Will's Story (2 page)

Your sweet cry

The way you feel

Five smooth strings

It's my real deal

“Come on,” I plead. “Ride
up there with me.” Amber Rose is not caving to my pressure.

“Will. I can't. We go back to church at five. My parents won't let me go.”

That was one of the weirdest things for me when we moved to Sevenmile. In Raleigh, people were religious, but not
RELIGIOUS
. Here, it was one of the first questions people asked me, where do you go to church? Mom made sure we fit in, but what she hadn't checked was which branch of Christianity was the right one. I'm cool with it though. The Presbyterian church we attend only requires once-a-week services, unlike all the local Baptists who go Wednesday nights and practically all day on Sundays.
Sometimes you
can
have too much of a good thing.

Devon is my next stop after I get off the phone.

“You want to go with me to this music thing up in Bristol?”

“Can't. Me and Kush are headed out to the park for a pickup game. Want to come with us instead?”

I give Devon the look.

“What?”

“He's straight, you know.”

“God, Will.”

“What? I know your signs. You get all manic and spend a bazillion hours making your hair look the right amount of mess. You even jones over which socks to wear with your cleats. I'm just saying, I don't think the new kid is your flavor.”

“Whatever. I'm pretty sure my instincts are more honed than yours.”

I hold up my hands. “'Kay. Just don't come crying to big bro when he blacks your eye.” Which is a lie. Anybody messes with Devon and I will be the kick on their ass.

In the living room, Dad stops me for the third degree.

“Where are you going?”

“Going to play music at a coffee shop in Bristol. It's called the Fiddle Picker. I'll be home for dinner.” Part of this new leaf I've turned is no more lying to my parents.
Omit, maybe. Like the part where this is a bunch of folks from ETSU, not Carolina, my dad's college of choice for me.

“No funny business.”

“Yes, sir.”

Six months ago, when Dad confronted me about the prescription bottle they'd found in that weed dealer, Sammy's, car, I'd lied. Told him I don't know how it ended up there. It wasn't like it was serious narcotics, just an old bottle of Adderall. And it was empty when a cop found it during the traffic stop. Lucky for me, lucky for Sammy, because my dad is not the kind of father who uses his position to garner favors. He's the kind of dad who would have thrown my butt in the slammer to teach me a lesson . . . and he saw straight through my lie. Dad totally nailed it when he guessed I'd traded that old prescription for something more to my stoner tastes. But because he had no proof, I didn't get jail time, or even lose my car. I just got a massive lecture, three weeks of house arrest, and a warning that if there was a next time, the Honda was gone. I'm still on papa probation. Every conversation comes with a look and a warning.

“Have a nice time, son.”

“Bye, Dad.”

I open the hatchback and gently lay the banjo case inside.
It's about an hour and fifteen minutes over the mountain, but I like the drive. The Avett Brothers' “Incomplete and Insecure” comes on the mix and at first I'm listening to Seth's finger rolls but then the lyrics start working their way in. It's me. Waiting to start my life. Waiting to figure it out. When the line comes on about watching you and figuring it out, it's not my parents or Devon or Amber Rose that pops into my head. It's Amber Vaughn. What would it be like to play music with her again? Songs fly into my head that would work. Her vocals, my banjo, maybe Devon's guitar. If I hadn't screwed things up the other day by hooking up with her, I might have had Devon call her, see if she wanted to come along. But now, it'd be awkward as hell.

Takes me a few wrong turns, but eventually I find the place. It's an old gas station, fifties-style, that's been converted but not really cleaned up. Low-key and gritty. The nearby parking lot is about half full. Most of the cars have music-themed bumper stickers. Through the big plate-glass window I see a few guys I know from this local rock band, Flat Trucker, and a bunch of other musicians I've never met before, gathered in a loose circle of chairs.

I wipe my hand on my jeans, then push open the door. The guy from the college fair, Beau, sees me and motions me over, pointing out a deep upholstered chair to his right.
I sink into the cushions. The couple on my left—a bearded guy and his girlfriend, a skinny brunette melted onto his lap—acknowledge me with smiles. When the fiddler and guitarist who were playing end their tune, Beau introduces me.

“Everyone, this is Will, from over in Sevenmile.”

The guitar player who just quit lifts his chin toward my case. “What you got?”

“A Deering.”

The guy nods. “Nice banjo. Want to duel?”

The bearded guy to my right groans. “Really, Jack? Again? You ain't got to piss on this tree. He's just a kid.”

Being called a kid doesn't sit well with me. I open the case and pull my instrument into position. “Dueling Banjos” is the swan song for every picker.

The guitarist, Jack, laughs. “Shut it, Sizz. Your kid here wants to play.”

I launch into the first chords.

Jack plays back.

I play again and we're off. My fingers fly across the strings and the sweet metallic sound weaves in and out of the dulcet tones of Jack's guitar. I'm speed and motion. I'm pure unadulterated energy. When we wind up and up until the moment we drop all sound, I think this has got to be the next best thing to sex.

“Well, hot damn.” Beau's grinning from ear to ear and launches into a slow clap. “Boy, you
can
play.”

“I'm Nicole. This is Sizz,” the girl on the bearded guy's lap says. “You need to come out to our house sometime and jam.”

“To hell with that,” Jack says. “He needs to come jam tonight.”

They all look at me expectantly, even the couple of guys I recognize from Flat Trucker. I swallow, thinking about Dad's warning. Maybe I can figure something out. Luckily, Beau saves me. “Hold up, eager beavers. This young man has school tomorrow. High school. Y'all remember what that's like, don't you?”

There are nodding heads and laughter and the barista comes over handing out drinks. “Here you go, sweetie.” She hands me something frothy and warm.

“Oh, I didn't order . . .”

She cuts me off with a flash of cleavage and a wink. “On the house.”

“Look at you with the lady appeal.” Sizz chuckles.

“Speaking of ladies.” One of the guys from Flat Trucker speaks up. “Y'all know anybody interested in doing some sugary vocal stylings? We're toying with the idea of a female backup singer.”

I immediately think of Amber Vaughn and our drive
up to the bald. How she was singing along with a song of theirs I had on my playlist. How I'd even said they'd kill to have her in their band like I was a damn psychic for this moment or something. When nobody else speaks up, I blurt it out. “I know a girl.”

“Oh, yeah?” The Flat Trucker guy leans forward.

I take a sip of what turns out to be some kind of burnt sugar latte. My taste buds feel like they should complain—not such a manly drink—but it's really good. As I swallow, I nod. “Yeah, she goes to school with me. She's incredible.”

“Bring her by our house.” Nicole looks at the band guy. “When are y'all coming over next?”

“Friday.”

Nicole smiles. I get the feeling she's like the den mother for this mixed bag of musicians. “So it's settled. Next Friday, and really, you should come out before that. We're always playing music. We even have a stage in the living room.”

“Yeah. Okay.” But my brain's slipped into overdrive. How the hell am I going to get Amber Vaughn to their house?

Nicole writes the address onto the back of my hand, then Beau pulls out his fiddle, stepping into a lively rendition of “Blackberry Blossom,” and all talking stops. We play for the next couple of hours and by the time we're
done, I feel like all my questions about the future have been answered.

“You going to apply?” Beau grins as he packs away his fiddle, my answer already written on my face.

“This week,” I say.

He laughs at my eagerness. “I'm glad, but you've got a little time. Once you get accepted to the university, you'll need to come out and audition for the program. Any performance history you have to list is a bonus.”

My face must fall because he's quick to add, “Don't worry, boy. You've got the chops. But if your school has some music classes, even a chorus, you might want to jump on that for your transcripts.”

Beau stands and several of the musicians follow suit.

“Don't forget, man, we'll be looking for you next week.” Sizz bumps my shoulder with his fist.

“And bring that singer,” the guy from Flat Trucker adds.

They wave as I get into my car. Now I've just got to figure out a way to convince Amber Vaughn to get back in it.

Hard truths

Easy lies

The path I choose

Might be a surprise

“Chorus? Isn't that sort of
for losers?” Amber Rose's thigh presses against my leg under the lunch table.

“Yeah.” Her friend Sarabeth chimes in. “The only people who take chorus are fags, fat girls, and fuckups.”

“You did not just . . .” I shake my head. “Did that shit literally come out of your mouth?” I don't talk about Devon's sexuality, kid deserves his privacy, but I can't let that slide. “I know people who are gay and they're just people.” I glare at Sarabeth and slide away from Amber Rose's leg. “And you know what, a girl with a little meat on her bones is not the worst thing in the world. Actually, it's kind of hot. Fags, fat girls, and fuckups, seriously?” I cross my arms. “What kind of backwoods bigots are you?”

Both Amber Rose and Sarabeth suck in a breath at that. So what if I wreck their worldview, it might do them good.

Sarabeth mumbles under her breath, something about fuckups and I feel pretty sure she's referring to my recent stoner past.

“Shut up, Sarabeth.” Amber Rose squeezes my hand. “I'm sorry, Will. It's just, a tiny bit unusual, adding it to your schedule last minute. But I get it, you love music.”

Something stops me from telling her about my talk with Beau after the session yesterday. I mean, Amber Rose was pretty awesome that day out on the lake, listening to me gripe about my issues with my dad, but she's not a musician. How can she really get it?

“Will, I promise Sarabeth didn't mean anything. She was just joking around.” Amber Rose slides closer, doing that thing where she presses her breast against my arm and makes me forget whatever I was thinking about. “I like when you sing.”

“Whatever.” I won't be distracted that easily.

“No, really.” She presses closer and runs a fingernail behind my ear, then whispers, “Forgive me?”

Body takes over brain and I tilt my head toward her and move my arm so it rubs against her already-there breast, taking advantage of this mid-lunch cop-a-feel moment.

“Will.” She laughs but her body shifts, leaving my arm cool and lonely.

Sarabeth smirks. To hell with them. I'm still going to sing.

That afternoon I walk through the door of the chorus room and do a quick scan for familiar faces. There's only one. Amber Vaughn. It's time to get past our moment of indiscretion.

I remember her
Star Wars
joke and try one of my own as I pass her seat. “How's it going, oh Forceful one?”

The look on her face is daggers. Like she full-on hates me.

“It's going
nowhere
, Will.”

I hesitate, then I feel the flush creep into my face and mutter something about that being too bad because I'd be happy to give her a ride home again and then as soon as I say it I realize I must sound like a total perv. So I cut my losses and go sit down in the seat I'm directed to.

Luckily there's not a lot of time to think about what a colossal fuckup I am because Mrs. Early, the chorus instructor, gets us started. We're singing this old song, “Shenandoah,” and it's actually pretty cool to hear how she gets all of our voices working together. Every now and then I steal a glance at Amber Vaughn and I wonder if
things will ever be easy with us again. She knew I was going out with Amber Rose. It wasn't like she said no that afternoon. What happened was definitely mutual. And it isn't like she's given me the time of day since, or any clue that would make me think maybe she actually likes me. I mean, if she did, I might . . . I don't know, but it would change things. I think.

After chorus, I follow her out to the front of school. Her sister's there in a beat-up old Chevy. She must have gotten out on bail or something. I wave my sheet music in their direction, hoping for a smile, something, but Amber Vaughn only glares at me.

When I get home I'm faced with another jolt of reality. Dad. He's got the Common Application site up and open on the kitchen laptop. Which means when I apply to ETSU it's going to be there bright as brass for him to judge. Pun intended.

“What are you doing home so early?” I hang my keys by the door and throw my backpack on a stool.

Dad sips something golden over ice. “Early day. Took advantage of it. I also had a long conversation with a friend of mine down at Carolina. He said we needed to get you started on this.”

“Dad, I got this.”

“Do you? Because the last time I checked you were working your way toward a correctional institution.”

“You mean our kitchen?”

“Funny.” His voice is serious, but I see I got the laugh by the tilt in the corner of his eyes.

“Dad. Hard truths. My grades are mediocre. My extracurriculars, kind of nonexistent, at least not the kind I can put on a college application, and Carolina isn't easy to get into.”

“Will. You leave getting in to me. But you have to do this application.” He shakes his head and takes another sip. “I don't know what bit of rebellion charged you off the rails but I have faith you're going to keep turning this around. You are my son, after all.”

Now would be a good time to tell him, he happened to me, him and his hometown judge's bench ambitions. That if we'd stayed in Raleigh, I'd still be at prep school and on track. But even as I think it, I wonder how true that would be. My old friends are always out partying, getting seriously wasted and not just smoking a little weed. They're the quintessential bad, rich boys. I'd never tell Dad, and I've only just begun to admit it to myself, but moving out here, to the mountains, may have actually saved my ass. Because if we hadn't moved here, I'm pretty certain I never would have picked up the banjo. And what started as my
own tongue-in-cheek joke has turned into more than I ever could have imagined.

I try a new approach. “You want to play some music?” It's a little known fact that Judge McKinney can play just about any stringed instrument,
if
you can talk him into it.

He grins. “Nice try.” The smile drops and he points to the computer. “Sit.”

“Fine.” The sooner I get this done, the sooner I can apply where I want.