The Promise of Amazing Read online

  “Wren, please, a coffee for a life. It’s the least I can do,” he said, pulling out a few bills from his pocket.

  “Thanks,” I murmured, concentrating on clipping my messenger bag closed. My brain completely fogged over with the way his voice wrapped around my name. I stuffed the feeling down. Whether he was hot or not, I still had no clue what he wanted from me.

  “So what should I tell Lenny if he asks for you again?” Spiro asked, handing Grayson the change. Gray shoved it in his pocket and ushered me toward the door. The bell jangled as he held it open for me.

  “Tell him I’ve moved on to other things,” he said, the door closing behind us. When our eyes met, Grayson simply said, “Business.”

  Moved on? Business? What sort of business could he possibly have at a deli?

  By the time we reached the park, the sun was already setting, casting an orange glow across the horizon. Gray found a parking spot by the boat pond, and we shuffled through fallen leaves to a vacant bench. Two squirrels quarreled noisily and chased each other up a tree. After their chattering died down, the park was silent except for the occasional footfall of passing joggers.

  “So how did you know where to find me?” I asked, determined to keep my thoughts straight.

  “I have my ways,” he said low, raising his eyebrows a bit. My expression must have showed the ripple of uneasiness I felt, because he laughed.

  “That sounded creepy, sorry. Your mom gave us her card. That’s how I got your last name. I asked around. Not exactly differential calculus,” he said, leaning back and slinging his elbow over the top of the bench so he was partially facing me. I huddled my hands around my coffee cup, letting the steam tickle my nose, wanting to know why he was “asked to leave” St. Gabe’s but not sure how to bring it up casually.

  “You’re too polite. Don’t you want to know why I got kicked out of school?” he asked.

  “I guess,” I said, surprised he’d read my thoughts. “Wasn’t sure if it was too personal a question.”

  “Wren, you’ve already had your arms around me from behind. I think we’re past the ‘too personal’ stuff.”

  “Ha, good point,” I said, burning up at the thought of how intimately I’d already touched him. I blew on the rim of my cup, avoiding his gaze. “Okay, then why’d you get kicked out?”

  He closed one eye, wrestling with the best place to start his story, then took a deep breath and said, “I was a term-paper pimp.”

  I coughed, nearly choking on the coffee. “Pimp?”

  He smirked at my reaction. “No, seriously. I was a middleman. Matched people up with the right guys—I had specialists in chemistry, history, creative writing; some at Saint Gabe’s, some elsewhere. Some I did myself. I got sloppy. Someone tipped the principal off. A guy handed in a term paper that was too good. They threatened him with expulsion and nabbed me.”

  “Didn’t anyone else get in trouble?”

  “A few of my customers got suspended, but I didn’t rat out my suppliers. I wouldn’t do that,” he said. “That’s why they really kicked me out—because I wouldn’t rat.”

  I didn’t know what to say. Here I was, afraid to be even one second late for school, and he was so willing to admit—to brag, even—about his total disregard for what anybody with a shred of conscience would know was just . . . wrong. He studied me, waiting for more of a response. He didn’t seem embarrassed or regretful at all.

  “Didn’t you worry you’d get caught?” I asked.

  “At the time I didn’t really think about it. I had a lot going on.”

  A lot going on, like what? I wanted to ask, but did I really want to know? Maybe I would have felt differently about our chat if I hadn’t been obsessing about my own crappy school record lately. The unfairness of it all bothered me.

  “But . . . you knew it was wrong.”

  “Wrong is such a subjective term, don’t you think?”

  I tried to laugh, but it came out flat. “No. Pretty black-and-white.”

  “It wasn’t the smartest thing to do, but . . . think of it like this—in the real world, people outsource all the time. Some of my customers had jobs on top of their school workload. There was a demand; I filled it. Simple. Econ 101. At least that’s how I defended myself. They didn’t quite buy it, hence getting the boot.”

  Grayson’s argument was so convincing, I was almost swayed.

  “Well, it is different than outsourcing,” I said.

  “Wren, Saint Gabe’s is a wild place. There are guys whose parents make more money than we’ll see in our collective lifetimes, and then there are guys on scholarships whose families are barely scraping by. The ones who can’t buy their way into college? Good grades are the strongest weapon they have. They needed a business like mine. I felt like I was helping people.”

  “I guess it’s just something I would never do. I’ve waited until the last minute to write term papers, but no matter how shitty, at least they were mine.”

  “Wow, you’re such a Girl Scout.”

  He’d turned into the hot-dog-tossing tool again . . . or maybe he always was and his quirky car and inviting smile duped me into dropping my guard. I wasn’t that far from home; I could walk. I stood up and tossed my coffee into a nearby trash can.

  “Well, um, thanks for the coffee, the ride, but I’ve got to go.”

  I began walking away, then realized I’d left my bag in his car. “I need my bag.”

  Grayson frowned as he poured the rest of his coffee into the dead leaves. He stood up, tossed the cup into the trash, and walked toward the car. I followed behind, taking two steps for every one of his brisk strides. When he reached the car, he opened the passenger side, stooped in for my bag, and held it out for me. My fingertips grazed his as I took it from him.

  “Guess you’re thinking, Why’d I save this asshole?” he said, leaning against the car.

  Our eyes met. The tool was gone. And there it was—that longing—like right after I’d saved him. What did he want from me?

  “God, Grayson, no, I’m not thinking that at all,” I said, taking a step back from him.

  “Then what are you thinking?” he asked, flipping his bangs out of his eyes with a toss of his head. In that second all I was thinking was how charming he looked when he did that. Wren, get a freakin’ grip!

  “You hit a nerve, okay? I’m royally screwing up this semester, and I hate it but not enough to cheat. I totally feel all that bullshit pressure to get good grades. And I’m not. Not like my friends,” I said, all the stuff I couldn’t admit to Jazz and Maddie came rushing out in one long breath. “Why do we even have to be judged by rank? What does that measure? All my number says about me is that I’m average. And to top it off, I’m supposed to know what I want to do with my life, but I know I won’t ever get into Harvard, so hey, at least that’s one thing I can cross off the list.”

  “You’re applying to Harvard?” Gray asked.

  I huffed. “Just forget it,” I said, turning away from him. Leaves rustled beneath my feet, punctuating the rush of my exit. He trotted next to me to gain ground, then stood in my way. I tried to go around him, but he kept dodging in front of me. I stopped, staring up through the canopy of half-barren branches. The sky was a deep shade of dusky blue. It would be dark soon.

  “Wren, please,” Gray said, putting his face in my line of vision, hands up in surrender.

  “I have to go,” I said, ducking under his arm. He grabbed my elbow, so I spun back to face him.

  “Why did you save me?”

  The question stopped me. I wrenched my arm free. “You were choking?”

  “I know, I just . . . but why did you step in? If it had been me, and the situation was reversed, I don’t think I would have stepped in.”

  “So . . . you’re telling me you wouldn’t have saved me?”

  He ran a hand across his face. “No, that’s not what I meant . . . not you, personally, I mean anyone. I wouldn’t have known what to do.”

  “Sure you would
have. Simple. Health 101.”

  “Okay, I guess I deserve that,” he said. “I’m just saying I would have panicked. I did panic. I thought I was a goner until you stepped in.”

  “Someone would have helped you,” I said.

  “Maybe, maybe not. All I know is you did,” he said, putting his hands in his pockets. “I guess what I want to say is thank you for saving my life.”

  A jogger trotted by. I crushed some leaves under my foot, letting what Grayson said sink in.

  “This is weird, isn’t it?” I said, stepping away.

  “What?” he asked.

  “I feel like I know you, but I don’t,” I began. “It’s like we had this intense moment, but . . . it’s over, isn’t it?”

  “It doesn’t have to be,” he said, “does it?”

  I rubbed my hands together, folded my arms across my chest. “I think I’d better get going.”

  “Sure,” he said, taking his keys out of his pocket. “Let me take you home.”

  “No, that’s okay. I don’t live too far. But . . .”

  “But what?”

  Asking for his number crossed my mind, but why would I ever need to see him again? He insulted me. Thanked me. What more did we have to say to each other?

  “But maybe I’ll see you around,” I continued, backing up. “Bye, Grayson.”

  He called my name, but I kept moving toward the entrance of the park, thankful that I had the green light to cross the street. I jogged, putting as much space as I could between us. The “Wren the Hero” chapter of my life could close now. It was more like an anecdote anyway, something I could tell my college roommates one drunken night.

  That is, if I even went to college.

  Something nagged at me though. Since the night I saved him, I’d felt a magnetic pull toward Grayson so strong, it scared me. I thought it was some sort of mystical thing, that once you saved someone’s life, you always had some connection. But then he’d looked at me, those bangs grazing his eyebrows, the top button of his tee casually undone, and it wasn’t only his well-being I thought about.

  That was a feeling I wasn’t ready to get lost in again. I was supposed to be thinking about what I wanted to do with my life, not who I wanted to do. Or was it whom?

  FOUR

  GRAYSON

  ALL WAS QUIET IN CASA DEL BARRETT WHEN I GOT home. There was a note on the island.

  Grayson,

  Your father has a late showing, and I’m off to my monthly sales meeting.

  Tilapia in the fridge. Take your shot of acai.

  btw—your mother called again. CALL HER. She says it’s urgent. Why aren’t you answering your cell?

  Kiss, Kiss—Tiff

  I dashed off a mental reply.

  Hey, Tiff,

  Tilapia is too fishy and I need a splash of vodka with my acai, but thanks for thinking of me.

  btw . . . I’m avoiding Mom. I DO NOT need reminding that I’ve completely dropped the college ball once again. They don’t let fuckups into Columbia. No matter how many strings her alumnASSmunch alumnus husband can pull.

  Gray

  I nuked some pizza rolls, grabbed a Coke, and sat down on the sectional in the dark. It was like a reflex. Dinnertime = FOOD. I wasn’t hungry or thirsty. I was . . . agitated. Ticked.

  Why did I let Wren just walk away?

  She was even prettier than I remembered, with her light hair loose around her face. And she’d been anxious, even a little shy at first. The kind of girl I could have eating out of my hand. Instead I’d opened up my mouth and all the old bullshit came tumbling out.

  Why? I hadn’t intended to confess anything—all I wanted to do was thank her, give her a ride home, and maybe strike up a friendship. Then she mentioned her brother. While I hardly knew Josh Caswell, I’m sure he knew me, or at least about me. Hell, the St. Gabe’s lunch ladies probably knew the sad, strange tale of my term-paper-pimp demise. Better that the story come from the source . . . but it was more than that too. There was a genuineness about Wren that made me feel like I didn’t have to put up a front. Like she really saw me. Past the BS, the cool hair, the stupid attempt to draw attention to myself like a silverback gorilla.

  I sank deeper into the leather sofa Tiff had picked out to give our great room a more masculine feel. My ass slipped until half my torso was parallel to the floor. The perfect position for how I felt at the moment. Spineless.

  Why didn’t I have the nerve to ask for her number? I knew I could get it some other way, but I wanted her to give it to me. That would tell me a lot. Just like not giving it to me said something. She didn’t trust me. And after today, why would she? Smart girl.

  My pocket vibrated. I picked up without even checking. Might as well deal with my mother and her college-application assault.

  “Mom.”

  “Dude, it’s about time.”

  I stiffened.

  “Luke,” I said, sitting up. “Should have screened.”

  “Harsh, Grayson. So is it true you almost bought it last Friday?”

  “Maybe. How’d you find out?”

  “The stepmother mafia. This is huge news down the pike. You choked . . . some cocktail waitress saved you. Sounds like a sexy way to go—was she wearing fishnets and a tight skirt?”

  An involuntary smile crossed my lips. It pissed me off that he could win me over so easily, but I had to admit: I missed my daily dose of Dobson.

  “C’mon, Grayeesun, you know I’m just jabbin’ at ya. Saint Gabe’s is so boring without your ugly mug roaming the halls. How are you dealing with the bottom-feeders in Bergen Point?”

  “What do you want, Luke?”

  “Just wondering why you haven’t returned my calls, bro.”

  There was a time a call from Luke was a call to the hunt. For parties. For girls. For epic nights I knew would be legend in our high school history. My remember-the-time friend. Brother from another mother. When I was drop-kicked to the curb last spring, my brother, the one who said he’d have my back, disappeared from my life. It was only about a month ago that he tried to make contact. He didn’t even have the decency to apologize.

  “No one called me all summer.”

  “Grayson, what’s that, three months? Stop acting like a wounded bitch.”

  “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.

  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.