The Promise of Amazing

by Robin Constantine

  We. Oh, how I loved the way that sounded. “Definitely.”

  “Cool, but you guys need to meet me there. I kind of have to help set up,” he said.

  That stopped me cold. “Um, sounds formal?”

  “No, not like that. I’m part of the entertainment.”

  “Get out.”

  “Yeah, Andy and I have a band. Haven’t played together in a while though.”

  “So you’re in a band band?”

  “Yes. A band band. You know, we play music.”

  “So what are you? Lead singer?” I asked, trying to envision Grayson behind a mike.

  “Ah, you see me as a front man? Nice . . . but no.”

  “Then what? Guitar, bass, tambourine?” I asked.

  “You’ll have to come to the party if you want to find out.”

  “Grayson, please.”

  “Nope. You have to promise me you’ll be there.”

  “Fine, yes. We’ll be there.”

  On the night of Andy’s party, Mads came down with a stomach bug—which must have been really, really, really awful, for her to bail on our night out—but she mustered up enough strength for a pre-party fashion confab via Skype.

  “So which one would he be in The Breakfast Club?” Jazz asked.

  “What?” I asked, holding up a black miniskirt and Brooke’s True Religion skinny jeans that I had on loan during her pregnancy for Mads to see.

  Mads coughed, her pale face filling my laptop screen. “Oh, God, Wren, no jeans and TOMS tonight—please sex it up! What does this have to do with The Breakfast Club?”

  “Fine,” I said, tossing the jeans onto my bed.

  “You know, I think it might help to know what kind of guy he is . . . brain, athlete, criminal . . . so you can tailor your outfit,” Jazz said, rocking in my computer chair. Mads had talked her into wearing dark skinny jeans tucked into five-inch knee-high boots, which made her incredibly toned legs look like they went on forever.

  “Jazzy, have you seen Grayson? Who cares about his personality type? Lemme see that purple sweater, the one with the deconstructed neckline, and that, um, black top with the shirred waist, the one that ties on the sides.”

  “He’s kind of all three,” I answered, grabbing the tops from my closet and showing them to her.

  “Purple, with the matching tank. Your boobs look awesome in that shirt,” Mads said, “and the common denominator for brain, athlete, and criminal is the boobies.”

  “Do you have to be so juvenile?” Jazz asked. “What do you mean he’s all three?”

  “He’s just . . . I don’t know . . . a little bit of each,” I answered, from behind my closet door while pulling on my tights and shimmying into my outfit.

  Mads laughed, her voice hoarse. “Yum. A hybrid. That’s hot. So he’s kind of a . . . brainathiminal.”

  Jazz clapped her hands. “Omigod, that’s perfect!”

  I chuckled, climbing into my riding boots.

  “I guess. So what do you think?” I asked, twirling in front of the computer. I caught a glimpse of myself in my full-length mirror. Mads was right; the shirt did hug me in all the right places. A bold choice. I smiled. What would Grayson think?

  “Wren Caswell, I would do you,” Mads said.

  “Thanks, I think.”

  “Me too,” Jazz said.

  “Guys, stop.”

  “Okay, my work is done.”

  “What are we going to do without you?” Jazz asked, getting up from my chair. The two of us stood in front of the computer, waiting for words of wisdom. It would feel strange without Mads there. She brought up her fist to her mouth, cleared her throat, and sat up straight.

  “Ladies—go forth. Flirt enough for all three of us and, for fuck’s sake, have fun! I expect a full debrief après party. This is a dare-to-be-great situation.”

  “Dare-to-be-great situation? Mads, you just quoted Say Anything!” Jazz said.

  “Do you think that was by accident? See, I pay more attention than you think. Maybe you’ll find your Lloyd Dobler tonight, Jazz. And I hope you and your brainathiminal need a fire hose to break it up, my smoking-hot girl wonder. Now excuse me, I have a date with a Supernatural marathon and my trash can.”

  “Are you sure this is it?” Jazz asked.

  “Yep, five twenty-three Oak,” I said, staring up at the brick town house. No sounds of a band. No lights on inside. The street itself was a dead end, lonely and dark. Only a small, lit evergreen tree on Andy’s stoop suggested the season. I knew Grayson wouldn’t have tricked me, but maybe I’d remembered the numbers wrong. I pulled off my glove with my teeth to check my phone again.

  “It’s freezing, and my feet are killing me,” Jazz said, stomping. I shivered as I scrolled through the messages.

  “Nope, right address,” I said, staring up at the town house again. “I guess I could call him.”

  Just when I was about to dial Grayson, a guy carrying a case of Stella Artois appeared out of nowhere.

  “Here to see Sticky Wicket?”

  On closer inspection he was probably too young to be carrying the beer, but he definitely looked like he knew where to find the party. Grayson had never told me the band’s name, but I figured I’d give it a shot.

  “Yeah, Andy’s house?” I asked.

  “Yep, follow me. Name’s Logan.”

  As Logan led us, Jazz showed me her pepper-spray key chain. I rolled my eyes. We followed him down a narrow alleyway along the side of the town house. My eyes adjusted to the dark, but there wasn’t much to see. Just when I was thinking the pepper spray wasn’t such a bad idea, we finally reached a door. Logan fumbled with the doorknob. I grabbed it for him.

  “Thanks, angel,” he said. Angel? Seriously? Who was this guy? I gestured for Jazz to follow him before I went in.

  Strains of music surrounded us as we tromped down wooden stairs to a laundry room. Logan put his beer on top of the dryer, shrugged off his leather jacket, and covered the case of Stella with it.

  “Here, let me,” he said, helping Jazz, then me, with our coats and slinging them over a peg on the wall that was already piled high with cold-weather gear.

  “How do you know Andy?” he asked, giving each of us a not-so-subtle once-over.

  “Oh, I don’t. We’re here with Grayson Ba—”

  “Gray, should have known. He’s always with the prettiest girls,” Logan said, looking from me to Jazz before I could finish my sentence.

  Jazz beamed with the compliment. My mind was stuck on the always part. What did that mean?

  “C’mon.” Logan pulled open a white door to a crowded room. We wedged ourselves into a wall of people and got absorbed whole, squeezing our way to an open pocket. Sticky Wicket was doing a cover of “Howlin’ for You,” and the whole room seemed to sway along to the beat. It felt like we’d wandered into a secret underground club, which in a way I suppose we had.

  The room was huge, with exposed brick walls and dim lighting. The cartoon version of How the Grinch Stole Christmas played on a huge flat-screen TV in the corner, for show apparently, since no one could possibly hear it over the music. There were couches and chairs and one couple going at it so hot and heavy on a giant beanbag chair, I felt like a voyeur. I stood on tiptoe and caught a glimpse of the shaggy-haired lead guitarist/singer, but couldn’t spot Grayson. That’s when the crowd parted slightly, and I saw him.

  The drummer.

  He was completely lost in the song, his eyes closed. He moved his head with the beat, hair flipping in and out of his face. The crowd swelled and blocked my view again. I moved to get a better look, leaning against a pillar and craning my neck. Grayson’s eyes were open. He and the guitar player nodded to each other in mutual approval.

  “Maddie’s right,” Jazz whisper-shouted into my ear.

  I cupped my hand around her ear. “What?”

  “You’re a fiending lust puppy around him,” she said, tilting her chin toward Grayson.

  I covered my mouth, reeling from her observ
ation. Crap, was I drooling?

  I watched Grayson, his arms lean and muscled, as he banged out the beat. His taut gray CBGB shirt moved with his body; his mouth puckered slightly, skin flushed. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from him. He finally spotted me in the crowd. My legs went weak. I ran a hand through my hair and smiled, watching him retreat into his drummer bliss once again. Then it was over with a thrash of the drums and the singer’s loud voice promising, “Be right back!”

  “Hey, there’s a new game of king’s cup forming, want to join in?” Logan asked, forcing his way through the crowd back to us.

  Jazz and I stood frozen, his invitation hanging in the air.

  “She’d love to,” I said, nudging Jazz. She turned to me, eyes wide.

  “Dare-to-be-great situation,” I whispered.

  “Hardly,” she said.

  “For Maddie then.”

  “For Maddie. And you’d better need a fire hose.”

  I laughed. “Fine. Gross, but fine.”

  We hooked pinkies in solidarity. “For Maddie.”

  “Sounds great!” Jazz said, turning toward Logan. He took her elbow and pulled her through the horde. I looked back to the band.

  Grayson shielded his eyes with his hand, with exaggerated movements pretending to search for someone over the sea of heads until he caught my eye. He pointed toward the bar. I wove through the thick crowd, stealing glances at him as I made my way over.

  Grayson was already pouring something from what looked like a wine bottle into a drink shaker when I broke through the crowd. He added vodka and put on the top.

  “You made it,” he said, shaking it vigorously over his shoulder.

  That mouth.

  Had been.

  On mine.

  “Yeah, pretty crazy.”

  “Andy’s house always is,” he said, placing the shaker on the bar and leaning below. He pulled out a few shot glasses and poured the purple liquid from the shaker. He pushed one of the glasses toward me. It had a picture of the Three Stooges on it. I brought it up to my face and sniffed, which Grayson found funny.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “Absolut and acai berry.”

  “You lost me at Absolut.”

  “Tiff sells this stuff by the case. Acai-berry juice. Supposed to be like megavitamins, boosts your immune system. So half of this shot is good for you, and the other half not so good. Kind of like us,” he said, raising his glass.

  Us.

  The shot was smooth and sweet. Warmth spread through my chest as it went down. I ran my tongue along my bottom lip, trying not to react to the tart berry flavor. Grayson leaned in closer, resting his chin on his hand.

  “So. What did you think?” he asked.

  “Of what? The drink?” I teased, pushing the shot glass toward him.

  He rolled his eyes. “Of the band. Of me.”

  The first thought that came to mind was I think everything about you is amazing, Grayson Barrett, but I wasn’t about to share it with him. Instead I leaned back and shrugged.

  “Damn, Wren. Nothing?” he asked, reaching into the fridge and pulling out an orange Gatorade and some water. He cracked open the cap on the bottle of water and handed it to me.

  “I thought we were pretty good, considering we haven’t practiced in months,” he said, taking a gulp of Gatorade.

  “Do you want to know what I really think?” I asked, feeling brave from Maddie’s pep talk.

  He leaned on the bar again, curious. “Um, yeah.”

  What was I doing? My thoughts raced. The word brainathiminal popped into my head, and I laughed. Grayson waited. I picked at the label on my water bottle. “I think you’re so . . . well . . . you’re smart, you play the drums, you play lacrosse. Seriously, what don’t you do?”

  A slow smile crept across his face. “I never told you I played lacrosse.”

  Snagged.

  “Well, so, I did some info digging. Same way you found me, right?”

  “If you want to know anything about me, just ask.”

  There was so much I didn’t know about him. Where to start? Logan’s comment about Gray always being with the prettiest girls? God, no. What made him kiss me the other day? Did he want to kiss me now? Were we just friends?

  “This,” I said, touching his piercing lightly. He seemed vulnerable there. “Did it hurt?”

  “That was sort of the point,” he said, closing his eyes, leaning into my hand. My fingers took on a life of their own, moving through his hair. I didn’t care that I didn’t know much about him. All that mattered was this. Now. Giving into the overwhelming urge to press my lips against his again.

  As if he read my mind, he opened his eyes, closed the space between us . . .

  “Barrett, where’ve you been?”

  We snapped out of our trance, brought back to Andy’s house by a tall boy who stood a few inches away. Grayson stood up, arms straight, hands firmly on the bar.

  “Luke. What’s up?”

  My eyes were drawn to the boy’s mouth. His upper lip was slightly fuller than the bottom, giving the impression that he was frowning. Deep-set hazel eyes held mine more intimately than was called for, but it somehow felt impolite to look away.

  “Grayson, aren’t you going to introduce me to your girl?” he asked, leaning on his elbow against the bar.

  “This is Wren,” Grayson said. “And she’s not my girl. Just a friend.”

  My breath locked up. How quickly he said it. I tried not to flinch but felt hot with shame. Hadn’t we just been connecting? Or was it my imagination? Not that a shot and me running my fingers through his hair meant I was his girl, but it meant we were . . . something, didn’t it?

  The corner of Luke’s mouth upturned, eyes still on mine. Chin-length golden-brown hair framed what should have been a pleasant face. All the right parts were there, but there was something unnerving and charged about him.

  “Luke Dobson,” he said, nodding slightly.

  “We went to Saint Gabe’s together,” Grayson added.

  “Bro, we went to Saint Gabe’s together?” Luke said, turning toward Gray. His shoulder brushed against mine, sending a shiver through me. He bowed his head like he was about to tell me a juicy secret.

  “Wren, don’t let him fool you. We were besties with testes. C’mon, fix me up with one of those, Grayson,” he said, tilting his chin toward the drink shaker. Grayson pressed his lips together as if he didn’t want to laugh, but he chuckled anyway. He freshened up the batch of Absolut and acai while Luke and I watched him.

  He poured three shots and pushed two toward us. I reached for mine. I didn’t even want it, but I had the feeling not taking it would mean something.

  Luke held out his glass. “In vino veritas.”

  We clinked our glasses together. Luke downed his before I even had the shot to my lips. I could feel his eyes on me as the Absolut and acai slipped down my throat. The same warmth filled my chest, but the mood was different. I placed the glass back on the bar and met his penetrating gaze, feeling self-conscious but not wanting to show it.

  “So do you always get so close to your friends?” he asked.

  “What?”

  “You and Grayson seemed pretty chummy a moment ago. I was just wondering if that’s how you are with all of your friends?”

  “Luke, get out of her face,” Grayson said, clapping a hand on his shoulder.

  He looked at Gray’s hand, then at me. “Dude, just talking. Maybe I want to be Wren’s friend too,” he said, eyes moving from my mouth back to my eyes.

  “Ava’s trying to get your attention,” Grayson said, pointing. My eyes swept across the room to my favorite Sacred Heart schoolmate, Ava. She wore an oversize, metallic flower in her hair, which she pulled off as chic. Her face lit up when she spotted Grayson and Luke, but the moment she saw me between them, she frowned. The expression on her face read, OMG, WTF are you doing with them? If it weren’t for the weird encounter that had just taken place, I might have enjoyed her reacti
on more. She gestured for Luke to come over.

  “Ah, she can’t let me out of her sight for long,” Luke said to me. “Dude. I need to talk to you later.” He pushed off the bar and pointed at Grayson, then snaked his way through the crowd. The whole scene left me feeling confused. Grayson put a hand on my shoulder.

  “What was that about?” I asked.

  “That,” he answered, “was about Luke.”

  I wanted to ask him to elaborate when Jazz sidled up to me. Grayson offered her a shot, but she shook her head vigorously.

  “We need to get out of here. Now,” she whispered in my ear.

  “Why? Did something happen with Logan?” I asked.

  “No. I just . . . can’t do this . . . I have to leave,” she stated again.

  Arguments filled my brain. We just got here! Grayson and I came this close to kissing again! One more set! But what did it matter? Truth was, I didn’t feel comfortable at all. Not with Luke. Or Ava. Or even Grayson. The way he’d thrown out the “friend” remark so quickly. And as I recognized others from school—girls who might ask for notes in class but would snub you in the hallway—I wanted to leave too.

  “If you want to stay with Grayson, I understand, but I’m outie,” Jazz said. “I can pick up my stuff from your house tomorrow. I just had to sit through Darby Greene describing what she did to a guy in the bathroom. And by the way, if you stay, don’t use the bathroom.”

  “No, let me just say good-bye to Grayson. We’ll go.”

  “I’ll wait for you by the coats,” she said, heading toward the side door as quickly as the crowd allowed her.

  Grayson was just finishing up a conversation with the guitar player. Unlike Luke, the guitar guy was an open book, loose and relaxed and holding out his knuckles to give me a fist bump.

  “I’m Andy, little Caswell. Mi casa es su casa,” he said. A moment ago this would have been charming; now it felt forced. I knocked my knuckles against his before he walked away.

  “Grayson, I have to go,” I said.

  “What? Why? You just got here.”

  “Jazz feels sick. I want to make sure she gets home okay.”