The Promise of Amazing (30 page)

Luke looked at me, then at Andy. “Get her out of here.”

Andy pulled back my arms until it felt like they’d come out of their sockets. I lurched forward, trying to break away, but he had me in an impossible hold.

“Foley, what are you doing?” Gray asked.

“You didn’t think he’d tell me what was going on?” Luke asked, moving closer to Andy and me.

“Gray, dude, I’m neutral. Kiss and make up already. I’ve got a house party to hit by ten,” Andy said.

“Let me go.” I tried to wrench free from Andy. He tugged me back. Grayson took a step toward us, and Luke blocked his way.

“I’ll give you the necklace. Why don’t we just call it even?”

“Class act giving it to Wren, by the way. No. I want something bigger. What about those Marshall amps back there? Are they shit or vintage? What do you think we can get for them, Andy?”

“No!”
I said.

“Not sure, can’t tell, maybe a couple of hundred,” Andy said, behind me.

“You can’t have them,” I insisted.

“Or,” Luke said, “maybe Wren should join us. Might shake things up, having a chick on the team. She was quite convincing. I think we may have shared a genuine moment.”

Grayson was on him in an instant. They tumbled into the end table, knocking over the lamp, which landed with a crack and went out. I screamed. Andy pulled me away from the commotion. I fought him the whole time, grunting, leaning forward, thrashing back, trying to kick my legs up or gain leverage on the wall as he pulled me into the kitchen and away from the door frame.

“Let . . . me . . . go,” I said, struggling. “They’re wrecking the place.”

“And what are you going to do about it? Just let them hash it out. It’ll be over soon.”

I huffed while a blur of Grayson and Luke passed before the doorway, followed by another loud rumble against the wall.
Over soon
was not something I was willing to wait for; they had to be stopped.

“Sorry, Andy,” I said, stomping down on his toe as hard as I could.

Andy dropped an F-bomb as he let go. I scurried out of the kitchen just as a loud
crash
erupted in the sitting room. Grayson stood in the center of the room, doubled over and gasping. Luke popped up from behind the love seat, brushing glass off his sleeve from the front window. I tried not to think about how I was going to deal with that and instead crouched down next to Grayson.

“Are you okay?” I asked. There was a dark, glistening trickle coming from his nose.

“I’m fine. Wren . . . get out of here . . . now.”

“You’re bleeding,” I said, moving the hair away from his face.

He stood up and grabbed my shoulders. “Please, just go.”

“Yes, Wren, get out of here,” Luke said, behind me.

I spun around and stood firm in front of Grayson.

“Stop, already,” I said.

“Move away,” Luke growled, coming closer.

“Dudes, really, enough,” Andy said, finally emerging from the kitchen. He stepped toward Luke but was greeted with a punch. He staggered back, holding his nose.

“Just take the amps, go!” I yelled.

Luke bared his teeth. Grayson gripped my shoulders from behind, shoving me out of the way.

Beams of light swirled across the floor, onto the ceiling, on
Luke’s bloodied face, in my eyes.

I put up my hands and tried to squint the pain away, but the light got brighter. I felt Grayson’s hands around my waist, pulling me to him, and heard a loud, deep voice yell:

“Break it up!”

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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

TWENTY-FOUR

GRAYSON

NO FEAR, AND SILENCE
.

That was always our contingency plan—because when you’re screwing girls, swiping goods, taking the profit, and planning a monthlong party in Europe, you needed to know how to deal if the cops ever got involved. Sounds simple, until reality hits and you realize that fear part? You’ve got no control over it.

I stood about a foot away from Wren, hands over my head, willing my jackhammer heart to slow down. I wanted to hold her hand, tell her this was all going to be okay, but really? Another siren blared outside, short and loud. I didn’t know how many police cars were outside, but from the glow of the red and blue lights flashing strobic across our faces, my guess would’ve been a very unscientific shitload.

Luke and Andy were on the other side of me. Luke didn’t look particularly concerned—with the exception of the blood on his face and his hands in the air, he could have been waiting to get a haircut. Andy, on the other hand, looked as fragile as a preschooler about to hurl. He winced as he was patted down.

A cop pulled something out of Andy’s front pocket.

“What’s this?” he asked, bringing up a baggie to his nose.

Andy made a series of spluttering noises and looked over at us. The cop shook his head and reached for his cuffs.

Luke and I shared what was probably the first and last look of friendly agreement in a long time. I imagined the collective thought bubble over our heads would read:

Fucking. Bonehead. Stoner
.

I wanted to pummel Andy. Shake some sense into him. It was stupid enough for him to rat to Luke about what we were doing, but carrying a freakin’ dime bag around like a pack of Skittles? Luke muttered and looked up toward the ceiling. Andy was cuffed. We were screwed.

There were more voices and footsteps coming toward the cottage. Someone whistled long and low. Mrs. Caswell’s face appeared behind the shattered window, her eyebrows jagged lines of anger as she took in the empty space. She said something to one of the officers outside and put her phone to her ear.

Then Mr. Caswell walked in, followed by two more officers.

The officer closest to the door saw him and smiled. “Jimmy? Why’d they send someone from the prosecutor’s office?”

“Not here officially, Mike. Just here. Family business,” he said, patting the officer’s shoulder before taking a look around.

“Your father’s with the prosecutor’s office? Priceless,” Luke whispered, peering over at Wren. She wrinkled her nose at him.

“Unless one of you wants to explain why you’re here, I’d keep silent,” said the younger cop who’d cuffed Andy and was standing beside him.

“Sorry, sir,” Luke said.

Mr. Caswell took in the damage, looking from the window to the lamp to the fallout on the floor. He crunched some broken glass with his foot and kicked it aside. Then he folded his arms and stood in front of us, eyes on fire like the fucking Chernabog.

That should have been my cue to tell him this was my fault. That I’d pay for the glass. That I’d steam clean the carpet. That Wren was the most innocent party in all of this.

Except my nuts pretty much slithered down my leg and crawled out of the building when his eyes landed on me.
Your father was defensive tackle. No one could get by him
. All I could think of was Pop’s description of Mr. Caswell. Fitting. Safe to assume my marginal cater-waiter skills would no longer be needed at the Camelot.

“Would someone like to tell me what’s going on?”

“Dad—please . . . we were just hanging out . . . things got out of hand,” Wren said.

“Hanging out?” He motioned for one of the officers and took him aside to speak to him. The officer looked at Wren and nodded. Wren’s mom came into the cottage, her face grim as she took in the scene. Our eyes met. I had to look away. Mr. Caswell called Wren over.

“Wren. Go with your mother to the office. Now.”

I stole a glance at Wren. Her eyes were wide, sad.

Sorry
, I mouthed.

“Don’t look at her,” Mr. Caswell said to me.

“Dad, it’s not Grayson’s—”

“Wren. Go.”

Mrs. Caswell put her arm around Wren, but she wrestled away and got closer to her father. “No. It’s my fault too. Don’t send me away.”

He gave her a look so forceful, I half expected Wren to crash into the wall behind her. “Take. Her. Out. Of. Here,” he said to Mrs. Caswell.

Wren relented, looking over her shoulder at me as her mother led her out.

Her father turned back to us. A half dozen cops were behind him . . . waiting.

“Seeing as my daughter was the only one without blood on her face, it’s safe to say she had nothing to do with this damage?”

“Yes, sir,” we all mumbled together.

“You’re Blake’s son,” he said, stepping closer. “Can’t imagine he’d approve.”

“No, sir.”

He crossed his arms again, staring me down. His eyes were the same shade of blue as Wren’s but without the openness. This look told me exactly what he thought of me. Not much. Again this was a moment to defend myself, us. My mind went blank.

“There’s a couple of hundred dollars’ worth of damage here, if not more . . . wanna tell me why you were here?” he asked.

At least the silence part of our original plan was intact.

“Fine then,” the officer who found us first on the scene said. “We’ll sort this out at HQ.”

I’d been to the police station once before, in second grade, to learn about fingerprinting and get my picture taken with McGruff the Crime Dog. Not much had changed. It was the same generic, white-walled office with fluorescent lighting and rows of desks. Except the computers were flat screens and took up less space. Oh, and I wasn’t there to “Take a Bite out of Crime.”

“Grayson Barrett.”

I sat next to the detective’s desk on what had to be the world’s most uncomfortable chair. Metal-framed with worn,
brown cushions. A support bar dug into my ass. The guy taking my information wore a pale orange polo; an ID dangled in front of his chest on a thick, black cord from around his neck. He smiled, held out his hand.

“Yes, sir,” I replied, shaking his hand.

“Detective Charlie Preisano. Want anything while you wait for your parents? There’s a vending machine outside, got those Pretzel M&M’s everyone’s raving about.”

“No, thank you, sir.”

“How about a soda? Water?”

At the far end of the office, I saw Luke slouched in a chair next to another desk, a bottle of Coke next to him. Andy was under arrest and being held somewhere else, thanks to his baggie.

“Got any Gatorade?” I asked, pretty sure I couldn’t swallow it. Not getting anything would make me look scared or guilty. And I wasn’t guilty of anything. Not tonight, at least. I had to keep reminding myself of that. No fear. “Gatorade? Let me check.”

Detective Preisano stood up. After a hushed conversation with someone behind me, he came back and sat down.

“Might be a Powerade, is that okay?”

“Fine, thanks.”

“Things got out of hand tonight, huh?” he asked, leaning back in his chair. “Must have gotten in a couple of good jabs; the other guy looks worse than you.”

I shrugged.

“What were you fighting over?”

“Nothing.”

His eyes went directly to my cheek. It still throbbed where Luke had landed a strong right hook.

“You’re pretty banged up over nothing. Sure this wasn’t, say, drug related?”

“No, sir.”

“So the marijuana your friend has? Nothing to do with this?”

“I didn’t even know he had it,” I answered truthfully.

He nodded slowly, thinking it over. “Three boys and a girl found in a place of business after hours. A fight. Broken windows. Blood. Something’s a little off, don’t you think?”

Another officer placed the Powerade in front of me.
Sour-fucking-melon flavor
. The night just kept getting worse. Detective Preisano nodded thanks as he undid the cap and handed me the bottle.

“We were just hanging out.”

“Why there? No better place to be on a Friday night?”

I took a sip of the Powerade, stalling. My head swam.

“And you had no clue your friend was carrying drugs? No intention to light up?”

“No, sir. I don’t smoke.”

“Never?”

“I have. Before. But no, it’s not my thing.”

“So if it’s not drugs you were fighting about . . . then what was it . . . the girl?” There was laughter in his tone when he said “the girl.” Wren did not need to be dragged into this any further than she already was.

“Sir, if you don’t mind, I’d rather wait until my father gets here to answer any more questions.”

Detective Preisano exhaled out his nose, nodding slowly. “Okay, fair enough.”

As a bullshit artist, one of the things I had to master was shutting down any part of my brain directly wired to my conscience. Sometimes, when I was with a girl and could see she dug me way more than I dug her, well, yeah, it would bother me, but I could always stuff it down. I’d imagine I was alone in the world. Invincible and above feeling compassion. I’d always be able to step back into my life, my house, and eat dinner across from Pop and Tiff, chatting without missing a beat about the latest episode of
The Walking Dead
or a Chem test I’d aced.

Those worlds collided at the police station.

Pop walked in looking paler than I’d ever seen him, even when he was in the hospital. He wore his long, black dress coat over track pants and a T-shirt. And his hair had that rumpled look, as if he’d run his hand through it a hundred times and forgotten to smooth it back down. Picking your son up at the police station was not high on the list of good things
to do in recovery of a not-quite heart attack. When he saw my face, all he muttered was, “Christ.”

Detective Preisano rose and shook Pop’s hand.

“Hey, Charlie, come here a minute,” the detective talking to Luke said, waving him over. Detective Preisano raised a finger to let him know he’d be right over.

“Mr. Barrett, feel free to take a seat. I’ll be right back,” he said.

Pop waited until he was out of earshot to speak.

“Grayson, what the hell is going on?”

“I got in a fight with Luke, Pop. It just got out of hand.”

“Luke?” he asked, running a hand through his hair. “Why?”

I shrugged. He sighed, reached into his pocket, and jammed a piece of gum in his mouth. Just then Luke, being led by the other detective, brushed by us. He wouldn’t look at Pop or at me. My stomach fell to my feet. Detective Preisano was behind them.