The Promise of Amazing (27 page)

“Hey,” I said.

“Wren? What are you doing here?”

Maddie sauntered into the room. “She’s caught the running bug, Jazzy.”

“No freakin’ way,” I answered as my breathing finally returned to normal.

On the dining room table, there were three rows of cardboard-cutout teacups with names in script across the rims.
They’d been in the middle of a project.

“We’re working on this for the NHS mother-daughter Christmas tea.”

“Yeah, I maintain a 4.0 average so I can make glittery teacup place cards. I’m so proud,” Maddie interjected as she sat back down on the dining room chair, one leg curled beneath her. She pulled on the sleeve of her oversize black sweatshirt, revealing a sliver of shoulder, and grabbed a Sharpie.

I picked up one of the place settings.
Jasmine Kadam,
it read in fancy calligraphy that I knew was Mads’s handiwork. My emotions were raw, right at the surface. I wanted to crush that stupid, glittery teacup in my hand, hating the fact that I didn’t have one of my own.
Try again next semester.
What if I didn’t get in? There were no guarantees.

But there were no guarantees in life either, were there? The Camelot. My sister, Brooke’s, perfect life plan. Grayson. Even my friendship with Mads and Jazz was changing, evolving. With the NHS they were part of something I wasn’t—and maybe never would be.

One thing I could guarantee was that I wouldn’t be denied entry into the NHS because I was quiet. Quiet could be a lot of things—fierce, thoughtful, compassionate—but never deficient. That teacher evaluation was just a piece of paper. I had to stop letting it define me.

“You both should be proud. It’s an awesome accomplishment,” I said, my voice high-pitched as I put down the place
card on the table. “Much better than being a part of the lame-ass Spirit Club. I made a woman throw her tea at me and cry at today’s service project.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be with Grayson?” Jazz asked. Her question cracked my cool facade. The tears flowed freely, right in front of their baffled faces. I sniffled and sat down in the chair at the head of the table.

“I think we broke up.”

“Why didn’t you say something?” Mads asked, coming over to me.

“What happened?” Jazz asked, right behind her.

I didn’t want to lie, but how could I tell them the truth? What Grayson had confessed was so surreal, I could hardly wrap my mind around it, let alone explain it. What would they think of him?

“I don’t want to talk about it here,” I said, motioning toward the kitchen, where Maddie’s mom was singing softly along with “Livin’ on a Prayer” as her client gabbed with her about an upcoming baby shower she was attending.

“Break time,” Maddie said.

“We have only five more to go,” Jazz said.

“Let me help,” I said, grabbing a bottle of silver glitter.

“You sure?”

I stood up and shook the glitter over Maddie’s head, laughing. “Yep!”

“So that’s the way you want it,” she said. “I think gold is a
good color for you.” She grabbed a different bottle and shook it at me.

“Are you guys completely out of your minds?” Jazz asked.

We both turned on her; she backed away, laughing. “Please don’t.”

“Beg,” I said, glitter poised over her head. She darted between us, grabbing her own bottle.

“I’m faster than both of you, so go ahead, try it.”

“Take the right,” Mads said. We cornered her, and suddenly there was a frenzy of glitter. The three of us sparkly and laughing.

“Girls!” We stopped.

Maddie’s mother stood in the doorway. “You
will
clean that up!”

“Yes, Mom,” Mads said, giving one more toss of glitter in our direction.

“Better save some for the teacups,” Jazz said.

We made quick work of the rest of the place cards. When we were finished cleaning ourselves and our mess, Maddie disappeared into the kitchen, coming back with bottles of water and a huge bag of pretzels. We retreated to her room. I plopped down on the leopard-print comforter. Jazz sat cross-legged in front of me on the hot-pink shag carpet, looking as though she were waiting for story time at the library. Mads sat behind me and played with my hair.

I told them about the Spirit Club debacle and Luke. How he’d hinted Grayson had hooked up with the girl at the mall. The kiss. I told them about Grayson’s confession, almost regretting that I’d revealed too much when I saw Jazz’s horrified face. The story of my strange morning poured out and ended with my sprint out of the A&P parking lot. I reached for the charms on my necklace as I spoke, my fingers grasping at the empty space.

“Your necklace! You gave it back?” Jazz asked, noticing.

“Not yet. I can’t believe he gave it to me; that’s pretty unforgiveable, right?”

A moment passed before either of them replied.

“Wow, Wren, you weren’t kidding with the brainathiminal thing,” Jazz said. “What are you going to do?”

We both looked at Mads, who was finishing up a tiny braid in my hair. “What?”

“Well?” I asked.

“You’re not going to like what I have to say.”

“I know—I’d be stupid to ever trust him again.”

Jazz nodded.

“Um, no. I was going to say I thought it was kind of . . . hot.”

I pulled away to face her.

“Explain,” Jazz demanded.

“I didn’t say I
approved.
What he did was awful, but he sort of got karmic payback getting kicked out of school. Don’t
you think? And, well, he hasn’t done any of this in a while, right? Like months. A guy with a past is hot. And he wants to change . . . with you. The only things he’s guilty of are giving you that necklace and flirting with a girl he hooked up with last spring before he even met you.”

“The necklace is bad, Mads,” I said.

“And how does Wren know anything else he said was true either?” Jazz asked.

Mads wrinkled her nose at Jazz. “I’m not saying he doesn’t deserve to be a little tortured over that necklace. That was a total brain-fart, dick of a move, but . . . Grayson is basically a good guy. Look at his car. I know you guys laugh that I pay attention to that stuff, but a car can tell you a lot about a person. That car tells me he doesn’t take himself too seriously. He’s not into labels. That’s not the car of someone who’s trying to put one over on you.”

“I guess,” I said, smiling a little, thinking of that Home Sweet Home air freshener. Definitely not the accessory of a player.

“Wait a minute. There was one detail of this morning’s story that needs further review . . . the part about kissing Ava Taylor’s boy toy?”

“Oh, um, he kissed
me.
And it had more to do with pissing off Gray than, like, really wanting to hook up.”

Maddie gave me a dismissive snort. “Is he hot?”

“Would definitely cast him as the sexy, troubled bad boy in my movie,” Jazz answered.

“Jazz.”

“Holy shit, the girl does have hormones,” Maddie said.

“It was a territorial thing, completely,” I answered.

“Why would you think that? Wren, you’re pretty scorching yourself. Who cares if he kissed you to piss off Grayson? The way I see it, you had two smokin’-hot guys fighting over you in front of Sacred Heart . . . more importantly, in front of Ava Taylor. You’re like my hero today.”

Maddie’s take on the situation might have been out there, but it gave me some hope. Maybe it would be possible to forgive him.

“I know the two of you don’t approve of my . . . fixation . . . with Zach. And I know the cons list sure outweighs the pros on some days, but when he’s with me, he’s
with
me, completely. And his kisses freakin’ make me melt into a hormonal puddle of hotness.”

“What does you being horny have to do with Grayson?” Jazz asked.

“What I’m getting at is—so what if he’s been with other girls? It only means he’s experienced. You’ve been with other guys—is he all jacked up over that? We’re sixteen . . . this is how it’s supposed to be. I’ve seen you and Grayson together, Wren. He’s completely into
you.
Focus on that instead of
thinking about things that went on before you met.” “Easy, in theory,” I said.

“And now that we have all that figured out, I need you to do something for me,” she said, pulling me off the bed. “What?” I asked.

Maddie ran her fingers through my hair again. “Time to play.”

In homeroom on Monday morning, Sister Raphael called me to the front of the room and handed me a slip of paper that read:

Please see me immediately . . . Mrs. Fiore.

Crud.
I was hoping the fistfight had been forgotten. Seeing as I hadn’t been directly involved, I wasn’t sure what she could do. Give me detention for watching?

Enduring the weekend had been punishment enough. I’d fought the urge to call Grayson pretty much up until I’d arrived at school. He didn’t call or text, but I had the feeling he was giving me space. Luke, on the other hand, had texted me twice. I wasn’t sure how he got my cell number, but considering he’d been arm-in-arm with a certain clipboard-holding adversary who must have had it on one of her lists, I didn’t need to be Veronica Mars to figure it out. The first one asking,
R U Ok?
—like he cared. The second one simply read:
you closed your eyes
. . . .

Mrs. Fiore was at her desk, zebra-print half glasses perched
on her nose, Precious Moments coffee mug in her hand. The weather outside her window was dismal and gray, making the fluorescent lighting in her office seem more unnatural. Every wrinkle and imperfection was magnified under the greenish tint. I stood in front of her desk, ignoring the impulse to hurl and thinking of something polite to say.

“Sit,” she said, gesturing toward one of the orange monstrosities.

I put my books on the floor beside the chair and sat down on the edge of the seat.

“You changed your hair,” she said, tilting her head to one side.

“Oh, my friend Maddie did it over the weekend,” I said, running my fingers through my freshly ombré-highlighted hair. Mrs. Fiore eyed the blue streaks that Maddie had insisted on adding around my face to make a statement. Mads swore she’d fix it if I didn’t like it, but I thought it made me look . . . edgy. It felt right, but sitting there under Fiore’s judging gaze, I twirled a section around my fingers, trying to hide it.

“It’s interesting,” she said finally. “But we both know I didn’t bring you in to talk about your hair. We need to discuss what happened over the weekend at the Spirit Club event.”

“Mrs. Fiore, I’m sorry about the fight, it won’t happen—”

“This isn’t about the fight, Wren, although I think I understand why it happened,” she said, leaning back in her chair. My heart stopped. What did she know?

She swiveled in her chair before smoothing out her desk blotter. “I know it’s fun working with the boys from Saint Gabriel’s, but you’re still representing the school.”

“I . . . um . . . what is this about?” I asked.

Mrs. Fiore took off her glasses and leaned toward me.

“I know about your hookup.”

Hookup
sounded so wrong coming from her mouth; she could have flashed me, and I would have been less shocked. My throat tightened as I thought about Luke—even though a forced kiss didn’t qualify as a hookup in my mind.

“Mrs. Fiore, I didn’t hook up with anyone,” I said.

She leaned back again. “Wren, I have several people who told me otherwise.”

“Several people? That’s insane.”

She narrowed her eyes. “So you weren’t next to the boy in question on the bus? Or in the group photo? The same boy who was in a fight with your friend?”

I gripped the edge of my seat, grasping for some way to explain without spilling my guts. “It’s not like it sounds. He kissed me.”

“Are you saying this wasn’t . . . consensual?”

Luke was a shit, but I wasn’t about to make
that
big a deal out of it.

“No.”

“Then what
are
you saying?”

The tone of her voice got under my skin; it was the same
tone she used for her no-Harvard comment to my Honors Lit class, like she knew better than me. “I’m saying it’s none of your business. Why are you even hassling me about it?”

“Yes, it is my business.”

“Who told you about this? Ava?”

“That doesn’t matter,” she said.

“Yes, it does,” I said, standing up. “You’re accusing me of something that didn’t happen, so what you’re really saying is that you believe her over me.”

She stood up. “But something
did
happen,” she said, jabbing the top of her desk with her index finger. “You just admitted it. If this is how you carry yourself outside school, that’s your business—but you were on my time. That’s the real issue. And I take our commitment to Saint Lucy’s seriously.”

“Seriously?
Really? You think making a wreath out of pompoms was fun for those people? News flash: That stops being fun after preschool. There’s nothing better we can do with our time there?”

“Sit down, Miss Caswell.”

My heart raced as I caved and dropped down into the chair. I’d never raised my voice to a teacher before.

“I could easily give you a detention over this,” she said, still standing. “But I won’t. Just a warning.” She sat down and looked at me, waiting. This was the most in-depth “gettin’ real” conversation I’d ever had with Mrs. Fiore. If there was any time to speak my mind, it was in that moment.

“Why don’t you think any of us are going to Harvard?”

She flustered. “I didn’t mean it the way you’re implying.”

“Well, it sounded pretty clear. I don’t want to be told what I
can’t
do before I even start trying.”

She ran her fingers across her lips, then rested her chin in her hand. “The truth is that the majority of you won’t go to an Ivy League school, and that’s fine. There are so many options out there. Different paths. It’s my job to let you know what choices you have, help you find your way. Although I don’t think
your
best path would be making the Vatican out of toothpicks.”

I laughed. “I wasn’t serious about that.”