The Promise of Amazing

by Robin Constantine

  “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 I could feel myself caring, I could talk myself out of it, 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.

  “Is my son under arrest?”

  “No, Mr. Barrett, the Caswells haven’t pressed any charges . . . yet. I’d just like to ask Grayson a few questions, make sure this wasn’t more than a couple of kids getting out of hand.”

  Detective Preisano directed us down the hallway to a different, private room. The same shitty chairs lined each side of a long table. The walls were a pale, industrial green. The only view to the outside world was a small, square window in the door. When the door clunked closed, it felt like we’d been sealed into a bunker.

  “What’s this about?” Pop asked as we sat down.

  Detective Preisano settled into the seat across from us. He took his time putting out his leather portfolio and then slid a piece of paper across the table to Pop.

  “This is a juvenile-interrogation form, Mr. Barrett. Basically states your son’s right to remain silent, to an attorney, and so on. You can stop the questioning at any time, if you wish.”

  Pop glanced quickly over the paper. “If he’s not under arrest, why is he being questioned?”

  “Your friend brought up some new information. I want to give you a chance to tell your side of the story.”

  I put my elbows on the table, turned to Pop. Satisfied, he signed the form, looked at me, and put out his hand, gesturing to go ahead and talk.

  “So then,” Detective Preisano said, leaning back in his chair and clasping his hands behind his head, “why the banged-up face?”

  “It just happened.”

  He leaned forward, pulling a pen from the clasp in the center of his portfolio, and opened up to a yellow-lined pad with scribbles on it. Pop shifted in his chair.

  “Well, your friend, the one who looks as bad as you . . .” he said, consulting the scribbles. “Luke, is it?”

  I nodded.

  “He told an interesting story about tonight. You sure you don’t have anything to say to me?”

  My insides jolted, like that full-body muscle jerk you sometimes get right before falling asleep. For all I knew, Luke could have told the police about the necklace. I doubted it though. That would brew up a shit storm involving Spiro, Lenny, and the rest of their food chain that none of us would ever be prepared to deal with. Luke might have wanted to stir the pot but not deep enough to do the time for all the stuff we had pulled. This was his way of saying checkmate.

  “There’s nothing to tell,”
I answered.

  “Grayson,” Pop prodded, leaning on the table next to me.

  “He claims he was there because you owed him something, and when you couldn’t produce it, you offered up”—he ran his pen down the notepad and stopped, tapping the tip at a certain spot—“the Marshall amps instead. And when he didn’t want those, things turned violent.”

  “That’s a lie,” I said, the words pouring out before I could even think.

  “Which part?”

  “All of it,” I answered.

  The detective laughed, but there was frustration beneath it.

  There because I owed him something? The story began to concoct itself in my head. I didn’t want to lie, but I was desperate. And if Luke wanted to mess with me, I’d get him right back. All I wanted to do was deflect as much of this away from Wren as possible.

  “Taking the amps was his idea, not mine,” I said.

  Detective Preisano leaned forward, chin up, ready to take what I had to offer.

  “I owed Luke a term paper. Two actually,” I said, turning to Pop. His reaction was just what I needed. His head fell back, eyes closed. He ran a hand across his face before looking at me again, shaking his head.

  “Term papers?” Detective Preisano’s bushy eyebrows drew together. “Am I missing something?”

  “Luke is ranked third at Saint Gabe’s and has his eyes on Princeton or Penn. He needs to maintain a certain GPA and needed a little help. He paid me. I’ll admit that, and I thought about doing it, but I decided against it after getting in so much trouble last year.”

  “What kind of trouble?” he asked, writing something down.

  “I was expelled from Saint Gabe’s, sir. I had a pretty extensive term-paper business there for a while, but I got sloppy, got caught.”

  “Grayson,” Pop said, “the school dealt with this the way they saw fit. It’s over.”

  “I know,” I said. “Luke asked me for help and offered me the money up front. But I reneged, even though I did spend the money. I do owe him that. He said he’d take the amps and sell them to make up for the loss, but I really think it was just a threat. I threw the first punch.”

  Detective Preisano’s face remained cool, but I could see in his eyes that I’d just diffused whatever bomb Luke had dropped. He nodded.

  “Must be some damn good term papers.”

  “I was the best, sir,” I answered. “But it’s not worth getting expelled again. I didn’t think it was worth it for Luke either.”

  “What I’m still not getting is why you were at the Camelot?”

  I looked down, closed my eyes.

  “Wren Caswell is my girlfriend,” I said, keeping my face lowered. “We were there to, um . . .” I hesitated, not knowing if what I was about to say would help or hurt, but I was pretty sure it would get the heat off all of our backs. “. . . be alone.”

  Detective Preisano’s eyebrows raised in understanding. Pop let out a long, slow breath next to me.

  “Are we finished here? He’s not being held, correct?”

  “You’re free to go,” Detective Preisano said, standing up. He held out his hand to me. No fear. I shook it, giving him a small nod before Pop led me out of the room.

  The air in the hallway was cooler and a relief after being held up for so long. I wasn’t even sure how much time had passed, but it suddenly felt like hours. On our way out of headquarters, we ran into Mr. Dobson.

  Decked out in a dark, tailored suit and traveling in a cloud of scent that was a mix of spicy cologne and a hint of alcohol, he looked like he’d been called away from a dinner date. His eyes gleamed when he saw us, a slow grin crossing his face.

  “Grayson,” he said, embracing me, then backing up to gawk at my injuries.

  He looked at Pop. “Hell, Blake, what trouble have our sons gotten into now?” He gave Pop’s hand a hearty pump. He didn’t seem to notice that Pop was not amused.

  “It’s been too long; we should all get together. Tell Tiff that Izzy said to call her,” he said, waving us off as he continued into the station. Neither of us had said a word to him.

  “Asshole,” my father hissed. Truth was he didn’t know the half of it. Mr. Dobson seemed like a happy drunk, but Luke had told me otherwise. For a moment I felt bad for Luke, for what he was about to face when his father walked into the room or, later, when he got him home.

  Tiffany was parked out front, sitting in the driver’s seat of the Mercedes. I’d never been so happy to see her. Pop settled down into the front seat. I slid into the backseat, ignoring Tiff’s plea to put on my seat belt, and promptly passed out across the length of it, thinking of Wren.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  WREN

  I WAITED ON THE BENCH OUTSIDE OF MY MOTHER’S office while she spoke to the glass guy about the damages. Without a party going on, the Camelot showed its age. Sir Gus was a sorry, dusty knight with nothing to preside over. The wood paneling and burgundy curtains—which usually added a homey, secluded air—made me feel like I was sitting in a dated medieval-theme-park ride. Even the portrait of my great-grandfather looked a little corny in the plain light, without the glow from the fireplace. The place truly was a relic from another time. And soon a wrecking ball would dash right through it. The thought was thoroughly depressing.

  A half hour had passed since the police cars had left, and I was still burning with anger at the way my father had dismissed me so forcefully from the scene—even more embarrassing was that he’d done it in front of Grayson. I couldn’t imagine what Gray was going through at the police station, but whatever it was, it couldn’t have been good. I was tortured enough just anticipating my own private, Dad-led interrogation.

  Eben pushed through the front door in jeans and a dark coat, unraveling his scarf as he came farther into the lobby. Sadness overwhelmed me. Everything I’d been stuffing down since the police had arrived bubbled to the surface. He softened when he saw my face.

  “Wren.”

  I threw my arms around him, putting my cheek to his shoulder. He smelled so good, like oranges and spicy black pepper.

  “Baby, why the tears?”

  “What are you doing here?” I asked, wiping my tears on my sleeve.

  “Ruthie called me in to wait for the glass guy . . . and since I have no social life to speak of, here I am.”

  “I totally screwed up, Eb,” I said. “The cottage is . . . wrecked.”

  “So I heard, but you were involved?” he asked, taking off his coat and hanging it up on the rack near the office. He waved at my mom, who was still on the phone.

  “And Grayson . . . and two of his friends . . . and I’m in deep doo-doo. . . . My dad isn’t even speaking to me. He’s been out there cleaning up the cottage all this time,” I said, sitting down on the bench again. Eben sat next to me.

  He patted my hand. “Darlin’ . . . you and three boys in the love shack? That’s not what I meant when I said go hang there with Grayson.”

  My skin flushed; I leaned my head on his shoulder. He put his arm around me.

  “Daddy-O will come around. He probably just needs to breathe a little, I bet.”

  “The way he looked at me? What he said? I’m—”

  My dad steamrolled through the front door with a broom and dustpan in hand. Eben and I both sat up straight. He gave Eben a quick, mechanical smile, once again ignoring me. Eben’s eyes widened.

  “Oh, my.”

  “See?”

  “Wren, I don’t mean to sound like a total wuss, but um,” he said, lowering his voice, “you didn’t tell them where you got the key . . . did you?”

  I mimed locking up my lips. He swiped his forehead dramatically and mouthed, Whew.

  “I don’t even get why they are going to so much trouble . . . the place is going to be dust in a couple of months. Why even fix it?”

  My mom breezed out of the office. “Eben, thank you so much for coming in.”

  Eben stood up and gave her a quick hug. It was odd to see Mom in jeans and a casual tee at
work. Then I remembered it had been date night for her and Dad. Guilt from interrupting their night gnawed at my insides.

  “You haven’t told her the Camelot news?” Eben asked

  “Something else you’re not talking to me about?”

  My mother held up her hand. “Wren, it’s a new development. One that . . . well, is a solution I feel better about.”

  “So we’re not closing?” I asked.

  “Yes, yes, we are closing. It’s time, but someone gave us a different offer. Someone who’s not going to knock it down.”

  I looked wide-eyed at Eben. “You?”

  “Oh, hell no, well, indirectly yes, but no, I’m not the proud new owner. My culinary school will be. In February they start renovations to get ready for the summer semester. This is going to be a satellite campus. It’s perfect, good location, parking, kitchens.”

  “We’re going to finish out the last few weddings and then turn it over,” my mother said, smiling.

  “I think I even convinced them to keep Guinevere’s Cottage. Give it a fresh coat, slap on a historic-landmark plate, and turn it into a boutique restaurant. The students can hone their craft while the school charges an exorbitant amount of money for tiny food. So yes, the glass guy is definitely not a waste.”

  “That’s, like, the best news ever,” I said, “and no little hot dogs.”

  “Oh, mais oui, Mademoiselle Wren, but we shall call zem cochons en couvertures,” Eben said, bowing dramatically. I laughed, a genuine feel-good laugh, until my father returned to the lobby. His sullen presence vacuumed up all the cheer. My mother grabbed her coat off the rack.

  “What would we do without you, kiddo?” my father said, tossing Eben the keys. “The heat is on low, but there’s a space heater in the office if you get cold waiting.” Dad finally looked at me.

  “Let’s go,” he said, making a slicing motion with his hand.

  “The glass guy should be here within the hour. If there’s any trouble, don’t hesitate to call me,” my mother said, shrugging on her coat.

  “Will do, Ruthie.” Eben smiled and gave me a sympathetic look.