Robin Constantine - The Promise of Amazing

ALL WAS QUIET IN CASA DEL BARRETT WHEN I GOT home. There was a note on the island.

Grayson

,

Your father has a late showing, and I’m off to my monthly sales meeting

.

Tilapia in the fridge. Take your shot of acai

.

btw—your mother called again. CALL HER. She says it’s urgent. Why aren’t you answering your cell?

Kiss, Kiss—Tiff

I dashed off a mental reply.

Hey, Tiff

,

Tilapia is too fishy and I need a splash of vodka with my acai, but thanks for thinking of me

.

btw . . . I’m avoiding Mom. I DO NOT need reminding that I’ve completely dropped the college ball once again. They don’t let fuckups into Columbia. No matter how many strings her

alumn ASSmunch

alumnus husband can pull

.

Gray

I nuked some pizza rolls, grabbed a Coke, and sat down on the sectional in the dark. It was like a reflex. Dinnertime = FOOD. I wasn’t hungry or thirsty. I was . . . agitated. Ticked.

Why did I let Wren just walk away?

She was even prettier than I remembered, with her light hair loose around her face. And she’d been anxious, even a little shy at first. The kind of girl I could have eating out of my hand. Instead I’d opened up my mouth and all the old bullshit came tumbling out.

Why? I hadn’t intended to confess anything—all I wanted to do was thank her, give her a ride home and maybe strike up a friendship. Then she mentioned her brother. While I hardly knew Josh Caswell, I’m sure he knew me, or at least about me. Hell, the St. Gabe’s lunch ladies probably knew the sad, strange tale of my term-paper-pimp demise. Better that the story come from the source . . . but it was more than that too. There was a genuineness about Wren that made me feel like I didn’t have to put up a front. Like she really saw me. Past the BS, the cool hair, the stupid attempt to draw attention to myself like a silverback gorilla.

I sank deeper into the leather sofa Tiff had picked out to give our great room a more masculine feel. My ass slipped until half my torso was parallel to the floor. The perfect position for how I felt at the moment. Spineless.

Why didn’t I have the nerve to ask for her number? I knew I could get it some other way, but I wanted her to give it to me. That would tell me a lot. Just like not giving it to me said something. She didn’t trust me. And after today, why would she? Smart girl.

My pocket vibrated. I picked up without even checking. Might as well deal with my mother and her college-application assault.

“Mom.”

“Dude, it’s about time.”

I stiffened.

“Luke,” I said, sitting up. “Should have screened.”

“Harsh, Grayson. So is it true you almost bought it last Friday?”

“Maybe. How’d you find out?”

“The stepmother mafia. This is huge news down the pike. You choked . . . some cocktail waitress saved you. Sounds like a sexy way to go—was she wearing fishnets and a tight skirt?”

An involuntary smile crossed my lips. It pissed me off that he could win me over so easily, but I had to admit: I missed my daily dose of Dobson.

“C’mon, Grayeesun, you know I’m just jabbin’ at ya. Saint Gabe’s is so boring without your ugly mug roaming the halls. How are you dealing with the bottom-feeders in Bergen Point?”

“What do you want, Luke?”

“Just wondering why you haven’t returned my calls, bro.”

There was a time a call from Luke was a call to the hunt. For parties. For girls. For epic nights I knew would be legend in our high school history. My remember-the-time friend. Brother from another mother. When I was drop-kicked to the curb last spring, my brother, the one who said he’d have my back, disappeared from my life. It was only about a month ago that he tried to make contact. He didn’t even have the decency to apologize.

“No one called me all summer.”

“Grayson, what’s that, three months? Stop acting like a wounded bitch.”

“When I got in trouble, you scattered,” I said.

“That’s not entirely true,” Luke began as if he were leading a Socratic seminar about the topic of my expulsion. “You agreed it was better if we all lie low for a while. And as for the summer, no one got together. Don’t you get it? Seeing you get caught was too close for comfort. But we’ve regrouped. Operation Amsterdam is on again. Andy, Dev, and Logan are completely on board. This, my friend, is your wake-up call.”

“My wake-up call? Why do you think I’d want anything to do with that anymore?”

“Stopped by Spiro’s today. He said I just missed you. You were with a preeeeeetty girl,” he said, mimicking Spiro’s accent.

“I’m not allowed to get a cup of coffee?”

“There are lots of places for coffee. Just thought you might be ready to start up again.”

“I’m not,” I said, wondering when Spiro had become a gossip hound. Time to find a new coffee joint.

“Don’t be stupid, Grayson. We need you.”

“That’s too bad, ’cause Ima-out, my friendah.”

“Barrett, come on,” he said.

I hated when he patronized me. “Luke, you really have no clue. There are worse things than getting expelled.”

All those months of no contact made me realize how lucky we were to not get caught. Selling term papers got me a slap on the wrist, but the Operation Amsterdam stuff? I couldn’t even go there. Luke was silent, but I could practically hear his wheels spinning, charging up his counterargument.

“Grayson, I know you. Yeah, you got a raw deal, but you’ll spin-doctor it up and turn it to your advantage. So, no pressure. We’re here when you’re ready. Just think about it. Maybe while you’re in Welding,” he answered.

“Bite me,” I said.

“We’ll be in touch,” he said, hanging up.

I jumped off the couch, grabbed my dish and soda can, and hurled them into the sink. Coke spilled across the white marble countertop, glugging out of the can like a gushing artery. I watched, transfixed; Tiff would have a cow. My mess. Again. I raked my hands into my hair, tugging at my roots and yowling the mother of all curse words up toward the ceiling.

The drums. An hour on the drums would make me feel better. Luke Dobson could kiss my bottom-feeding, public-education ass. Getting away from St. Gabe’s was the best thing that ever happened to me. A detour. That’s all. Luke, Andy, Dev, and Logan could do whatever they wanted with Operation Amsterdam. I was done.

I stormed downstairs to the haven I’d created for myself over the summer. The white, hot fist of anger in my chest finally began to unfurl. I’d blast some punk, pound the drums like an animal until my muscles ached. Exculpation through sweat and music.

I’d done my time, hadn’t I? The course of my life had changed because I wouldn’t rat out others like me. There was something noble in that, right?

Ah, and there he was: Grayson, the spin doctor.

What would Wren think if she saw me now? This unhinged? Would she back away like she did at the park? How strange but sexy it felt arguing with her. It was the first honest interaction I’d had with a girl in . . . well, years. And it felt good. Just listening to her. The rise and fall of her voice as she spoke my name after I asked her if she regretted saving me.

God, Grayson, no, I’m not thinking that at all, she’d said.

The way we met, at this point in my life, had to mean something.

I needed to see her again.

THANKSGIVING MORNING I HID FROM THE WORLD, safe in the sweet spot of my mattress where all the lingering worries of school, future plans, and foxy term-paper pimps melted away. Not going to the Turkey Day game with Dad and Josh for the first time in six years felt a bit blasphemous, and when my father yelled up the stairs that the Caswell bus was leaving in ten, I resisted the tiniest urge to yell, Wait for me! Instead I rolled over and burrowed deeper under my comforter. Daring to change up tradition. Content to keep the world at bay for at least another hour.

Yeah, right.

The biggest reason I was wimping out was because I didn’t want to run into Trevor. And I would have; it was inevitable. I’d overheard Josh on the phone with him finalizing plans to meet up near the concession stand. What if he had a college girl with him? Or worse—what if he didn’t and wanted to hook up? I didn’t want to stutter out small talk or worry if I had snot running down my face or pretend everything was just fine and that we could be friends for my brother’s sake.

It might have been worth the risk though, for the off chance to bump into Grayson. Who did he hang out with? What team would he root for? Did he even go to the game? I tried to put him out of my mind. He was a walking, talking DANGER flag. Cheater. Liar. Secretive. Hawt. Ugh. It was maddening. Any time I checked off the reasons to avoid him, I’d picture him in front of school, leaning against his faded car. Hands in pockets, swoon-worthy grin, deep brown eyes full of the promise of amazing. And I felt myself getting sucked in by the desire to wrap my arms around him in a different way than the Heimlich.

The slow creak of my bedroom door pulled me back to the present. I kept my eyes shut, feigning sleep as I heard muted tiptoeing on the carpet. One side of my comforter lifted, and the mattress gave way to the pressure of someone climbing in.

“Wrennie, wake up,” my sister cooed, scratching my back.

“Five more minutes,” I protested.

“Come on, I haven’t seen you in, like, forever. The least you can do is have some cinnamon rolls with me before we become Camelot slaves,” she said. Football and freezing were my mother’s least favorite things, so her own Turkey Day tradition involved scratch-made cinnamon rolls and the televised Macy’s parade before the frenzy of the Camelot buffet. Getting first dibs on breakfast made missing the game even better. Brooke dug more urgently into my sides until I had to give in and giggle.

“Okay, stop, Brooke. I’m up, I’m up,” I said, batting her ice-cold hands away.

I rolled over to face her. Her cheeks glowed, the tip of her nose red. Cold seemed to emanate off her skin, but her eyes were playful. Beautiful Brooke.

“When did you get in?”

“Only about ten minutes ago. Can’t you feel it?” she asked, putting her hands under the back of my pajama top by my neck. I squealed and shot up out of the bed; the comforter fell to the floor.

“Nice,” I said.

“Had to get you up somehow. Why’d you bail on the game?”

“Do you have to ask?” Brooke had been my breakup guru in the wake of the hump-and-dump. She’d snap me out of crying jags with spontaneous Rollerblading or splurges at Sephora. Telling me over and over again that Trevor, or any guy, was just not worth falling apart over.

“Meh, you should have worn your cutest outfit and shown him how much better off you are being free,” she said, leaning back on her elbows.

“I have no cute subdegree clothes,” I said, shrugging on my fuzzy blue robe.

“His loss, our gain: The Caswell chicks have the house to themselves,” she said, sitting up. “Might not be that way much longer.”

Our house, which had always bustled with noise and friends, had been quiet with my sibs away at school. My parents and I had fallen into a predictable daily rhythm of dinner, then heading to our various personal spaces to do whatever. I wasn’t complaining, but it was odd being an only child for weeks at a time. Calm. Empty. Lonely. I knew the change was inevitable, could hear it in my father’s joking as he talked about downsizing and moving to Key West when he and Mom retired and we were all out of the house, but I held on to these moments when Brooke was home, or Josh was back upstairs pounding around and listening to his music too loud. Even if only for a little while, the house felt full and lived-in again.

“We have a good three hours before Josh and Dad get back,” I said, crouching on the floor to see if my slippers were under the bed.

Brooke shimmied her way to the edge of the mattress, toes grazing the floor.

“I’m not talking about the game.”

“Is Pete coming over?” I asked, standing up from my fruitless search.