Robin Constantine - The Promise of Amazing

“No, it’s a date,” I said, trying to tame my lame-ass grin. “I’m taking her ice-skating.”

“Skating? How retro,” Tiffany said.

“Not retro. Perfect. Movies are a gamble. Dinner breaks the bank. When you skate you can hold hands without looking like you want more. And, well, if she falls, you can help her up, be the hero.”

Tiffany smiled. “That sounds like classic Blake Barrett.”

“You must like this girl,” Pop said casually, flipping over the paper.

Ice-skating had been his advice when I’d asked where I should take my twelve-year-old crush, Bethany Frazier, on our first (and only) date. It worked like a charm—and we shared our first kiss by the snack bar as we waited for hot pretzels. When I’d asked Pop later how he knew it would work, he told me it was one of the first dates he’d had with my mom.

“Maybe, we’ll see.” I scarfed the rest of my remaining English muffin and got up from the table.

“Well, Grayson Matthew, I think it’s great,” Tiffany said, beaming.

If she only knew how much running around I’d done. Being with Wren was something else entirely, and it was something I wanted so bad, it scared me. So bad, I was willing to hold back, to take things at a snail’s pace, to jump this final hurdle with Luke so it would be smooth sailing ahead. And I almost believed it would all work out as I climbed up the stairs to shower, before boxing up all these innocent feelings so I could find my inner deviant.

The soulless freak known as Mike Pearson.

Mike had a date with the Hollister chick.

For the record, I loathe Hollister.

It’s a pretentious, overpriced, assault-of-the-senses nightclub of a store for middle schoolers who think this is what you need to dress cool. At least the chicks who work and shop there are usually hot.

I also happen to loathe the mall on Saturdays, but to Mike . . . hell, it was like spring break. At 11:00 a.m. the parking lot was almost full, and I finally found a spot on the outskirts. The half-mile walk helped me get back into the Mike Pearson frame of mind.

The Hollister chick’s name was Allegra. We met at a billiard hall on Staten Island. Me, Andy, and Luke had heard from a couple of St. Gabe’s guys that Jake’s Bankshot, just a quick ride over the Bayonne Bridge, was a decent place to shoot pool, scope out chicks, and throw back a few without too much ID scrutiny. Staten Island was a little too close to home for a hit, so I figured we were taking it easy, just going out to chill, something we hadn’t done in a while.

It wasn’t until Luke introduced himself as Brinker Hadley to a girl who’d come up to talk to us that I realized we were “on.” Brinker was Luke’s alter, picked from the book A Separate Peace. Whenever I brought up the fact that someday, someone might call him on that, he dismissed it, saying that the first girl who recognized the name Brinker Hadley was someone he’d fall madly in love with and take to Amsterdam, to hell with us.

Allegra didn’t give us the time of day at first, maybe because we were staring at her with our tongues hanging out. She was about half my height with this perfect, little body that she didn’t mind showing off. She wore a denim jacket over a top that looked more like underwear, which she filled with juicy C-cup perfection. Judging by the noise from across the room, she knew how to shoot a decent game—although they could have been cheering about the view every time she bent low to take a shot, too.

She wasn’t the queen bee of her group; that was the obnoxious girl who latched herself on to Luke/Brinker. Andy hooked up with some blond chick and they each teamed up and played a game of doubles for a while. I was content with just taking in the scene. I didn’t want to be Mike Pearson that night. The lying was a constant mental strain, and with my term-paper business booming and the lacrosse team undefeated, I just wanted to be Gray.

Then I felt someone tug on my shirtsleeve.

“Hey,” I said. She was a knockout even close-up.

“Hey, yourself,” she said, touching my chest with a manicured finger. “A few of us are getting out of here. Party at my place. Wanna come?”

“They don’t seem too happy over there,” I said, motioning to the group of juicehead guys she’d been playing pool with.

“Screw them. Carpe scrotum, right?”

“What?” I didn’t think I heard her right.

“You know, seize life by the balls, live a little,” she said, grabbing my hand. She spun herself around, her dark hair swaying behind her. “C’mon. You won’t regret it.”

Hot and funny. Just. Wow.

“Sounds good, um . . .”

“Allegra.”

We followed Allegra and her bright yellow Miata through the winding Staten Island roads to a two-story brick house with a U-shaped driveway.

“Score,” Luke said as Andy pulled in front of Allegra.

“You’re designated driver, Mike,” Andy said, tossing me the keys. Our unspoken rule was that whoever was hooking up with the hit stayed sober. Tired as I was, I was glad to be our DD. A few beers, and I was sure I’d be sloppy with the details.

The backyard was sunken, with one of those pools that looked like you’d wandered into a private oasis. A rock waterfall emptied into the deep end. The patio was spacious, with heaters and lounges and a built-in fire pit that Allegra ignited with a flick of a switch. A house this bank had to have a security system the likes of which we’d never dealt with, and Luke had an instant hard-on about the challenge.

I’d been lounging in a chaise, enjoying my fly-on-the-wall status. Both Andy and Luke were in the hot tub with their hookups. Everyone else who’d wandered in from the billiard place seemed to know one another and took no interest in me. I felt myself drifting off when someone straddled me on the chair. I opened my eyes to Allegra. Her denim jacket was off; just the little black top and a lot of tanned skin poured into white shorts. She had a belly ring with a crystal dangling from the end of it. I put my hands on her smooth hips, ran my thumb across that jewel, and she shivered.

“Are you always this quiet, Mike?” she asked.

“No, had a rough week, that’s all.”

“The hot tub is great for that.”

“Uh-uh. Don’t need a staph infection.”

“Ick, you’re not one of those freaks who washes his hands like a million times, are you?”

I shook my head and moved my hands to her waist.

“What do you want to do then?”

You, is what Mike would have said, but I didn’t. Maybe my conscience had already begun its ascent from the underworld that was my brain. Or maybe I knew this chick . . . girl . . . was the kind of person I could see myself with . . . for real. My silence didn’t seem to faze her.

“C’mon, you didn’t come here to go to sleep,” she said, tugging the collar of my shirt.

“Big house. Are we all alone?”

“Yep, house-sitting for Daddy while he’s in Vegas with wifey número tres.”

“And he lets you party?”

“Are you kidding? If he were here, he’d be in the hot tub with us. Mucho guilt for missing years of dance recitals and soccer games. I get to use the place whenever I want.”

“Ah, so you’re a daddy’s girl,” I said.

She straightened up and swung her leg around, so she was sitting at the foot of the chaise.

“Don’t call me that. I make my own way.”

“Hey.” I nudged her with my foot. She flinched, then crossed her arms.

“Allegra, I was just teasing,” I said. “My parents are divorced. My stepfather is such a friggin’ tool. I get it, really, I do. And I don’t even get the benefit of a pimped-out swimming pool.”

She faced me, still frowning.

“Sorry?” I reached toward her.

A gleam returned to her eyes, and she pulled me to standing.

“Fine. I’ve got a way you can make it up to me,” she said, leading me into the house.

I woke up then.

After we did it, she snuggled up against my chest.

She fit so perfectly, one leg draped over mine. For a moment I felt a stab of regret that I wasn’t just Grayson. That I wasn’t just a guy meeting a girl. A girl I could be myself with; someone who would trust me enough to open up too. And as I lay there, stroking Allegra’s hair, I allowed myself to imagine that this was the start of something. Even if it wasn’t.

“Well, that was phenom,” she said, pushing herself up.

“Can I see you again?” I asked.

“I’m counting on it.”

I left that night with her digits, work schedule, and the feeling that I was the ruler of the free world. A week later my term-paper business blew up in my face. In private the guys rallied around me. In public I was the plague. I was cut from lacrosse and kicked out of St. Gabe’s. And soon, one by one, my phone calls went unanswered. I couldn’t even bring myself to go to Andy’s house.

Months later, as I wandered through the mall, listening to Johnny Mathis sing about a marshmallow world, the conscience that had grown since I’d stopped being Mike Pearson was screaming in my head: You don’t have to do this.

At the same time, there was an insistent competitive sliver that wanted . . . no, needed . . . to prove to Luke that I wasn’t pussying out. That he couldn’t intimidate me. That Wren was worth fighting for. I tried to fan that spark to a flame as I walked toward Hollister. The dim lights and pounding beat in the store helped me get my inner swagger back. I ran a hand through my hair, checked out the register. Allegra was there, wearing far more clothing than she’d had on when we first met. I sauntered up to the counter, by the end, and leaned on my elbows. Waiting. Until she saw me.

She did a double take—good sign. Then she smiled. Even better. She said something to her coworker on the register and wandered over to me, hips swaying deliberately.

“Hey, I know you, don’t I?” she said, leaning toward me.

“I know you,” I answered.

“Where’ve you been?”

“Around.”

“And why should I even talk to you?”

“Because you want to,” I said, leaning closer.

She pursed her lips to one side. “Yeah, maybe I do, but I don’t know why. It’s been months.”

“Too long, Allegra,” I said.

“So I get a break in about fifteen. Want to get some lunch?” she asked, running a finger along my forearm. “It’s the least you can do after blowing me off.”

“Sounds good,” I answered, playing with a strand of her hair, not really knowing where I was going to take it after this. I hadn’t thought past just making contact. Stupid. Playing it as I went along.

She turned to someone who stood about a foot away from us.

Putting on her Hollister-girl perky voice, she said, “Hey, want to try those on? Great! Let me just get the keys.” She raised her eyebrows at me before she left.

I stood up, pondering my next move as I checked out the chick waiting for Allegra to come back with the keys. Figured I could share some of the Mike Pearson charm, because that’s just how Mike rolls.

The world stopped.

Tilted.

“Hey,” I said. A stupid, meaningless little word, but it was the only one I could come up with as she stood there.

I’d done a lot of stupid shit over the past few years. Hurt so many people. But I never had to look them in the eyes, never had to think about it.

And I never felt worse, ever, even in the blackest moment of the blackest day since I was kicked out of school than I did at that precise moment, not knowing what I could possibly say to make it all go away. Make it better for her.

Wren.

THE MUSIC WAS SO LOUD, A THUDDING, OVERPOWering bass with which my pulse seemed to keep time.

Grayson’s mouth moved, but I didn’t hear what he said. The only thing I was aware of was the feeling that my face was slowly dripping downward, like melting wax. I felt dizzy and off-kilter, like I’d wandered into a dream, and any minute I’d pull out my teeth, or Chace Crawford would appear from behind the hoodies and offer to take me to prom.

I hadn’t recognized Gray at first. He wore a black leather jacket and dark jeans. His look was calculated . . . slick. The way he’d leaned into that girl behind the counter, playing with her hair, acting like they were together. The desire on her face as she spoke with him . . . that stabbed me right through my heart, a true physical sensation that almost made me gasp. And yet there I stood. Silent. Shocked. Holding three shirts on hangers and not wanting to say a word, because I might embarrass Grayson or the Hollister girl.