The Promise of Amazing (17 page)

“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 responsibility 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.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

..................................................................

FOURTEEN

GRAYSON

WREN CASWELL IS TOO GOOD FOR YOU.

Luke Dobson’s words were a time bomb. I hadn’t given 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 douche bag
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 sewer 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.

“Oh, no fucking way, Pop.”

“Hey, cool it,” he said. He wasn’t enough of a hypocrite to
really mind my dropping an F-bomb with him, but he had to pretend. “Tiffany found a box of ornaments up in the attic—belongs to your mother, some antique hand-blown glass she thought she lost. Your mom would like you to bring them and stay for the party.”

“You’re kidding.”

“You could bring Wren. Have some fun, Grayson. You’re allowed, you know.”

Hearing Wren’s name made me smile. I could practically hear Grier saying,
When and Gwayson
.

“I’ll think about it.”

“It’s nice to see you getting serious about a girl, Grayson.”

“Serious? Pop—”

“I know, I know . . . you don’t want to talk about this with your old man, but even in the ER I could see the way you were around each other. She seems like a nice girl, Gray,” he said, rising from the chair with a creak. “I always liked those Sacred Heart girls. Thought those plaid skirts were cute.”

Guess the horndog doesn’t fall far from the tree.

“Dinner’s at six, when Tiff gets home. Will you be around?”

“I guess,” I said. My butt vibrated.

I made a deal with myself. If it was Wren, I’d answer. I could explain away two texts, but ignoring three would just be plain cruel. I stared at the screen.

Fuknuts, cum pick up ur drums @ Andys. L

Andy’s house had been the hub of my St. Gabe’s extracurricular life. And it was one constant after-party. After school. After lacrosse practice. After games. As a freshman, I had my first beer in Andy’s basement. It was also where I got my V-card stamped by some girl who was friends with Andy’s older brother. The Foleys were loaded and spent a good portion of their time working for it, overcompensating for their absence with a rec room that was pretty much a wet dream. Plasma TV. Killer audio. Every video-game system as soon as it came out. The bar was always fully stocked with premium liquor, although I wasn’t sure how much of that was their doing and how much was Andy’s and his brother’s.

Andy’s basement was also where Operation Amsterdam was conceived.

The name was a goof, but it stuck, because it was better than saying “selling stolen goods to finance our post-graduation trip to Europe.” We all liked the sound of backpacking across Europe, but Amsterdam, an eighteen-year-old’s version of Disneyland, was our goal. Our reward for four years of breaking our balls at St. Gabe’s.

And the whole thing had been started so innocently . . . by yours truly.