Will's Story (8 page)

Many thanks to my agent, Alexandra Machinist, for her enthusiasm for
No Place to Fall
and her willingness to help me get Will's side of the story into the world. To my fabulous editor, Chris Hernandez, who definitely earned all the cards in the editing of this novella. It's been a joy to work with you. To early readers, Pat Esden, Kip Wilson, and Jay Spencer, thank you for your keen insight and advice. And finally—but best of all—immense gratitude and love to the readers of
No Place to Fall
. You've made becoming an author better than listening to a favorite song on repeat.

You've seen his side of things.

Now read Amber's story in
No Place to Fall.

The man talking on the
local news has it out for me. Through the screen door, I watch Mama, remote control in hand, mouth gasping like a banked fish with each new tale of murder and woe. Every single day, morning and evening, she convinces herself the world beyond our doorstep is a Very Bad Place. I've managed to sneak off in plain sight all summer long, but I never know when she might decide an ax murderer is lurking in the woods and keep me home.

Devon's Jeep barrels around the curve in the road. I stand up, wiping the dust off my jean shorts. He parks and makes his way across our overgrown yard, guitar slung over his shoulder, foil-wrapped plate in his hand.

“Ready?” I say. “Mama's working herself into a scare.”

He peers past me into the house. “Hey, Mrs. Vaughn.”

“Hello, young'un.”

I groan as Mama walks toward the screen door.

“You've got your cell phones? You won't be out too late now, will you?” Mama has her hand on the door pull but doesn't open it. “Devon, you look after Amber. Sometimes there are hikers from who knows where out on those trails.” She looks at the plate and his guitar. “What? No salamander hunting today? Y'all meeting somebody?”

“No, ma'am,” I lie. “Just us, going to go sing up on the overlook, and we may try and find us a hellbender or two.”

That's been our story. That we're on the hunt for the elusive hellbender salamander. That we spend our long teenage hours in the woods, alone, digging under rocks, trying to find a slimy amphibian. The reality is we're headed to the hiker barn. Again.

A twinge of guilt burbles in my gut. If Mama knew what I was up to it'd destroy her. But the thing is, Mama only sees what she wants to see. Even when I come home, lips swollen, with stars in my eyes and a hickey on my neck, she'll look at me all maternal and say, “Did you have a nice time, sugar?” She's as clueless about me as she is about my sister, Whitney, and her drug-dealing husband.
Or about Daddy and his
overtime.
I wonder if the faithful are meant to be so blind.

Devon and I tell her good-bye, assuring her six ways to Sunday we'll call if we run into trouble, and cut across the back pasture toward the trail.

We traipse past Whitney's faded gray trailer and head for the tree line. Sammy, my sister's husband, is outside washing their car, his shirt off, his pale blond hair long on his back.

“Hey.” Sammy leers at me and starts playing air guitar on the garden hose.

“What?” I spit the word at him. Whitney may still be in love with him, but I see him for what he is. A low-life loser who'd rather sell oxy than do what it takes to make an honest living. He's a total idiot, but he
can
play the guitar.

Sammy sticks the hose between his legs, spraying water in our direction. “Have a good time—salamander hunting.”

I flip him the bird. “Go to hell, Sammy.”

Devon ignores him and whistles his favorite Lady Gaga song, keeping his eyes straight ahead until Sammy's hidden by the trees.

Devon's funny. Smart. He moved to town at the start of ninth grade, right around when Whitney abandoned
me for Sammy, and we clung to each other like rabbits in a storm. Unfortunately, despite what Sammy may think, Devon's not into girls. It's a crying shame, too, because he's dark-haired, boy-band cute, and although our taste in music runs toward polar opposites—me, bluegrass and ballads; him, Lady Gaga and pop divas—he loves playing the guitar and singing as much as I do.

But most of all, he gets me. Devon understands my burning desire to get the hell out of Sevenmile, North Carolina, which is a seemingly impossible prospect, given my mama's stalwart belief that her flock should settle within a couple of hundred feet of her back door. But Devon's willing to help me try to figure it out.

He jumps into the middle of the trail, tall stickweed shuddering as his guitar hits the leafy branches, and puts his hands on my shoulders. “This is it, Amber Plain and Small, our last night of reckless endangerment.”

I hate the nickname. Devon says he's doing me a favor to distinguish me from the other two Ambers in our grade. The two we lovingly refer to as Cheerleader Amber and Amber-o-zia.

Devon ignores my look. “We are going to make the most of this bonfire night with the through-hikers, a final salute to the bad girl that lurks inside of you. Or maybe, might you find . . .” He mock gasps. “Love?”

A part of me bristles as he says it. I mean, yes, he's right. I guess on some level love
is
what I'm looking for. Not necessarily the love of
someone
, but of
something
. The something that will help me rise above, make me special, make me feel like somebody. Like singing at a music festival or auditioning for one of those television music shows. What would it be like to go somewhere, to do something big? Hell, just to have the guts to sing in front of people besides Devon, my family, and my church. But I can't tell him. He'd tease the hell out of me.

Devon hits a chord and starts singing, “You're beautiful. . . .”

I roll my eyes and turn as he serenades me. We're walking in the middle of an overgrown logging road back behind Pastor Early's farm. The road takes us to the Appalachian Trail and then to the hiker barn. Our destination. The place where I've entertained myself all summer long with interesting boys who don't know my family's reputation.

I've met hikers from as far away as Europe and as close as Johnson City, Tennessee. I'm marking the towns on the map in my bedroom. I know on a certain level that meeting all these people doesn't really count as having been to the places they come from, but it's the closest I've ever gotten. I heard about a jazz festival in New Orleans. A
bluegrass festival in Telluride. I even heard from a Tennessee boy about a big festival outside of Wilkesboro where you can camp and play music all weekend long.

This summer has been different that way. The magic of the hiker barn lets me fly as far as I want in my imagination.

Whitney is the one who showed the barn to me first.

She'd taken me there the spring of her junior year, my last year of middle school, before she started dating Sammy. I'd noticed the carvings right away. On every board were names and dates and places. They said things like “Wooly Bear, passing through, June 2002” and “Mark and Joni, honeymoon hikers, Boston to Maine to Georgia, 1997.” I'd pored over those carvings, imagining what it would be like to be the kind of person who could pick up and walk away from home like that.

“Through-hikers, from all over the place,” Whitney had said. At the question on my face, she'd explained, “The Appalachian Trail is just up that path. There's a sign pointing the hikers to this barn. The property owners let them use this place as an overnight shelter.”

I remember thinking my sister was wiser than Jesus. Like she'd opened my eyes and the door to the rest of the world was right here, practically in my own backyard.

I hold up my hand.
Devon stops behind me.

We creep up the spur trail. The big barn is just around the bend.

I can already hear the murmur of voices and bursts of laughter. The smell of camp smoke swirls on the breeze.

We sneak closer and I see sleeping bags hanging out on lines. A hose has been rigged from the creek to wash the hikers' stuff and the tail end of a bright August sun is drying earth-colored clothing.

I feel Devon at my right shoulder. “Are you ready?” he asks.

I see a group of dreadlocked hikers, two guys, one girl.

Another guy, a little older.

There are more bags on the line. That means more hikers. Either in the barn or down at the creek.

“Ready,” I say. “The dread guys are kind of cute.” It's still hard to believe how easy this has been. Sliding in by the campfire, talking, singing. The first time we showed up I was nervous, but each visit since has been easier. Especially since they've all been so nice, and so eager to hang out with anyone new and different.

Devon purses his lips and gives me his best Marilyn Monroe. “All right, darling, let's go find us a man.”

We walk into the clearing. The dreadlocked cluster looks up. The older guy is more suspicious, glancing at us sideways. I sigh under my breath so only Devon hears. He knocks me with his elbow and whispers, “Say your greetings.”

“Hi, how you'uns doing?” My voice sounds extra tangy with a side of hillbilly as it bounces down the path.

Devon elbows me again.

“I mean, how are y'all doing?”

“Tired.” The boy with the dark dreadlocks smiles up at me, but the girl, super-pretty despite being fresh off the trail, instinctively wraps her arm snug around his waist. I guess hippies get jealous, too.

“Long day on the trail?” I look at the blond dreadlocked boy. He raises his arms behind him, cradling his
head as he leans against the barn's exterior. His eyes linger on my face before doing a quick trip up and down the rest of me. I don't really mind. He's definitely hiker cute.

“Yeah.” He pauses, a wry grin settling at the corner of his lips. “Long day. Y'all just sightseeing or did you actually bring a little trail magic for some tired hikers?”

The dread girl speaks up. “Basil, be nice. Anybody that arrives at camp with a guitar and something in foil wrapping is all right by me.” She smiles at me. “What's in there?”

Devon points to the tray. “Brownies. Plain or Secret Ingredient.”

The girl smiles and turns to Basil. “See, Basil. Secret Ingredient brownies, your favorite.”

The older guy speaks up. His voice is nasal and his words are clipped. Yankee. “You two live around here?”

I nod.

“Curious or Good Samaritans?”

I figure honesty is the best policy. “Both. We've met people from all over the place this summer.”

He smiles and even though he's bound to be at least twenty-eight, he has kind eyes. “Well, pull up a log. We've got a little stone soup cooking. My buddies hitched a ride to the store for some supplies.” He looks at Devon. “Can you play?”

Devon sits down and pulls the guitar around. He starts with “Blackbird” by the Beatles.

“Righteous.” The dread girl's boyfriend lays out long on the dirt and pulls her in to his side. Basil comes and sits next to me. He smells like he's been in the woods for days.

“How old are you?” he asks.

“Eighteen,” I lie and unwrap the foil. I point to the ones that Devon's older brother, Will, baked. “I think you might want one of those.”

Devon says Will's in an experimental phase, one that's intended to piss their judge daddy off. But Will claims his dad won't find out and besides, his pot-infused butter is worth it. Better than smoking. Not that I do much imbibing of any sort during the school year. It's too big of a risk. The whole town's already seen my sister's fall. All I need is everyone assuming I'm headed down the same path.

The foil crinkles as the hikers gather around and take brownies. The girl reminds them to save a few for the guys who hitched to the store. I notice the older guy takes a plain old sugar-and-butter variety.

Devon finishes his song. “So, what are your trail names? Where are you from?”

I take a bite of one of Will's brownies—it is the last hurrah of summer after all—and wait to hear the answers.

Dread girl says her trail name is Whiskers, something
to do with a rogue hair that sprouts when she doesn't have a mirror to pluck it. She, her boyfriend, and Basil are all from Athens, Georgia.

The Yankee guy laughs. “Mine's Cheese Steak. Because I'm from Philadelphia. But most folks on the trail just call me Philly.”

“What would our trail names be?” Devon asks them. It's a question we've asked every group of hikers.

Philly laughs and the sound is more melodious than his speaking voice. It makes me wonder if he can sing. Basil edges closer to me.

Philly points at Devon. “We've only just met, but let's see. I think we'll call you the Picker.”

Devon rolls his eyes. “I
do
hope you're referring to my guitar.”

“And her,” Philly says, winking at me, “we'll call her Pixie, because of that haircut and her impish grin.”

I giggle, the brownie already taking effect.

Basil is close enough I feel the warmth of his leg on mine. I glance sideways at him. He might be really handsome without all that nappy hair. I wonder if he's in college, taking the summer off to hike the AT. He shifts slightly, the hair on his arm brushing mine. I look down as a shiver rises on my skin. When I look up, he's staring at me.

Basil arches one eyebrow and stretches his leg out long
so that it nudges me in the process.

I look away but feel the flare rise to my cheeks and a tickle jump in my belly.

Philly throws logs on the fire and Devon cranks up his guitar again, slipping into Johnny Cash mode. He plays “Jackson” and I sing the June Carter Cash parts. Basil, Whiskers, and her boyfriend all squeeze in on me as we raise our voices. Then, Devon switches to “Poker Face” and we're laughing and singing and making crazy faces at each other, the brownies a good half hour into our system. Philly watches us with laughter in his eyes. I'm definitely stoned, but tonight I don't care.

A group of guys walks up the logging road from the direction of the old Whitson house. Hikers, two who look like they belong with Philly, and one younger, surprisingly clean, loner. They're loaded down with bags of groceries and a case of beer.

“Beer!” Basil jumps up from his spot next to me and rushes the approaching hikers. He grabs two bottles and returns, twisting the caps, then passes one my way. “Here you go, Pixie.” He loops his arm over my shoulder. I should move out from under it—he's probably too old for me and I've just met him. But it's not like I'm ever going to see these people again.

“You know, you've got a great voice.” Basil's voice is
low and conspiratorial, like he's telling me a secret.

I take a sip, the rim of the bottle cold on my lips. “You think?” My heart rate picks up a beat or two, and I fight the urge to move out from the heat of his arm across my shoulder.

“I do,” he says. “Come on, I want to hear you sing something else.” His arm drops but he grabs my hand instead.

I let him pull me back toward the campfire.