The Promise of Amazing

by Robin Constantine

  “How could she be so casual? Is that what guys want?”

  “I don’t think so,” I answered, wrestling a Milano out of the bag. “Maybe some do, I guess.” With my track record, I had no business offering advice.

  “In a way I envy Darby and her ability to be so matter-of-fact about it. I don’t think I could ever be that way, Wren,” she said, leaning on the edge of my bed, her long, dark hair fanning out against the flowered comforter. “And then the whole king’s cup thing . . . I didn’t get it. They called me out for not drinking when I didn’t even know I was supposed to be having one. Logan took the drink for me.”

  “Well, that sounds kind of sweet.”

  “You’d think after watching all these romance movies I’d have some clue how to talk to a cute guy, but I was completely dumb about it. I couldn’t think of one thing to say, and even if I had it was so freakin’ loud. How could anyone hear anything? I wanted to make Maddie proud of me tonight. Dare to be great . . .”

  “Jazz, it’s a stupid drinking game.”

  “I know, but . . . Logan was cute. Nice. And I was so . . . pathetic around him.”

  “Pathetic? There’s no way anyone would use that word about you. Jazz, you have such a clear vision of what you want out of life, and you’re running a freakin’ half marathon, which is about the furthest thing from pathetic I could think of. You blow me away. As corny as it sounds, some guy, someday, will appreciate that. And it won’t involve king’s cup.”

  “Well, you’re my friend. You have to say that . . . thanks. But before that elusive perfect boy arrives, I’ll be dateless for prom.”

  “You and me both,” I said.

  “What are you talking about? You have Grayson,” she said, jabbing me in the shoulder.

  “Have? Yeah, right.”

  “Wren, seriously, Grayson is into you. Why can’t you see that?”

  “He introduced me to someone as his friend—more specifically ‘not my girl, just a friend.’ What does that sound like to you?”

  “Really?” she asked, sitting up straight. “That’s . . . weird. He does not act like he wants to be just friends.”

  “Well, that’s what he said. Maybe it was the party. One-on-one we’re great, but being around all those people like Ava . . . it just didn’t feel right.”

  “You’d better watch out for her,” Jazz said.

  “Why?”

  “She was next to me during the king’s cup game and kept grilling me about what we were doing there and if you and Grayson had a thing. Her words, not mine. She’s morbidly curious about you guys. Seriously, sort of creepy.”

  “That’s what I mean—like even though everyone is there having a good time, getting along to each other’s faces—all this other unspoken stuff is going on,” I said, thinking about the way Luke Dobson had acted around me.

  Jazz stood up and tightened the drawstring on her pj bottoms. “If I don’t stop eating these cookies, I’ll be dragging my ass on my long run,” she said, before leaving to go to the bathroom.

  I got up and peeked out the window again. Steady snowfall covered the street in a blanket of white. Was Grayson still at the party? I didn’t want to imagine him there, playing the drums, smiling at someone else. Maybe one little text to let him know I was thinking of him wouldn’t hurt.

  I grabbed my cell off my nightstand, punched in a text, and pressed Send before I could change my mind.

  The text had been simple.

  Hey. Sorry I had to leave.

  A friendly gesture to make sure Gray and I were “okay,” as he’d said.

  I waited.

  And waited.

  And waited some more.

  Complete. Radio. Silence.

  Not that I expected him to drive over to my house to profess his . . . intense like and shower me with a dozen roses. But I expected . . . something.

  And the expecting something sucked more than the party itself, because Grayson Barrett was the most unexpected something to come along in my semester of discontent. It was never about looking for him, it just . . . was. So I hated the feeling of twisted anticipation. I kept checking my phone and searching for him after school, hoping to see him leaning on the Chrysler like he had been for the last few weeks.

  Nothing.

  Both Jazz and Maddie knew enough not to bring it up anymore. We’d exhausted all the party talk by Tuesday. So by Wednesday, at least outwardly, life was back to normal. I thought of texting Grayson again, but I couldn’t think of anything to say. There was a huge wedding booked at the Camelot for Friday, so I knew he’d be working, and I supposed it wouldn’t be out of line to send a “Hey, are you working Friday?” text. So I did.

  Crickets.

  Which was worse. I tried to reason it away. Maybe he’d lost his phone. Maybe the battery was dead . . . for four days. Maybe he was busy with his dad, or school, or his life in general. But there was no reason for him not to text me. And while I went through the school day, absorbing most of what was taught, having lunch with Mads and Jazz and not bringing up the G-word at all, there was still that niggling little part of my brain analyzing the details to death.

  The very last person I expected to discuss Grayson with was Ava.

  Ava strolled up to me in Lit, a thick haze of flowery perfume following her. She wore her green blazer with the sleeves pushed to three-quarters, her cuffs peeking out the bottoms, making the Sacred Heart uniform as trendy as anything you’d see in a Teen Vogue fashion spread. She perched on the desk adjacent to mine playing with the silver heart that hung from her necklace as she spoke.

  “Could you meet in Mrs. Fiore’s office for lunch, Wren? We have to talk about the Spirit Club Christmas project.”

  I stared at her through my too-long bangs, chin in hand, and wondered why she was talking to me about Spirit Club, which I’d completely blown off after she’d dissed me about knowing Grayson.

  “Hey, I know I was a complete bitch the other day, but we really need the numbers for this project. And, well, I was just surprised you and Grayson knew each other. Can you blame me?”

  Again with the subtle dis. I remained a blank. She sat down, mouth curled in a conspiratorial grin.

  “I was wrong, okay? I apologize. You two were so completely into each other at Andy’s party. It was like no one else was there. He left a little while after you did, which is really saying a lot for him. Did you two hook up after the party?”

  Suddenly I didn’t care if she was Medusa come to life . . . she’d seen me with Gray. A witness. I caved just a little. Could she possibly be sincere? Jazz’s warning to watch out for her remained in the back of my mind.

  “Um, no.”

  “But you are together, right?”

  How could I answer that?

  Sister Katherine clapped her hands to bring the class to order.

  “So, lunch? Meet me in Fiore’s office, okay? C’mon, we work with the Saint Gabe’s Key Club for the Christmas project. Boys,” Ava said, before standing up and heading to her desk.

  Boys. Didn’t entice me. Especially since the boy I craved didn’t go to St. Gabe’s anymore. But out of sheer curiosity, at lunchtime I texted Maddie my change of plans, grabbed my brown bag and went to Fiore’s office, expecting to find the Spirit Club assembled. Only Ava was present. Shoes kicked off, legs curled under her, Ava ate her salad seated in one of Mrs. Fiore’s funky orange chairs.

  “Hi, Wren, have a seat,” Mrs. Fiore said. I placed my books on the floor, sat down, and rustled open my paper bag to pull out my turkey sandwich.

  “So what are we doing for the Christmas project?” I asked.

  “We’re going to host Saint Lucy’s annual Christmas party. It’s a retirement home in Jersey City. It’s so cute, all those adorable old people.”

  “Let’s call them senior citizens,” Mrs. Fiore said, gazing over her glasses at Ava. “As co-coordinators, you’ll be acting as the liaisons with the home. I know I’m Spirit Club adviser, but I’d like to give you both as much respon
sibility as possible.”

  “Co-coordinators?” I asked Ava. Judging from her bright-eyed glow, this was supposed to be good news.

  “Don’t let the title scare you,” Mrs. Fiore continued. “This event pretty much runs itself. Your job is to make sure we have enough volunteers and step in where you’re needed so that the party runs smoothly. Everyone is required to meet here at school, and we’ll head over together in the bus. We’ll be back here by one o’clock, so it’s not an all-day thing.”

  Ava pulled out a blue folder and handed me a list of names of Sacred Heart girls who had signed up for the event. I felt like reminding her that I wasn’t one of them. That this event I was co-coordinator for was about the last way I wanted to spend a random Saturday morning. Instead I smiled and nodded, emptying the last of my juice box with a rattle.

  “Let me know if you need help with anything. I’ll also contact the local paper, so wear something pretty. You never know, if it’s a slow news week, they might show up,” Mrs. Fiore said, bringing her Precious Moments mug to her lips. I peeked at her ten-minutes-behind, time-warp clock and calculated how much was left of lunch period. Only five minutes. Ava gathered her things. I followed her lead.

  “So have either of you given any thought to your top three college choices? February is right around the corner.”

  Ava rattled off not just three but five colleges, giving reasons why each made her list. I busied myself collecting my things, making sure my books were stacked in ascending size order, doing something, anything, so I wouldn’t have to speak.

  “And you, Wren? Had the chance to do any research?”

  I threw out my trash and clapped my hands together.

  “Well, I like Rutgers,” I answered, picking up my neat stack of books from the chair, “but other than that I hadn’t given much thought to anything. Well, except maybe to Harvard. Good school and all, but you know, I hear Boston winters pretty much suck, and I hate the Patriots, so not sure if it’s going to make my list.”

  Mrs. Fiore’s face contorted in mild confusion but then her chin drew up, eyebrows raised.

  “I’ll make these phone calls, pronto. This project sounds like such fun,” I said, before turning on my heels. “See ya!”

  My stomach knotted, but I felt an odd rise of triumph. I’d never dissed a teacher like that. I couldn’t believe I’d gotten away unscathed, when I felt a hand on my shoulder.

  “Omigod, I can’t believe you just said that,” Ava said.

  “Was she pissed?” I asked.

  “No, I don’t think she got that you were talking about her little speech. She was too caught up with the fact that you said the word suck to her.”

  “So you know what I was talking about then,” I said as we walked down the empty hall to our respective classes. The bell hadn’t sounded yet.

  “Yep. Fiore’s given that ‘You’re not going to Harvard speech’ for a few years now. It’s her way of ‘gettin’ real,’ as she says,” Ava answered, her green eyes rolling upward. “She’s cool though. I’ve gotten to know her through Spirit Club. Not a bad friend to have around here, you know?”

  It figures Ava would consider Mrs. Fiore a friend.

  “I just don’t like being told what I can’t do,” I said.

  “And that’s why you’re just the kind of person we need for Spirit Club. I hope you don’t mind that I picked you as co-coordinator. I think it’ll be fun hanging out again.”

  I kept waiting for the subtle put-down. She was being too nice to me.

  “Besides,” she said, leaning into me, “if you’re dating Gray, we’ll probably hang out more often too. Luke is Grayson’s best friend.”

  “Luke, right,” I answered, deciding to do a little digging of my own. “So you two are together?”

  Her face scrunched in thought. “We haven’t labeled it or anything, but we gravitate toward each other if we’re in the same place, know what I mean? He’s so freakin’ hot, it’s like I can’t resist him. That mouth. Mmmm,” she said, her voice becoming gravelly. “He really knows what to do with it.”

  I squeezed my eyes shut, willing my mind to stop creating mental pictures of Luke’s mouth and what he could do with it. T to the M to the fucking I, Ava.

  “How about you and Grayson?” she asked, wiggling her eyebrows suggestively.

  “Excuse me?” I asked.

  “C’mon. He’s pretty hot.”

  My mind blanked. What was I supposed to say? He sure as hell gave off the vibe of someone who knew what to do with his mouth, his hands . . . everything. But touching his eyebrow, running my fingers through his hair, a kiss that I was beginning to think I imagined? That didn’t qualify as anything that could be described as . . . well . . . mmmmmmm. At least not to anyone but me.

  “We have fun,” I answered, which encompassed the whole of our relationship at the moment. The bell rang. The patron saint of getting out of embarrassing conversations interceded and I didn’t need to elaborate as we were caught up in the rush of everyone getting to their next period. Ava waved and trotted off to class, leaving me unsettled. As if the last thirty minutes had been all a show. But for who, I wasn’t sure.

  Before class I reached into my bag and checked my messages.

  One reply from Maddie that made me chuckle.

  WTF? Ava doesn’t even EAT.

  But still nothing from Grayson.

  Nothing.

  FOURTEEN

  GRAYSON

  WREN CASWELL IS TOO GOOD FOR YOU.

  Luke Dobson’s words were a time bomb. I hadn’t given it a second thought when he’d said it, knew he was just trying to get in my head. But as I was about to answer Wren’s text, which had been adorably vague and shy . . .

  Hey. Sorry I had to leave.

  Badaboom.

  The truth hurts.

  She was too good for me, and I’d known it since the day she saved my sorry ass from choking. I’d hypnotized myself into believing I deserved her. She was right to leave Andy’s party and better off getting far, far away from me. The inconvenient thing was . . .

  I was pretty sure I was falling in love with her.

  Luke’s threat to speak to Wren gnawed at me. She didn’t need to fall victim to the Dobson mindfuck, and if I didn’t do something, I knew he would get to her one way or another. The best way to avoid that was for me to stay away. For now. Or forever.

  So I lay on my bed on a Thursday afternoon, pondering what route out of Wren’s life I should take and deciding whether to answer her second timid but logical “Hey, are you working Friday?” text, because yes, in fact, I was working on Friday, but if I took the Gray the total douchebag route, I’d just exit stage left. Never text or call again. End of story.

  And the conclusion I came to as I stared at my popcorn ceiling (which was really more like an acne-vulgaris ceiling, because it sure as shit didn’t resemble any popcorn I would eat) was that I couldn’t do that. I wanted to see her again. I kept thinking of her eyes, the depths of them, the way she looked right into me, and I wasn’t afraid of what she’d find. Even though I should have been, because if Wren knew all the shit I’d pulled . . . the way she looked at me would change forever.

  And that was instant freakin’ karma.

  “Grayson? You home?”

  My rumination was interrupted by Pop’s voice. I grunted something that hopefully sounded like “Come in” and continued my staring match with the ceiling.

  “When did you get in? I didn’t hear you.”

  I propped myself up on my elbows.

  “About fifteen minutes ago,” I lied. I’d been home for about two hours, skipped out on Physics. Ditching at Bergen Point was easy. They didn’t hunt you down and publicly flog you like at St. Gabe’s. I’d get a slap on the wrist and a computer-generated phone call telling Pop and Tiff I’d missed fourth block, which I could easily intercept, and no one would be the wiser. Call it a mental-health break.

  He inhaled and made a face.

  “Smells like a se
wer in here.”

  Pop swung my door back and forth to get the airflow going, then gave two clicks to the ceiling fan. Satisfied, he pulled out my desk chair and sat down, gathering his plaid robe around his bare legs.

  “I’m about to crawl the effing walls,” he said, leaning back and swiveling toward me. Pop was usually hair-gelled, suited-up, real-estate-mogul perfection. His eyes looked rested, but his hair stuck up every which way, like he’d been trying to pull it out of his head. Tiffany had made Pop go cold turkey—no smokes, no Bushmills, no trans fats. Sugar was next on the roster. He was not a happy camper.

  “Feeling better?” I asked.

  “Yeah, like a cool mil,” he said.

  “What’s up?”

  These father-son powwows had been routine in the weeks following my expulsion from St. Gabe’s. At first it had been all anger. You’re smart, effing brilliant, he had yelled. How could I do this to myself? To him? To Tiff? To my mother, who always deserved better? On nights he’d been mellowed with Bushmills, there were high school confessions. Things he’d screwed up royally himself, admitting that if he’d been smart enough to pull off what I did, he probably would have done it too. That if I needed money, why hadn’t I just come to him? And more anger with the brow piercing . . . You come home with a tat and I’ll kill you, Grayson.

  But things had changed when school began. I spent less time staring at my ceiling and more time trying to pick up the pieces of my life. Our one-on-ones became few and far between. Something was up.

  “I’ve been talking to your mother,” he said.

  I rubbed my eyes. Oh, what, now?

  “Grayson, this is a wake-up call for me,” he said, patting his chest. “Life’s too short. You need to have a relationship with your mother and her family.”

  “Thanks, Dr. Phil. I do have a relationship with them. It’s just not a good one.”

  “I mean a more solid one. Once you had a car, you were supposed to visit more. What’s it going to take?”

  A rewiring of my frontal lobe.

  “She’s having a tree-trimming party—” he began.