The Promise of Amazing Read online

  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.

  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.

  “So, Wren, where should we begin?” she asked, putting on a tiny pair of half glasses with zebra-print frames.

  The truth was, I wanted to like Mrs. Fiore. I wanted to have one of those relationships you see on TV where the guidance counselor is your buddy and you can drop by her office on a whim, just to say hi, and she helps you out of some ridiculous predicament involving laxative-laced bake-sale brownies while the laugh track murmurs in the background. I wanted to be one of those students who had a teacher as a friend, someone who really “got” me, but I clammed up the moment I was around anyone in authority. What was there to talk about except school and the weather? Not exactly the stuff of great bonding.

  “I don’t have a clue,” I finally answered.

  “That’s pretty exciting. The world is open to you then, isn’t it?”

  All except Harvard.

  “It’s overwhelming,” I answered.

  So overwhelming, it was easier not to think about. I thought I wanted to continue with school, but unlike Jazz, who was gunning for Cornell to follow her mom, or Maddie, who was determined to go to Pratt and become the next Frank Lloyd Wright, I never had my sights on anything so specific. Not law, like my father and Brooke. Josh seemed to like Rutgers, but was that a reason to go there? The stark reality of my average grades made me wonder if maybe my path was elsewhere. Did I really need a college degree to run the Camelot? What if I started straight out of school? Would Mom want me to?

  “Well, that’s why we’re having these sessions. You have to reframe that overwhelmed feeling. Take charge. Do you plan on going to college?”

  “I . . . um . . . maybe?” I answered. “I’ve been thinking there might be something different for me.”

  Her eyes looked bewildered as she peered at me above her zebra frames.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, what about, say . . . Mark Zuckerberg, the creator of Facebook? He dropped out of college and he’s a bazillionaire, no degree necessary. Or what if I don’t even know what I want to pursue, but I fall into it, like that guy on the insurance commercial . . . the one who made the Vatican out of toothpicks?”

  “The Vatican out of toothpicks?” she asked, glancing over her shoulder at the defective clock.

  “Yes. Not that I’d do that, I just, well . . .” The words spilled out of my mouth one after the other before I could stop them. I was derailing. A flush crept up my neck. “Well, my family owns a catering hall, the Camelot. I was thinking I could run that someday.”

  This was something she could grasp on to; the smile returned to her face. “Business, maybe? Or are you more interested in the hospitality part of it?”

  “Not sure.”

  “Well, we can evaluate your interests and test scores and see where that leads. Here’s the password to your account,” she said, scribbling down a series of letters and numbers on a paper and handing it to me. “Start by taking the personality assessment. We’ve got incredible capabilities with our new computer programs; you can use some of your study periods to research schools, even schedule visits. We can also see where your application can be ramped up. . . .”

  I tried to process all the information, but by the end of the thirty minutes I was more confused than ever. I promised to research at least three schools I’d like to apply to next year and made an appointment for my second visit in February, which felt light-years away.

  Jazz waved when I walked back into the chemistry lab with ten minutes to spare. I mimed hanging myself with a noose and let my tongue loll out of my mouth.

  “That good, Miss Caswell?” Sister Marie asked.

  I truly sucked at the teacher/student-bonding thing.

  “So what did you talk about? Does she grill you about your personal life?” Jazz asked as we left school for the day and walked down the long driveway next to the building.

  “No, thank God.” I imagined Mrs. Fiore’s reaction to the cocktail-frank incident at work this past Friday. “Saving Grayson.” What an amazing topic f
or your personal essay! How did you know what to do? What were you thinking? The attention of my coworkers was more than I could handle. Even Jazz and Maddie were floored when I told them. As odd as it sounded, I had no clue how I pulled that set of skills out of my ass. I’d learned about the Heimlich maneuver in health class and had passed the poster on the wall in the Camelot more times than I could count, but neither one really prepared me for the reality of having someone’s life in my hands.

  “Just stuff about school,” I continued. “I have to research colleges. Think about how I can possibly shore up the holes in my high school career.”

  “Since when is going to high school a career?” asked Maddie, panting as she ran to catch up to us.

  “Mads, you sound a little breathless there,” Jazz said. “You should come with me on my interval runs.”

  “No, Wren and I are doing the yoga thing. Maybe you should join us?”

  “When does that start again?” I asked.

  “The Thursday after Thanksgiving.”

  “I work at my mom’s office on Thursdays,” Jazz said, “but maybe I could try a class sometime. I’m always so tight after my long runs. Doing both is a great way to cross-train, Mads. Just tossing that out there.”

  “I can think of better ways to cross-train. Let’s toss out something more interesting, like how we’re going to spend Thanksgiving break.”

  “Easy. I’m working,” I answered.

  “No,” they both said.

  “Yes.”

  “What about the Turkey Day game? All those college boys home from school . . .” Mads trailed off as though she were envisioning a stadium full of hot guys.

  “C’mon, Wren, it’s tradition,” Jazz said.

  The annual Turkey Day game between St. Gabe’s and Bergen Point High was Bayonne’s version of the Super Bowl. Everyone went to cheer on the two bitter rivals, the prep boys and the public scrubs. Bergen Point usually wiped the field with St. Gabe’s defensive line, and there was always an undercurrent that the game was more a battle of classes than of school teams. Sacred Heart girls were supposed to cheer for our unofficial brother school, but Jazz, Mads, and I went more for the eye candy—prep, scrub, anything in between—didn’t matter, we didn’t take sides. This year, though, I wanted no chance of seeing Trevor home for the holidays. Huge stadium, small world—it would be just my luck to run into him and do something stupid like dribble hot chocolate down my peacoat. Not. A. Chance.

  “Maybe,” I lied, offering them some hope as we reached the end of the drive and emptied out into Sacred Heart’s thrumming social hub . . . aka the street in front of school.

  “Hey, Weenie Girl!”

  No. Way.

  “Wren, did that guy just call you Weenie Girl?” Mads asked, picking up her pace as she realized what was happening. “Omigod, that’s Puke Boy, isn’t it? You didn’t accurately convey how friggin’ hot he is!”

  Sure enough, two cars away from the driveway stood Grayson, leaning against a crappy beige convertible with a darker tan soft-top. The car was worn and pale, like it had been out in the sun too long, but there was something about it. A car with character. It made him more approachable.

  Maddie sauntered up to Grayson, said something to make him laugh, and waved us over.

  “Wren, this is so Pretty in Pink . . . totally Blaine hacking into Andie’s computer and sending his picture,” Jazz whispered, taking hold of my elbow.

  “Stop,” I said, trying to tame my smile, because seeing him here did feel as unreal as a movie moment, but I didn’t want to be that obvious.

  Grayson looked younger than I remembered. His hair was a tousled mess, with those jagged bangs hanging in his eyes, and he wore this retro-style blazer with patches at the elbows that he managed to make look cool. He had an eyebrow piercing by his left eye—something I hadn’t noticed at the wedding. And there was that grin again. A dazzling sun drawing me into orbit. The attempt to control my smile was futile.

  “Sorry, I couldn’t resist yelling that,” he said as I reached him. “Besides, we were never formally introduced.”

  “Wren Caswell,” I said, white-knuckling the strap of my messenger bag as if it were a lifeline. God, I wished I’d had the time to pop a piece of gum in my mouth.

  “Grayson Barrett.”

  Jazz poked me.

  “Oh, um, this is my friend Jazz, and you already met Maddie,” I said, gesturing to her while she scrutinized Gray’s car. From the curl of her upper lip I could tell she wasn’t impressed—at least not with his ride.

  “Jazzzzzzzzz,” he said. Jazz loosened her grip on my arm and giggled. “I like it.”

  “How are you feeling?” I asked.

  “I’m breathing, so it’s all good.”

  A girl called out his name, he shrugged one shoulder in greeting, and then it dawned on me. How stupid could I have been? He wasn’t there for me. This was just a coincidence.

  “Well, I guess I’ll, um, see you,” I said, backing away.

  Gray’s brows drew together. “Oh, I . . . I came to see if you felt like getting a coffee or something,” he said. “I mean, that’s if you, well, can I give you a ride home at least? You too, Jazz, Maddie, if you want.”

  “Awfully nice of you, Grayson, but we love the party atmosphere of the Boulevard bus—all that BO and rubbing up against perfect strangers,” Maddie said, ushering a still-Grayson-struck Jazz toward the crosswalk. “You two kids have fun.” Maddie mouthed, Call me! waving her cell in the air.

  When I turned back to Gray, his eyes gleamed with amusement. I was hyperaware of the mass exodus of Sacred Heart, the urgent rush of girls on their way home and the passing seconds of silence between us. I missed Maddie and her quick quips already. Why was I just standing there? Mute?

  Gray’s smooth voice broke the silence.

  “So, Wren. Do you have to go home?”

  Grayson opened the passenger door for me and I slid in, picking up the book on the front seat. Plato’s The Republic. I fanned through the pages. There were highlights and ink scrawls in the margins of the first half.

  “Light reading?” I asked, handing it to him as he got in.

  He tucked the book into the front pocket of his backpack then hoisted it to the backseat. “For a class.”

  “Really? Where?” I asked. Could he possibly be a college guy?

  “Saint Gabe’s.”

  Grayson wore faded denim jeans and a well-fitted white Henley tee under his jacket that I caught myself admiring for too long—not the usual St. Gabe’s khaki-and-button-down uniform.

  “Well, the class is at Saint Gabe’s,” he continued as the engine grumbled to life. “I go to Bergen Point. They don’t offer philosophy.”

  The car was immaculate—no wrappers or soda cans. He even had a Yankee Candle air freshener, Home Sweet Home, dangling from the rearview mirror. I spun it gently with my index finger.

  “Let me guess: Mom?” I asked, smiling.

  “Nope. All me. Can’t a guy have a good-smelling car?”

  “Sure, why not?” I didn’t have much experience with guys and cars, but my brother, Josh’s, could probably be condemned it was so gross, and Trev’s . . . ugh, why was I even thinking of him?

  He pulled out of the spot, driving slowly until we hit the first red light about a block away. I’d forgotten to roll my skirt after school and it sat at dweeb length, an inch above my knee. I crossed my legs, hoping to subtly show a little more skin. Grayson noticed.

  “So,” I said, snagging him mid-peek. “What were you saying—you go to Bergen Point but take a class at Saint Gabe’s? I didn’t know you could do that.”

  He flustered, ran a hand through his hair. “Um, oh, philosophy . . . yeah, you can’t. I was supposed to take the class this year. Figured I’d just go through it on my own.”

  “So you were at Saint Gabe’s?”

  “Yep, up until my junior year.”

  “Maybe you know my brother. Josh Caswell? He graduated last year.”

&nbs
p; He nodded. “Everyone sort of knows everyone at Saint Gabe’s, right?”

  “Why’d you leave?” I asked.

  The light changed to green, but he hesitated, gripping the wheel, until an insistent beep from behind got his attention.

  “They kind of asked me to leave. Listen, why don’t we go somewhere? It’s not the kind of thing I want to talk about while I’m driving. I can’t see your face,” he said, giving me a sidelong glance that made me bite my lower lip.

  “Okay,” I said, trying to calm the hormonal rush that had just surged through my body.

  “How about that coffee? We could grab one and hit the park. It’s warmish. Any place you like?”

  “Starbucks at South Cove?”

  He grunted.

  “I don’t do pretty coffee. I know this hole-in-the-wall deli with the best French roast around. You’ll love it.”

  “Sounds good,” I lied. Coffee—pretty, French roast, or otherwise—tasted like battery acid to me, but I didn’t feel like mentioning it. Especially after he told me about leaving St. Gabe’s. Awkward. I wasn’t sure if the torqued-up feeling in my gut was attraction or a warning sign. I just knew I didn’t want to go home yet.

  A tinny-sounding bell announced our entrance as we walked into the deli. The guy behind the counter beamed at Grayson.

  “My man, where’ve you been?”

  “Spiro, how’s it hanging?” Grayson answered, walking behind the counter to pour our coffees. Spiro clapped Grayson on the back, gave me a once-over, and whispered something to him. They both chuckled. Heat nibbled my earlobes. I waited, expecting some sort of introduction, but Gray handed me the to-go cup.

  “Cream and sugar’s over there if you need it,” he said, turning back to Spiro. I added enough cream and sugar to my coffee to make it taste like Häagen-Dazs and tried to catch what I could of their hushed convo. . . . Tough break . . . brinker . . . a friend. Grayson joined me at the counter to put a lid on his coffee. When I reached into my bag for some cash, he stopped me.