“Settle down, girl. What’s got into you?”
“Sammy, I need those pills back. I need that bottle. I shouldn’t have given them to you. It was late, and I was mad, and I don’t know what I was thinking.”
“I thought you had a big emergency, Amber.” Sammy looks at me sideways. “What, you’re not pregnant?”
“Huh?”
He shrugs. “I don’t know, after this summer, timing seemed right. I honestly figured you needed that much cash for an abortion.”
I throw my head down into my hands and choke back a sob. “For your information, I wanted that money so we could buy Sean a guitar. So he could help your band get somewhere.” I look up at him. “But I came about those pills in the wrong way.”
Sammy considers me. “He give them to you?”
“No.” I grab Sammy’s arm. “Please, give them back. I need to fix this.”
Sammy puts his hand on my shoulder. “I told you. It’s too late. I needed to make my money back and I sold them last night. But nobody’s going to trace it. I don’t sell them in the bottle. It’s gone. Don’t worry.”
And just then, the door to the Sunday school room swings open.
Whitney’s framed in the hall light. It shines through her skirt, silhouetting her legs.
“What are y’all doing?” Her eyes cut between the two of us.
I drop my hand from Sammy’s arm and he casually drops his from my shoulder, stuffing his fingers in his pockets.
I make up a story fast. “We came to get Coby, but I needed to ask Sammy something.”
Whitney’s eyes narrow and she looks at me, then at Sammy again. “Is that right?” she asks him.
“Of course, sugar.” Sammy walks to her and drapes his arm over her shoulder. “What else would we be doing?”
She looks at me again. This time the look is different, like she’s appraising me. “Is that my old dress?” she asks.
“Yeah,” I say.
“You look like a cow in it.” She turns and walks out, pulling Sammy with her.
In the nursery, getting Coby, I glance at the mirror on the wall.
“Hey, Deana May?” I ask.
“Yeah?”
“Does this dress make me look big?” I turn from side to side.
“Are you crazy? You’re not big. You’re curvy. The kind of curvy boys like.” She grins and hands me Coby’s bag with his emergency pants, pull-ups, and sippy cup. “In fact, you should wear dresses more to school. All you ever wear is those old overalls, and you look beautiful today.”
I tug the fabric over my hips. “I guess,” I say. “Thank you.”
I wonder if my clothes are part of why Kush called me a redneck girl. If I get into NC-Arts, what will the other students think of me? I put my hands on my waist, cinching the dress tighter, and arch my back so my chest pokes out. I think about Amber-o-zia in that orange tank top and heels. And the hostess at the Fish House all those years ago. I suck in my cheeks a little and position myself at an angle to the glass. “You’re probably right. I guess I need a change.” I touch the hair where it skims the back of my neck. “Maybe I should let my hair grow out.”
Deana May steps next to me and holds up her thick braid so it looks like it’s attached to my head. “I don’t know,” she says. “I like your hair short. You pull it off. And it makes you stand out.”
Coby reaches his hands up toward my waist. “Up, Ber.”
“Okay, buddy, let’s go. See you at school, Deana May.”
She waves and I hesitate once more in the mirror. The girl looking back at me issues a challenge. Try it. For a week. Pull out Whitney’s old clothes. Dress up for school. Find a new Amber.
After Sunday dinner, lunchtime at my house, I go up to my room. Whitney had been stony toward me through two helpings of squash casserole and a tender pot roast. Fortunately, Mama chattered through the silence.
In my bedside drawer, tucked underneath the Bible I got in sixth grade, is the money from Sammy. I lie back and fan it out in front of me.
I can’t get the pills back.
The thought of sneaking the money into the Whitsons’ house hovers somewhere, but that’s just stupid. A random six hundred dollars would be way more suspicious than a missing bottle of Oxycontin. Thinking about how Kush acted the other night makes me want to punch my wall. And thinking about how Sean bent his head reverently over that guitar, the same way Whitney cradles Coby, makes me happy. The money’s here. It might as well go to good use if I can’t take back what I’ve done.
I hop off the bed and rummage through the closet and drawers, digging all of Whitney’s hand-me-downs out from behind my T-shirts and jeans and overalls. There’s even a few pairs of heels stuffed in the way back of the closet. My ankle’s better, but I’m still careful as I slip on a pair of three-inch red spikes. I think about calling C.A. She’d get me fixed up in no time. But what would I tell her? I think I might really like Will McKinney, but I’m not pretty enough for him? Kush called me a redneck girl, so now I don’t want to look like myself anymore?
I slip on a short black skirt and find a white tank with a built-in bra. Over that I put on a floral gauzy overshirt with an open collar. I grab my hairbrush and pretend it’s a microphone, and practice flirting with an audience. I’m tossing my head when my cell phone rings.
It’s Will.
“Hello?” I hold the phone tight to my ear, and keep posing, trying to look sophisticated.
“Hey, Amber.” His voice is soft. “Sorry our practice got cut short Friday.”
I sit on the bed and curl my legs up beneath me. “It’s okay. I understand.”
“Can we try again? Tomorrow after chorus? I’ve been working on ‘Ave Maria.’”
I look down at the quilt on my bed, and bunch it in my fingers. “Are you sure you want to?”
“I told you I’d help.”
“I know. I just don’t want your girlfriend pissed off at you. Not that I’m a threat or anything, but—”
Will cuts me off. “Not So Plain and Small.”
“Yeah?” I grab onto the heel of one of the pumps and wiggle it back and forth on my foot. How do people walk in these things?
Then Will says, “It doesn’t matter what she thinks.”
“It doesn’t?”
“No.”
We’re quiet for a minute, and then I get nervous. “Hey, would you help me with an errand after school, before practice?”
“Sure. What do you need?”
“I’ve got to go by the pawn shop to pay for a guitar.”
“A guitar? Is it for you?”
I take a breath. “It’s for Sean. I took up a collection and we got him a Gibson. Sean’s really good. We should all play together sometime.”
Will’s silent.
“Will? Is that okay?”
“Oh. Yeah, sure.” His voice sounds different than it did a second ago. Less certain. “Um, listen. I’ve got to run. I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”
When I hit the off button, I stare at the phone.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Monday at school, I am all kinds of nervous. I’ve got six hundred dollars of drug money in my purse and I don’t feel comfortable at all in my clothes. A group of sophomore girls looks in my direction and starts whispering. I glance down. I tug on the skirt, suddenly self-conscious, but there are at least six other girls in the commons with skirts as short as mine.
“Oh, wow, Amber! Look at you!” C.A. bounces over and gives me a big smile. She reaches behind me and tucks in the tag poking out of the back of my shirt.
“Did I do okay?” I look down at myself. It feels completely weird to have my legs showing and to be three inches taller than usual.
C.A. looks me up and down and says, “You should wear something like that to my party.”
“Party?” I ask.
“Party?” Devon walks up behind me. I turn around and give him a quick hug.
C.A. squeals and claps. “Yes! Party! I want y’all to come over a
nd meet my cousin from Bristol. He is the best.” She loops arms with both of us. “And we can celebrate your upcoming audition. Plus my mom’s going to be gone for the night.”
The three of us head toward the art room, arm in arm.
“You should totally ask Sean,” C.A. says to me as we pass Frog and the other burnouts hanging out by the band room. They chin nod toward me as a group.
I nod back to Frog, then stop, turning toward C.A. “What is it with everybody thinking me and Sean are together?”
C.A. cocks her head. “You’re not?”
“No.” I wobble forward, working hard to keep my balance on the slick floor. “He’s a super-nice guy and a great musician, but just because a girl hangs out with a guy, it doesn’t mean they’re hooking up.”
“Feeling a little touchy, P & S?” Devon laughs, knowing I’m still sensitive about the incident with Kush.
I punch his arm. “Look,” I say to C.A. “I think you should ask Sean.”
We put our book bags down behind our chairs and sit at our art table. Kush is already in the room, sitting at a new table, chatting with a couple of senior girls. I notice they both look in my direction, then look at each other when I walk in.
C.A. arranges her sketchpad and pencils in front of her. Then arranges them a second time. “Do you think? I mean, I’m not sure. He probably thinks I’m too blonde or something.”
I smile as I watch C.A. reorganize her stuff for the third time. If C.A. is worried about a boy not liking her, then who else worries? It must not matter what you look like.
“He would be crazy to say no. Right, Devon?”
Devon holds a self-portrait mirror up toward C.A. and points a gun finger at her image. “Sizzling shortie in the house.”
I groan. “Oh God, Kush has rubbed off on you.”
Devon crosses his arm, and sticks his nose in the air. “Humph. I gave him that offer, but he refused.”
C.A. laughs and shakes his arm. I guess Devon knows his secret’s safe with her, too.
Just then, Kush strolls over and picks up his book bag from our table. I avoid looking at him.
“What’s up, Amber?” he asks.
“Hey, Kush. Nothing,” I say, staring at the table.
“I think I’m going to move.” He turns and strolls away.
The three of us look at each other. It’s C.A. who laughs first.
“Good riddance,” I whisper.
Devon puts his forehead on the table. “And I had such high hopes.” Then he sits up and looks at us, grinning.
After class, as I’m walking up the stairs to my English class, I start to think that something’s wrong. I’m getting a lot of glances and whispers today, and it can’t be just because of a short skirt and some new shoes. My phone buzzes in my pocket. I take a risk and pull it out. It’s a text from Devon.
—Meet me by the library before lunch.
When the bell rings, I rush downstairs. My ankle is throbbing and I’m dying to go sit outside on the grass and take Whitney’s shoes off. Dressing up is all right, I guess, but I think I’d be happier in my regular clothes.
Devon and C.A. are both waiting for me, and their expressions look like Pastor Early at a funeral.
“What is it?” I ask before I even get to them.
The same group of freshman girls that’d laughed when Whitney got arrested walks past, giggling. I hear one of them whisper, “That’s her.”
It’s quickly followed by, “I heard she had sex with, like, everyone at the party.”
A vacuum pulls all the air out of my lungs. Devon and C.A. reach for me from across the hall but I freeze, suspended in a bubble of disbelief. When it pops, I turn around and take off running, away from the cafeteria, away from everybody, and away from Kush and whatever vicious rumors he’s started. Tears well up in my eyes. I don’t see the book bag blocking my escape route, and I go sprawling.
I grab my ankle. It shoots pain and I’m sure I look like an idiot lying on the ground, tears in my eyes, skirt too short for school. Eight feet appear. Four faces stare down at me.
“Are you okay, Amber?” Mrs. Early asks me, her eyebrows drawn.
“Here, we’ll take you to the nurse.” Devon and C.A. squat down and pull me up, my arms around both of their shoulders.
Then I see Will. “Are you okay?” he asks me. His eyes are concerned.
I look away from him. There’s no telling what he’s heard.
“I’m okay.” I put tentative pressure on my ankle and buckle. I squeeze the tears tight in my eyes.
“Oh.” C.A.’s hands go to her mouth as I crumple.
Will steps in for C.A. “Here, let me help.” Will pulls my arm around his shoulder and presses my hand tight.
Devon and Will practically carry me to the nurse’s office, Mrs. Early and C.A. right behind us.
Will helps me climb onto the examination table while Devon explains to Nurse Barb in her office how I’d sprained my ankle on a trail. Mrs. Early excuses herself, something about lunchroom duty, but promises to check in with me later.
“I’ve got a cheer meeting. I have to go,” C.A. says, looking around, and then at me. “Text me, okay? Love you, girl.”
I nod. She gives me a quick hug and it brings up a new round of tears.
“So what happened back there? Why were you running?” Will whispers, sliding onto the table next to me.
He hasn’t heard. I look toward Devon, who’s walking over to us again with the nurse. “Kush is talking trash about her.”
“Why would he do that?” I ask, blowing into the Kleenex Will hands me.
Devon shrugs. “Maybe because you rejected him? Because he thinks you picked Sean instead?”
“Thinks?” Will asks, looking back and forth between the two of us.
Nurse Barb takes my ankle in her hands and presses along the side of it.
I start to answer, but Devon continues in a whisper to his brother, “Yeah. It’s my fault. I asked for her or C.A. to kiss Kush. You know, as a test.”
Then Nurse Barb hits a spot on my ankle and I inhale sharply—because of the sharp pain, and because of what Devon’s just told Will.
“Did you?” Will asks me. “Kiss him?”
I look over at him. “Yes. I did. But it’s not what you think.”
“But you kissed him.” Will’s Adam’s apple bobs, just like Devon’s does when he’s not saying everything he wants to.
I bristle. “It’s not like I have a boyfriend, even if I had been into it. Which I wasn’t.” I glare at Will.
Devon starts to say something, but the nurse interrupts us. “You boys need to go to lunch.”
Devon winks at me before he leaves, but Will just slides off the examination table and walks right out.
Nurse Barb shuts the door, and then starts pressing on my ankle again. “Hon, when did you do this?”
“A week ago, Saturday,” I say. “It was getting better until I fell just now.”
“Have you had X-rays?”
“No, ma’am,” I say.
She purses her lips and her brows knit into one deep furrow appearing behind her glasses’ frames. “You need X-rays, dear. I’m pretty sure this is more than a sprain. You need to call one of your parents to take you to the doctor right now.”
“Oh, they wanted to take me before,” I say. “But, I told them not to, that I was fine.”
“That’s not really your decision, though, is it?”
“I guess not.” I dial Mama while the nurse helps me prop up my ankle with an ice pack.
Mama shows up so fast she’s still in her dollar store slacks and gardening sneakers when she lumbers into the nurse’s office. I see the looks the other ladies on staff give each other when she walks in. Judging her like Kush’s friends judge me. Like people judge Whitney.
Mama’s rattling on about how sorry she is she didn’t insist I go to the doctor earlier, but my phone buzzes. I glance at it. It’s Will.
—Practice?
Will still wants
to play music with me.
—Yes.
Then:
—That kiss wasn’t real. I swear.
—You don’t owe me an explanation.
Then a second text.
—But I believe you.
When I read those four words, the anxiety I’d had since seeing Devon’s and C.A.’s faces before lunch vanishes. Will believes me. So does C.A., and so does Devon. Sean knows the truth, too. And they are the only ones who matter.
Mama pulls up to the emergency room entrance, where an attendant meets me with a wheelchair.
The doctor examines me and the results are in. My distal fibula has a hairline fracture. My ankle’s broken.
The doctor gives my mother a stern speech. Should have brought her in sooner. Will take longer to heal now. Important to get medical attention.
Mama looks like a beaten dog and I realize it’s my fault she’s enduring this doctor’s lecture. I try to tell the doctor it was because of me we didn’t come in sooner, that the insurance was too expensive, but she waves me off and leaves to find a nurse to take me to get my cast.
Mama drops me off at the McKinneys’ on the way home. She’d tried to argue, telling me I needed to rest, but I’d told her that this practice for my audition was way too important to miss.
When we pull up, Will’s waiting for me on the front porch. I’m on crutches again, at the doctor’s insistence, hobbling up the walk. When I reach the front steps, Will comes down to help me.
“Purple cast. I like it,” he says. He gives me a once-over. “How come no overalls today?”
I’m still wearing my clothes from school. I tug at the skirt as I sit on one of the white wooden rockers. “Just felt like a change.”
“You look nice. Not like you, but nice.” He smiles sideways at me, then starts to flat-pick a tune on the banjo.
I could watch him play the banjo all day long. He starts into “Ave Maria,” and his fingers fly across the strings.
When he finishes, he looks up. “Well?”
I let go of the rocking chair’s arms and bring my hands to my face and press to keep from squealing. Finally, I spread my fingers and whisper, “Amazing.”
No Place to Fall Page 16
