally different. Gone are the piles of old canvases and plastic toys for still lifes. Instead, the room is tidy and neat, with bright arrangements of fresh flowers in place. My favorite box of crumpled acrylic tubes has been replaced with neat plastic watercolor trays. I’m not sure I like the change.

  The bell rings and Ms. Thomas, the new teacher, starts taking attendance. She’s interrupted by Vice Principal Smoker leading Kush in. “I found you a lost little lamb, hon. Don’t mark him tardy. He’s new.”

  Kush does look sheepish. “Sorry,” he mumbles, and sits near the door.

  C.A. whispers, “Cherokee Boy’s pretty damn cute, too.”

  I glance over at Kush a
gain. She’s right. Cute, really cute. But Mama always says, pretty is as pretty does. And so far this Kush boy may have Devon fooled into thinking he’s some big-city wunderkind, but I’m not convinced.

  “I’m pretty sure someone in his family is from India. You know, the country?” I say.

  “Ohh. But his last name’s Whitson?” C.A. peers behind me to get a better look.

  Devon leans in to whisper to me and C.A. “His mom is, indeed, Indian. But she grew up in Atlanta.” He sounds so smug when he says it I stick out my tongue.

  Ms. Thomas shushes us and hands out the syllabus for Art II.

  No way. Drawing. Pen and ink. Watercolor.

  Where’s the recycled sculpture, the printmaking, and the mud painting? Where’s the fun stuff?

  It doesn’t take long to figure out that, for me, Art II is not going to be fun. We will do a watercolor landscape. We will draw from the right sides of our brain. We will create the perfect contrast of positive and negative.

  What we won’t be doing is exploring our inner landscape like we did with our old art teacher, Mr. Cottrell.

  “Fuck,” I say under my breath, but still louder than I should.

  “Did you say something, Miss Vaughn?” Ms. Thomas asks me, meeting my eyes.

  “No, ma’am.” Surely she couldn’t hear me.

  “I’m pretty sure you did.” Ms. Thomas leans over and scrawls on the top of a familiar pink pad of paper. She rips the slip off the top and hands it to me. “Go see Vice Principal Smoker. Explain it to her.”

  Did I just get written up in my first class on the first day of school for dropping an F bomb under my breath? Apparently, I did, because Ms. Thomas is standing with her hand on her hip, pointing to the door.

  C.A. mouths, “Good luck.”

  I hate new teachers.

  Smoker keeps me waiting for my lecture till right before lunch. Apparently, I have been chosen as the poster child for how not to behave this school year, because I get a day of in-school suspension. I am the beacon, the first-day warning for the entire student body.

  When she finally sends me on my way, I slam through the office doors and head for the lawn outside the cafeteria. My eyes burn with held tears. Mama’s going to kill me.