Will's Story (3 page)

Make the plans

Steal the show

Figure it out

I'm good to go

The next week is a
blur. Every afternoon I've driven up to Sizz's for a few hours to jam and hang out. So much so that Amber Rose is starting to get bent out of shape.

“So where is it that you're going?”

“I told you, up to Erwin to play music with some guys I know.”

“College guys.” She's sitting with her arms crossed, her back to the concrete wall of the commons. “Which means, college girls.” The sincerity of her glossed pout is questionable, but I guess I'll play her game.

“Come on, it's not like that.”

“Will, you're not going to flirt with some college girl,
are you? Especially since our four-week anniversary is tomorrow.” She gives a little
humph
and I know my correct next move is sweet words and pleading but I've given her the option to come with me. She's said no every time.

“Amber Rose, you have nothing to worry about from college girls. But don't forget, you're the one bailing on me tonight.”

“Like you care.” She shifts on the bench and lifts her chin. It's so cartoonish I almost laugh. But then I feel bad because she's right. When she told me she couldn't come to our house tonight for Devon's little pregame soiree, part of me saw a chance. Tonight's the night Flat Trucker said they'd be out at Sizz's house to jam and without Amber Rose around, I might still find a way to convince Amber Vaughn to come with me. No funny stuff, of course. I will not be
that
guy again. Not until I've figured out what it is I really want.

“Aw, come on.” I scoot closer to her. “I'm looking forward to meeting your family tomorrow.”

She glances sideways. “You are?”

Good question. I mean, on the one hand, yeah. I like people. I'm pretty good with adults. Her parents own the one decent restaurant in town so the food's bound to be good. But the more time away from that day on the lake and the more time with Amber Rose and her clique of
school friends, the more I'm wondering if this is the right relationship. We really are about as different as a girl and a guy can be.

“It'll be great,” I say. “Really.”

She relaxes against me. “I like you, Will.”

“I like you, too, Amber Rose.”

She leans her head into my chest, all girl-smell great, and mumbles. “I'm really sorry about tonight, but you know . . .”

I put my arm over her shoulder. “Yeah, I know, shopping. Way more important.”

And it's like the universe is testing me or something because no sooner than I feel sort of snuggly inside, Amber Vaughn walks out of the cafeteria with the other new kid at our school this year, Kush's cousin, Sean, and bam, my mind goes straight back to that afternoon. A slow-mo fantasy plays in my head where I'm on my feet and going to her and planting a not-for-school kiss on those full lips, and I have to shake my head to make it stop. Because, obviously, she hates me. And, not so obviously, but maybe she's into that new kid. They're pretty intense in conversation about something. And she's smiling. And he's doing that dude hands in his pockets, hair over his eyes, shy and studly thing.

“Are you okay?” Amber Rose looks up. “You stopped
breathing for a second.”

I return my focus to the girl next to me. “Yeah, fine, just remembered I forgot my calc homework in the car.”

That afternoon, I help Devon get ready. He's a mess because he's jonesing hard for Kush. And it doesn't matter how many times I'm telling him that dude is straight, Devon does not want to believe it.

“What do you think? Pepperoni or meat lovers? But he's half Indian, maybe he's a vegetarian.”

“Doesn't he eat lunch with y'all every day?”

“Right. Not a vegetarian. Chips in a bowl or in a bag?”

“You are so gay.” I roll my eyes and grab the chip bag from his hand and plop it on the bar that separates the kitchen from the family room. “Bag is fine.”

“Savage.” Devon gasps but doesn't grab the bag back. “When's Amber-o-zia getting here?”

Devon is hilarious with his nicknames and with all the Ambers in our school it's necessary. Amber-o-zia, like the frothy Jell-O salad, is what he calls Amber Rose. The nickname kind of fits her.

“She's not. She's shopping with her mom. Some big sale or something.”

Devon freezes. “Please tell me you're not staying home.”

I sidle over to him and sling my arm around his neck.
“Staying home. Plopping on the couch right between you and lover boy. Need to make sure there's no funny stuff going on in here.”

“If you're not lying I hate you right now.” A web of red splotches works its way up his neck. It's completely easy to rile him up.

I drop my arm and nudge him. “Kidding. Don't worry, I'll get out of your hair. Wouldn't want to interrupt your boy time.”

His phone chimes. When Devon finishes reading the text, he lets out an exasperated sigh.

“What's the matter?”

“I haven't told Plain and Small I'm not going to the football game and dance. She's expecting to ride with us, but I was counting on Sean giving her a ride. Now he can't come over.” Devon paces the kitchen then stops. “Crap, she's going to hate me.”

“She's not going to hate you, kid. She's your bestie.” My brain ticks and clicks with possibility. If I can get her in my car, maybe I can convince her to go over the mountain to sing at Sizz's. I doubt she'll want to miss the dance, but if she'd be willing to miss the game, we could do it. There'll be time. “And, hey, no worries.” I snag a handful of chips out of the bag. “I'll give her a ride.”

“Really? You're the best.” Devon goes back to singing
his way around the kitchen and now I'm the one pacing. I've got to find the right way to play this. She can't think I'm trying to hit on her. Or that I'm trying to be a douche to Amber Rose again.

I'll have to make it all about the music.

What I thought I knew

Where I thought I'd be

It's all a wash

When you look at me

When the doorbell rings, I'm
prepared. I'm all slick confidence and killer grin.

I throw the door open. “Look who's here. Gorgeous junior girls.” And it's true. C.A., Cheerleader Amber, who gave Amber Vaughn a ride over, is your quintessential all-American leggy blonde, and then there's Not So Plain and Small, pint-size, curvaceous, with the biggest brown eyes you've ever seen. I take a breath and remember my plan. Keep it about the music, lose the player act.

C.A. doesn't fall for my false confident routine, just pushes me out of the way and walks down the hall telling me to stop it. Not So Plain and Small hesitates though, and I fumble, saying some stupid thing about ogling the
Ambers. My mother would fucking kill me if she heard me talk to a girl like that. And I could do the same. Why is my nervous fallback always to act like I think I'm hot shit or something? It never works.

They both ignore me and go to find Devon and Kush, who are dancing to Bollywood movies in the den. Okay, so maybe new kid Kush has more layers than I realize.

Things go according to plan. C.A. leaves to get ready for the game and Devon confesses he's not going anywhere.

Not So Plain and Small sputters a time or two and Devon is genius in his planned lightbulb moment.

“Will, you can give Amber a ride, can't you?”

I think she's going to faint away onto the floor. I try not to take it personal.

“Yeah, sure. No problem.”

My car is small. Four windows, leather seats small. And weirdly enough, I'm nervous as hell.

“So . . .” I don't know what to say to her.

“So,” she says in return.

I loop my arm over her seatback, like I always do to reverse, and I guess it pisses her off because she says my name in a growl and tells me to quit.

“Haven't started,” I say, then I even freaking explain I'm doing it to back down the driveway. But as I'm looking
at her, I have to know. Was that afternoon a fluke because we were high? She's looking straight ahead, her eyelashes curled up like one of my mom's framed Victorian silhouettes and she's so damn pretty that the next words just kind of fall out of my mouth without my damn brain having a thing to do with it. “Don't you want to kiss me?”

As soon as the question reaches her ears, she shouts my name and shuts her lips so tight I know I've blown it forever. I would turn around and make Devon take her to the game, but even if I'm a moron, I still want to give her the opportunity to sing with those guys so I laugh a little and try to play it off like I was joking.

She's silent as we drive but I don't want to turn on any music, not yet. I want to fix this. Raindrops hit the windshield, their timing like the beat of a metronome, then slowly pick up steam. I venture speech again. “Going to be a wet night.” Good Lord, why do I always blurt stuff out like that? Such a ladies' man you are, Will McKinney. Fortunately if she picked up on the unintended raunchiness, she ignores me, and I manage not to point out my comedic prowess.

She sighs and looks out and up toward the sky. I notice the shift of her miniskirt out of the corner of my eye.

“You think they'll still play?” she asks, talking about the football game.

“Oh, they'll play.”

She mumbles about not having an umbrella and I mumble about hating games in the rain and then she gives me the opening I've been waiting for.

“Do you think people will be hanging out somewhere else?”

It's my moment. I pull into the parking lot of the car wash place. I'm prepared for her to say go to hell, but I've got to try.

“Listen, don't say no until you hear me out.”

She glances at me, sort of turning in my direction, but at the same time watching the dude in the bay about to wash his car. She nods at me to go ahead.

“Let's go over the state line to Erwin and see some music friends of mine for a couple of hours.”

At this she snaps her head to look at me. “Erwin? Tennessee? Tonight?” She left off the “are you fucking crazy” part but I hear it just the same. “Will, I can't.”

It's time to beg.

“Oh, come on, please. Erwin. Forty minutes up. An hour there. Forty minutes back. We'll be right in time for the dance.” In case she's worried about being seen in my company, I add, “Nobody will know. And you'll be doing me a favor, because I want you to come with me.”

“We'll be back for the dance?” Her eyes don't leave the
car wash bay, but there's a hint of maybe in her voice.

“Cross my heart,” I say.

She blows out a deep breath. “Well, I guess we better get going.”

It's a miracle.

And I don't know, maybe it emboldens me, maybe she doesn't hate me as much as I thought, but I poke at the subject of us again. “So, Not So Plain and Small, have you thought about me at all?”

She stops humming to answer. “Not at all.”

I don't know why I care. I should simply be thankful for the amazing time we had and leave it at that, but something presses me forward. “Not once?”

“Not once,” she repeats, this time crossing her arms tight across her chest.

The nervous player comes out and my voice gets cocky, but really I'm feeling pretty damn small. “I don't believe you.” Because all I've done is think about her even when I'm trying not to. Think about how she must hate me. Think about the way she fit in my arms. Think about
that
. Yeah, I think about that a lot.

She makes a sound that's sort of a cross between a harrumph and a laugh. “Believe what you want, Will McKinney.”

Then because she's been so damn “yeah, whatever”
about our afternoon I spew some crap about her being an enlightened woman and how we could maybe have fun hanging out if she'd just let it happen. But what I really need to be saying is that I shouldn't have cheated on my girlfriend. But I don't, because maybe I'm starting to wonder if slightly under four weeks and no serious make-out sessions even qualifies Amber Rose as a serious girlfriend. It's not like she and I ever did what me and Amber Vaughn did. And I've known Amber Vaughn a hell of a lot longer, even if it's only been in my brother's cool friend capacity.

As I'm ruminating on the laws of relationships, she speaks, real quietly. “Okay. Maybe I thought about you once.”

I am Batman. I grip the steering wheel of the Honda and steer it up into the night sky. Until I fall back on nervous habits and reach over to drop the glove box open, exposing my hidden pipe and the last remnants of weed that belong to me and offer her a hit.

And the tiny light that was in her eyes flickers right out.

Guess I'm still the Joker after all.

A circle of friends

Plywood stage

Let the music rip

Right out of your cage

Sizz meets us at the
door, hesitant like he's worried the neighbors have sent the cops about the noise. He pulls us through, clobbering me on the shoulder in the process. It's a rush coming up here, feeling welcomed, like I'm part of their scene.

I introduce Amber, and Sizz points us in the direction of the kitchen. I'm afraid Not So Plain and Small isn't going to move away from the front door, so I put my hands on her hips and guide her toward a cold beverage. When we get there, I take a chance and loop one of my arms around her waist. “You want something to drink?”

“Sure,” she squeaks, and it's adorable seeing her so nervous. It's also pretty damn adorable that she's not shaking
off my hand because really, all I want to do is walk her backward toward that kitchen counter and kiss her till neither one of us can breathe. Which goes completely against my “don't be a douche to Amber Rose” plan.

Nicole pops in through the doorway and says hello.

She checks out Amber. “You the girl he told us about?”

There's confusion on Amber's face. “No, I don't think so.”

I quick interrupt. “Yeah, she's the one.” Then I ripple my fingers against Amber's waist. “I'm hoping I can convince her to sing with me.”

Amber freezes next to me. “What? What are you talking about, Will?”

She's like a rabbit under my hand and I'm worried she might bolt. “Remember that day in the car, when I told you any band would kill to have you sing with them?”

She bolts. From two steps away, and out from my now lonely hand, she side eyes me. “Yeah?” It's the sound of suspicion.

I talk fast, explaining that some of these guys
are
Flat Trucker and how I've been trying since I heard her sing the kind of music I love, not the crap she and Devon are always singing at the house, to get her out here. Which is a lie, because this is only my fourth or fifth time out here, but she doesn't need to know that.

I swear she trembles, and those “suck you deep into her soul” brown eyes quiver and, damn, I want to hold her close until she stops. I didn't know she'd get so freaked out by this.

“Will.” She hesitates and glances out into the living room. “I can't. I don't know these people and there are, like, twenty of them or something.”

Nicole takes over, her den mother personality rising like cream. She puts her arm on Amber's shoulders. “Sure you can, honey.” She gives her the once-over again and winks. “You look amazing. Don't you want to feel that rush of being onstage? It's not like an audition or anything, we're just hanging out, having a good time.”

There's the slightest shift. A glance from Amber to Nicole, then to me, and I don't waste the moment. “Come on.” I grab her hand. So yeah, maybe I'm taking advantage of her feeling vulnerable, but there are truths within me I'm starting to recognize. I am definitely dating the wrong Amber.

In the den, where the band is playing, things get even better for me. There is one chair left, the floor, or a spot on the couch between two camo-wearing Silent Bobs. I take the chair and give a silent prayer up to the gods of all things hot and holy that she'll take the suggestion of my lap. After her own quick scan of the seating arrangements,
Amber perches on my knee. I go for broke, wrapping my arms around her waist, and pull her close. “See,” I joke. “Isn't this nice? You. Me. A rock-and-roll band.”

She laughs at that and turns to look at me, her face so close, I can see the faint freckles on the bridge of her nose. “Yeah, a mother's worst nightmare.”

I swear I stop breathing. She is right there. Those kissing lips are right there. I am fixated on those lips and how my hands are going to pull them to me and how as soon as I get home I'm breaking up with Amber Rose, because this right here, this is how it's supposed to feel. But then the band quits and Sizz is yanking me out from under Amber Vaughn.

“Come on, man, time to put that lady power to the test. You been futzing around with that banjo, let's get you center stage. What do you want them to play?”

No hesitation. It's my shower song. One of my dad's favorites. “‘Dixie Chicken.'”

“You got it, man.”

The band revs up and I step to the microphone. I am going to make Amber Vaughn want me again. That afternoon we had together won't be a fluke. It will have been the start of something, even if the timing was slightly off.

The music starts and I growl, channeling every lead singer I've ever idolized. I wail. I hang on the stand. I reach
out for the music. When it winds down I am breathless, and though I won't give up my banjo, that
was
pretty damn fun.

I jump off and plop on the arm of our chair. “What'd ya think?” I give a tug on Amber's short—and neck baring sexy—hair.

She grins and pokes me back. “I think you may have a music career, Will McKinney.”

And then at the worst time, my dad pops into my brain. My dad and his goals for me. The ones that have nothing to do with anything but business or law. One time, when I asked him why he quit playing, he told me, “Will, music is like a hot potato. It'll burn you.” But to me it's not something that's going to burn me. It's the thing that's going to fill me. But the doubt settles in my head and my answer is filled with sarcasm. “Yeah, right.”

“Why not?” Her voice is so sweet.

“The judge.” It'd be nice to talk to somebody about it.

“What do you mean?” she asks. But Nicole walks up behind the chair and points to Amber and then to the stage.

“Don't worry about it. Come on, they're playing one just for you.” I offer my hand and she takes it. Her eyes cut nervously around the room, but then she follows me onto the plywood. I adjust the microphone down for her. The
Silent Bobs aren't so silent as they let out wolf whistles. She starts that trembling thing again and I whisper to her, “Don't be scared. Just close your eyes and feel the music.”

She grabs me, her eyes huge and liquid like a fawn's. “Wait, don't go.”

Music right there. Those words.

Then she adds, “What am I singing?”

I assure her it's a song she'll know—I'm confident she's sung it at church—and then point to where I'll be standing with my banjo.

From the side of the stage, I watch her fidget, tugging at her skirt, then her shirt, looking for a place to rest her eyes. Nicole plants herself on the carpet right in front of Amber and there's a subtle drop to her shoulders. I take that as a cue and nod to the drummer. He starts in on “I'll Fly Away.”

That voice spills into the room and she forgets she's in front of strangers and I feel like I'm watching a tiny bit of history in the making. Not only is her voice one in a million, but damn the girl has some serious stage presence, too, and yeah, this is crude, but I totally want to get naked with her again. I can't take my eyes off of her. And neither can anyone else.

Amber Vaughn kills it.