The Promise of Amazing (3 page)

His navy-blue jacket stretched taut across his back with each breath. Brown-suit guy put a glass of water in front of him, but Gray waved it off. He stood up straight and turned toward me, mouth dropped open like he had something to say.

His dark brown eyes held mine for a second. Open. Honest.
Longing
. As if the hot-dog-tossing tool was just some mask he’d put on for the party. A wave of recognition coursed through me. Did I know him? No. I’d never seen him before . . . but . . . I took a step toward him.

He blinked and lurched forward.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

Then he hurled all over my black Reeboks.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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TWO

GRAYSON

REGURGITATING ON SOMEONE’S SHOES IS NOT
the best way to make a first impression.

Especially after that someone saved your life.

I wiped my mouth along the sleeve of my suit jacket, eyes zeroing in on her black sneakers and the puddle of upchuck around them. The noise of the room was smothered by the
ba-bum, ba-bum
of my heartbeat in my head—a jagged zigzag of pain. The Weenie Girl was a statue of calm shock, mouth slightly open, brows knit, as her eyes went from the pool of vomit on the floor to my face.

I was breathing, and it was a miracle.

“Grayson?”

Hands were on me. Voices urged me to sit. A chair slid underneath me, and I flopped down onto it. All the while
my eyes remained on hers. She brushed some stray hair away from her face, tucking it behind her ear. The distance between us closed, and it was just . . . her. And me. Calm in the chaos. The hair tumbled across her face again. My fingers ached to sweep it away. I wanted to say something, but for once words wouldn’t come. Then Pop blocked her from view.

“Grayson, are you all right?”

They all thought I’d been joking. So, okay, pretending to choke would have been some smart-ass spectacle I might have pulled, but I doubt I could have been so convincing.

He clapped his hands in front of my face.

“What, Pop?” I croaked. His weathered brow creased as he tugged me to standing.

“You need some air,” he said, gripping my forearm. We knifed through the crowd made up of the extended Barrett family, always ready for a party. I craned my neck, searching over the sea of animated faces for the Weenie Girl, but she was gone.

Pop led me through glass doors into the dark lobby. The doors glided to a close, muffling the band’s campy rendition of “I Get a Kick out of You.” He took me to a quiet corner, right next to a shiny suit of armor, which was so out of the ordinary, it made the whole episode more surreal. My head throbbed.

“Grayson,” he said.

“Pop, I’m fff—” I began, but got distracted by the rise
and fall of party noise as the doors to the ballroom opened again.
Weenie Girl
. But no, it was my stepmother, Tiffany, sauntering over holding a martini glass filled with bright blue liquid.

“What happened?”

“Nothing, I’m fine,” I said.

“It’s not nothin’,” Pop said. “He almost choked to death.”

She let out a high-pitched squeak and placed her martini glass on the stone mantelpiece.

“Grayson Matthew, are you okay?” she asked, one hand running through my hair, the other on my cheek, as she gave me a once-over. Tiff liked to use my middle name for emphasis when something significant happened. I’d heard it a lot in anger after I got tossed out of St. Gabe’s last spring. This soft version, almost a whisper, was something new, and I felt myself falling into it.

“I’m fantastic,” I said, shrugging her off. “Can’t we just go back in?”

“Gray, you’re loopy. I’d feel better if you got checked out. We can hit the ER and be back before they cut the cake,” Pop said.

Tiff ruffled. “Let me get my coat and say some good-byes.”

“Tiffany, no. You stay. Mingle,” Pop said.

She put her hand to her chest and sighed. “Are you sure?”

“Yep. Gray and I will be filling out paperwork and fannin’ our balls at the ER. Nothin’ we can’t handle.”

I stifled a laugh and winced, my throat still raw.

“Really, Blake, do you have to be so crude?” Tiff asked.

“C’mon, you love me,” he said, pulling her in for a kiss so intense, I felt like a perv for witnessing. When your father gets more action than you do, it’s all sorts of wrong. Like natural selection gone awry.

They were rubbing noses as a woman in a dark suit walked up to us. She tucked a strand of short blond hair behind her ear, folded her arms, and waited uncomfortably until Pop and Tiff broke apart.

“Are you the boy who choked?”

The Boy Who Choked
. Pretty much summed up my seventeenth year.

“Yes,” I answered.

She turned to Make-Out Master Blake Barrett. “I can call the paramedics if you want. I’m—”

“No, that won’t be necessary. We’re going to the emergency room,” Pop answered, cutting her off. Her eyes widened, and she tucked her hair behind her ear again. There was something vaguely familiar . . .

“You have a daughter,” I said.

“Grayson, are you okay?” Pop asked.

“She works here,” I continued, ignoring him.

“Yes. Wren. Do you know her?”

“She saved my life.” The phrase sounded strange, dramatic as it hung in the air.

“Really? I was downstairs checking on another event. The minute I heard I came up. I’m still not quite sure what happened.”

Pop gave her the no-nonsense “he choked on a hot dog, and your daughter did the Heimlich” version, making it sound less epic than it felt. He left out that he’d been at the bar at the time and that my uncles had watched like a panicked Greek chorus while a complete stranger took control of the situation.

A beautiful stranger with a name.

Wren
.

“Please, send me the ER bill,” Wren’s mother said, handing Pop a business card. We were interrupted by a waft of cold air as a vision of white burst through the front door.

“Uncle Blake!”

My cousin Katrina swished across the lobby in her poufy white dress. Pop turned to us and made a short cutting motion with his hand across his throat that I could easily interpret.
Shut your trap. The bride doesn’t want to know someone almost died at her wedding
.

“Trini, you’re a vision,” he said, kissing her cheek.

“The ceremony was so touching,” Tiffany chimed in.

I stood back, feeling about as useful as a bobblehead. A brown-haired bridesmaid, who I’d seriously eye-fucked during the wedding vows, waved to me. Two hours ago the adrenaline surge from flirting had made me rethink my
foray into monkhood. I hadn’t been with anyone since . . . Allegra. A wedding reception where everyone was juiced up and ready to party seemed like a prime moment to get back in the action.

Now it didn’t matter. I was more interested in Wren’s mother and the waiter she was talking to who’d come in behind Katrina. He put a hand up to his mouth, nodded, and disappeared into the ballroom. I was about to follow, hoping he could lead me to Wren so I could say thanks, or what’s up, or whatever was the appropriate thing to say to a person who saved your life, when Pop tugged my sleeve.

“C’mon, Gray.” He waved and mouthed something to Tiff as the wedding party rustled into formation, lining up to make their grand entrance. The pretty bridesmaid tapped my shoulder as we brushed past them.

“Dance later?” she asked. Her glossy lips promised sweetness and warmth. A familiar rush, the thrill of being with a new person, made me pause. Then I thought of Wren; her body pressed against my back, soft but strong, and fighting for me. Even though I’d done jack shit to deserve it.

“No, I’m heading out,” I said, and followed Pop into the brisk autumn evening.

Pop paused at the top of the stairs and fumbled around with a cigarette case and lighter. The business card fell from his pocket. It whirled helicopter-style and landed on the bottom stone step.

“I hate weddings. Here, help me,” he said, cigarette dangling from his lower lip. He handed me the lighter and cupped his hands against the breeze coming off the bay. I ran my thumb across the spark wheel until it flickered with a pop. He sucked in, making it look painful. The tip of the cigarette glowed orange. I tossed him the lighter, and he tucked it back into his jacket.

“You should quit, Pop,” I said, watching him exhale a long stream of smoke.

“Yeah, yeah, I know. That and eat bran fiber. They’re on my list,” he said. “C’mon.”

At the bottom stair, I picked up the business card.

“Here, you dropped this.”

“Don’t need it.”

“But . . . she was nice,” I said, feeling oddly protective.

“Nice?” Pop said. “Gray, she was covering her ass. She doesn’t want to get sued. Not that I would do that to the Caswells.”

“You know her?”

“No, not her,” he answered, shaking his head. He took a hard hit from the cigarette and blew out another deliberate smoke stream. “Jimmy Caswell was first string on St. Gabe’s with me. We took ’em to a championship that year.”

“You never mentioned him,” I said, running my finger across the engraved letters on the card.

Ruth Caswell

Proprietor—Banquet Manager

The Camelot Inn

“Lost touch after high school. He’s an attorney with the city now. Thrown a few clients my way, but that’s as far as it goes. Why so interested?”

“No reason,” I lied, sliding the card into my wallet. “Pop, I don’t need to go to the hospital.”

“Yes, Grayson, you do.” A jet-black Mercedes chirped and lit up as we walked toward it. Pop’s leased wheels to impress potential home buyers. “You’re acting weird. And your mother will be all over me if I don’t take you somewhere to get checked out.”

My mother lived with her new family in a galaxy called Connecticut. It had been six years since their amicable split, but Pop still kissed her ass whenever it concerned me, as if one wrong move would send the divorce police swooping in to demand I live with the more responsible parent. Getting kicked out of St. Gabe’s had made it worse, like it had been Pop’s fault. Sometimes I wanted to shake him and yell,
Stop being a pussy!
and other times, I completely got it. No one did disappointment better than my mother.

“Why do we even have to tell her, Pop? I’m fine.”

“She still talks to some of the family, Gray. All I need is for her to hear this from someone else—”

“Pop, who saw? Uncle Pat? The way he’s drinking, he
probably won’t remember anyway. Come on, let’s go back in.”

He took another drag, then flicked the cigarette to the ground, grinding it out with his foot.

“I can’t go back in there. The walls are closing in around me. Weddings are such a farce.”

“Says the man on his second marriage,” I said.

“That’s different. There was none of this bullshit,” he said, gesturing toward the Camelot. “Just us. City hall. Garbage pie at Denino’s afterward. Remember?”

Getting fresh air had given me a second wind, a desire to go back inside, but I knew Pop would stand his ground. Maybe it was better if I didn’t go back. Wren was probably somewhere hosing off my DNA from her shoe. That’s not something you get over quickly. There’d be another opportunity to meet her, and if not, I’d invent one.

“You know, garbage pie sounds really good. Probably the same wait time at Denino’s as the ER. What do you say, Pop?”

“The Barrett boys on the lam. You sure you feel okay?”

“Never better.”

“You drive,” Pop said, tossing the keys.

I caught them, focusing on the task at hand instead of the gut feeling that meeting Wren was the start of something important. I shook it off as I slid into the driver’s seat.

She’s just a girl, Grayson
.

A girl who saved my life.

I wanted to sweep the hair away from her face, feel her body against me, without an audience or the threat of my imminent death.

Connecting with her had felt
different
.

Real.

I had to get to know her. At least I had her name.
Wren Caswell
. The rest would be easy.

It was what I was good at.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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THREE

WREN

I STARTLED AWAKE. THE CLOCK ON MRS. FIORE’S
wall was ten minutes behind. Every time the second hand reached the number six, it would stick and make a loud clicking noise for a few seconds before continuing its journey around the clock face. With its brown shag carpet and orange vinyl chairs, the dark paneled office made me feel like I’d been transported back to the seventies. The fact that, for a few seconds, time actually
did
stand still didn’t help.

As an addendum to the inspiring None of You Are Going to Harvard speech, each junior had “Three sessions of thirty!” to strategize her chosen path. “Three sessions to chart out a map to the future!” the posters in the hallway read, making the future sound like something you could find with a compass and guide dogs.

At least I’d been pulled out of chem lab, my last class on this very sleepy Monday.

Mrs. Fiore returned, the aroma of coffee wafting behind her. Probably announced to the faculty lounge as she was getting her java fix: “That quiet girl, Wren Caswell, is sitting in my office—like
she’s
going to get in
anywhere
. How can she be Brooke Caswell’s sister? Now, hers was a high school résumé with achievement written all over it.” I straightened out of my slouch as she placed the mug of coffee on her blotter. The mug had a picture of one of those saucer-eyed Precious Moments kids on it with the words God Don’t Make Junk underneath.

She tapped her keyboard a few times then angled the computer screen so I could see. My name, “Caswell, Wren,” was in bold blue lettering at the top of an empty form of some kind.