The Promise of Amazing (6 page)

“When I got in trouble, you scattered,” I said.

“That’s not entirely true,” Luke began as if he were leading a Socratic seminar about the topic of my expulsion. “You agreed it was better if we all lie low for a while. And as for the summer, no one got together. Don’t you get it? Seeing you get caught was too close for comfort. But we’ve regrouped.
Operation Amsterdam is on again. Andy, Dev, and Logan are completely on board. This, my friend, is your wake-up call.”

“My wake-up call? Why do you think I’d want anything to do with that anymore?”

“Stopped by Spiro’s today. He said I just missed you. You were with a preeeeeetty girl,” he said, mimicking Spiro’s accent.

“I’m not allowed to get a cup of coffee?”

“There are lots of places for coffee. Just thought you might be ready to start up again.”

“I’m not,” I said, wondering when Spiro had become a gossip hound. Time to find a new coffee joint.

“Don’t be stupid, Grayson. We need
you
.”

“That’s too bad, ’cause Ima-out, my friendah.”

“Barrett, come on,” he said.

I hated when he patronized me. “Luke, you really have no clue. There are worse things than getting expelled.”

All those months of no contact made me realize how lucky we were to
not
get caught. Selling term papers got me a slap on the wrist, but the Operation Amsterdam stuff? I couldn’t even go there. Luke was silent, but I could practically hear his wheels spinning, charging up his counterargument.

“Grayson, I know you. Yeah, you got a raw deal, but you’ll spin-doctor it up and turn it to your advantage. So, no
pressure. We’re here when you’re ready. Just think about it. Maybe while you’re in Welding,” he answered.

“Bite me,” I said.

“We’ll be in touch,” he said, hanging up.

I jumped off the couch, grabbed my dish and soda can, and hurled them into the sink. Coke spilled across the white marble countertop, glugging out of the can like a gushing artery. I watched, transfixed; Tiff would have a cow. My mess. Again. I raked my hands into my hair, tugging at my roots and yowling the mother of all curse words up toward the ceiling.

The drums. An hour on the drums would make me feel better. Luke Dobson could kiss my bottom-feeding, public-education ass. Getting away from St. Gabe’s was the best thing that ever happened to me. A detour. That’s all. Luke, Andy, Dev, and Logan could do whatever they wanted with Operation Amsterdam. I was done.

I stormed downstairs to the haven I’d created for myself over the summer. The white, hot fist of anger in my chest finally began to unfurl. I’d blast some punk, pound the drums like an animal until my muscles ached. Exculpation through sweat and music.

I’d done my time, hadn’t I? The course of my life had changed because I wouldn’t rat out others like me. There was something noble in that, right?

Ah, and there he was: Grayson, the spin doctor.

What would Wren think if she saw me now? This unhinged?
Would she back away like she did at the park? How strange but sexy it felt arguing with her. It was the first honest interaction I’d had with a girl in . . . well, years. And it felt good. Just listening to her. The rise and fall of her voice as she spoke my name after I asked her if she regretted saving me.

God, Grayson, no, I’m not thinking that at all
, she’d said.

The way we met, at this point in my life, had to mean something.

I
needed
to see her again.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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

FIVE

WREN

THANKSGIVING MORNING I HID FROM THE WORLD
, safe in the sweet spot of my mattress where all the lingering worries of school, future plans, and foxy term-paper pimps melted away. Not going to the Turkey Day game with Dad and Josh for the first time in six years felt a bit blasphemous, and when my father yelled up the stairs that the Caswell bus was leaving in ten, I resisted the tiniest urge to yell,
Wait for me!
Instead I rolled over and burrowed deeper under my comforter. Daring to change up tradition. Content to keep the world at bay for at least another hour.

Yeah, right.

The biggest reason I was wimping out was because I didn’t want to run into Trevor. And I would have; it was inevitable. I’d overheard Josh on the phone with him finalizing plans
to meet up near the concession stand. What if he had a college girl with him? Or worse—what if he didn’t and wanted to hook up? I didn’t want to stutter out small talk or worry if I had snot running down my face or pretend everything was just fine and that we could be friends for my brother’s sake.

It might have been worth the risk though, for the off chance to bump into Grayson. Who did he hang out with? What team would he root for? Did he even go to the game? I tried to put him out of my mind. He was a walking, talking DANGER flag. Cheater. Liar. Secretive.
Hawt
. Ugh. It was maddening. Any time I checked off the reasons to avoid him, I’d picture him in front of school, leaning against his faded car. Hands in pockets, swoon-worthy grin, deep brown eyes full of the promise of amazing. And I felt myself getting sucked in by the desire to wrap my arms around him in a different way than the Heimlich.

The slow creak of my bedroom door pulled me back to the present. I kept my eyes shut, feigning sleep as I heard muted tiptoeing on the carpet. One side of my comforter lifted, and the mattress gave way to the pressure of someone climbing in.

“Wrennie, wake up,” my sister cooed, scratching my back.

“Five more minutes,” I protested.

“Come on, I haven’t seen you in, like, forever. The least you can do is have some cinnamon rolls with me before we become Camelot slaves,” she said. Football and freezing were my mother’s least favorite things, so her own Turkey Day
tradition involved scratch-made cinnamon rolls and the televised Macy’s parade before the frenzy of the Camelot buffet. Getting first dibs on breakfast made missing the game even better. Brooke dug more urgently into my sides until I had to give in and giggle.

“Okay, stop, Brooke. I’m up, I’m up,” I said, batting her ice-cold hands away.

I rolled over to face her. Her cheeks glowed, the tip of her nose red. Cold seemed to emanate off her skin, but her eyes were playful.
Beautiful Brooke
.

“When did you get in?”

“Only about ten minutes ago. Can’t you feel it?” she asked, putting her hands under the back of my pajama top by my neck. I squealed and shot up out of the bed; the comforter fell to the floor.

“Nice,” I said.

“Had to get you up somehow. Why’d you bail on the game?”

“Do you have to ask?” Brooke had been my breakup guru in the wake of the hump-and-dump. She’d snap me out of crying jags with spontaneous Rollerblading or splurges at Sephora. Telling me over and over again that Trevor, or any guy, was just not worth falling apart over.

“Meh, you should have worn your cutest outfit and shown him how much better off you are being free,” she said, leaning back on her elbows.

“I have no cute subdegree clothes,” I said, shrugging on my fuzzy blue robe.

“His loss, our gain: The Caswell chicks have the house to themselves,” she said, sitting up. “Might not be that way much longer.”

Our house, which had always bustled with noise and friends, had been quiet with my sibs away at school. My parents and I had fallen into a predictable daily rhythm of dinner, then heading to our various personal spaces to do whatever. I wasn’t complaining, but it was odd being an only child for weeks at a time. Calm. Empty. Lonely. I knew the change was inevitable, could hear it in my father’s joking as he talked about downsizing and moving to Key West when he and Mom retired and we were all out of the house, but I held on to these moments when Brooke was home, or Josh was back upstairs pounding around and listening to his music too loud. Even if only for a little while, the house felt full and lived-in again.

“We have a good three hours before Josh and Dad get back,” I said, crouching on the floor to see if my slippers were under the bed.

Brooke shimmied her way to the edge of the mattress, toes grazing the floor.

“I’m not talking about the game.”

“Is Pete coming over?” I asked, standing up from my fruitless search.

“Not exactly.” Her lips curled into a sly grin, eyebrow
cocked in a perfect seductive C curve. Whenever I tried to pull this Brooke face move, I came off like a weathered pirate.

“Why are you acting so weird?”

“You noticed?”

I had no clue why she was being so cryptic and was not in the mood to coax her out of it, especially with the delicious scent of my mother’s cinnamon rolls wafting up from the kitchen. I scanned the floor again. Success. My slippers sat askew by my closet. I padded over to get them, and shoved my frozen feet into the warm fleece. Brooke just sat there, the same expression on her face, like she was waiting for me to say more.

“Spill, Brooke.”

“I’m pregnant,” she said, slow, the words rising and lingering like helium balloons above my head.

“What?”

She put her finger to her lips and motioned with her eyes toward my open door. I clicked the door shut and perched on the bed next to her, keeping my distance, as if her pregnancy were contagious.

“You’re the first person I’ve told—well, besides Pete,” she said, letting out a deep breath. “So what do you think?”

Brooke had a plan: living in DC. Law school. Midsize firm. Fighting for the rights of the little people.
Baby
was not supposed to happen until after thirty. And not until she and Peter Hutchins the Third got married in grand style sometime in
the fall. Far away from the Camelot. By a lake. With the trees a riot of autumn colors. Me in a champagne-colored, strapless bridesmaid gown. Honeymoon in Bora-Bora in one of those little huts over the water. Yes. “The plan” was
that
detailed.

My hand still covered my mouth in shock.
What did I think?
Holy effing shit! is what I thought, but I wasn’t about to tell that to Brooke, who suddenly looked so emotionally naked in front of me, I knew anything other than enthusiasm would knock her down.

“Congrats?” I said.

“You don’t sound happy for me,” she said, pouting.

“Okay, rewind. . . . That’s incredible news! Pete must be over the moon.”

Her face brightened at the mention of Pete.

“I know it sounds crazy, but he
is
over the moon. We both are. It’s not ideal, I know, but whenever I worry about how things will go, I realize there’s this little piece of us growing inside me, and it’s just so . . .” She fell back on the bed, golden hair splayed out behind her, and finished with a breathy sigh. “. . . sexy.”

“Sexy?” I asked, leaning back on my elbows. “I don’t think you should mention that when you break the news.”

She traced small circles on her belly with the tips of her fingers. “How do you think Ruth and Jimmy are going to react?”

I wanted to say the magic words my sister longed to hear, but really? How was I supposed to know how our parents
would react? Brooke was twenty-one, living with Pete, and almost finished with her first semester at Georgetown Law; my father was thrilled at the thought of another lawyer in the family. Whenever he spoke to anyone about Brooke upholding the tradition, he all but gushed. Knocked up and in her first semester might not be gushworthy, but I think she already knew that.

“Fly off the handle? Shit a two-ton brick? What other cliché can we come up with for a nuclear meltdown? When do you plan on telling them?”

“I don’t know. I really don’t want to spring this on them with all that’s going on with the Camelot, but I’ll be showing by Christmas, and I think that would be sort of worse, don’t you?”

“What’s going on with the Camelot?”

Her eyebrows drew together as she rolled onto her side to face me. “You can’t tell me you don’t know. Business is down, and that’s a prime piece of real estate. Mom has been fielding offers for years, but I think now she might be listening.”

I hadn’t thought it was possible to be more shocked after my sister’s announcement.

“But . . . we’re busy.”

“Not really, Wrennie. When I worked, there were back-to-back weddings every weekend. Now there’s one or two at the most, right? And what about today? One sitting for the buffet. Last year there were three.”

“Did Mom tell you this?” I asked.

“No one has to tell me anything. The writing’s on the wall. Don’t get so upset. Your weekends can be your own again. No more white, starched shirts with grease stains, no more obnoxious guests, no more having to jump in and save people from choking,” she said, tugging a strand of my hair.

And just like that, Grayson in all his term-paper-pimp glory exploded back into my thoughts, practically sitting on the edge of my bed behind Brooke, his dark eyes saying,
Tell her about me
. I bit my lip.

“That was pretty amazing, squirt.”

I met the guy, Brooke. He’s charming and scary and so freakin’ hot, I can’t stop thinking about him and the sexy way the top button of his Henley tee was undone
.

“What can I say? All in a day’s work,” I answered with a shrug.

“Just think, next Thanksgiving can be normal . . . at home, like in all those holiday songs. Not eating buffet leftovers after serving all day.”

“C’mon, it’s not that bad, Brooke. I kind of like it. You know, I was even thinking maybe one day . . .” I paused. This would be the first time I said it out loud to a member of my family, and while it seemed like a small announcement compared to bringing a new life into the world, well, it was
mine
. “I could run it. Maybe go to school for business or hospitality or something like that.”

Brooke sat up so quickly, I thought she might slide off the bed.

“Oh, God, no. You don’t want that.”

“Maybe I do,” I answered, slightly put off by her quick and emphatic rejection.