Robin Constantine: The Promise of Amazing

A beautiful stranger with a name.

Wren .

“Please, send me the ER bill,” Wren’s mother said, handing Pop a business card. We were interrupted by a waft of cold air as a vision of white burst through the front door.

“Uncle Blake!”

My cousin Katrina swished across the lobby in her poufy white dress. Pop turned to us and made a short cutting motion with his hand across his throat that I could easily interpret. Shut your trap. The bride doesn’t want to know someone almost died at her wedding .

“Trini, you’re a vision,” he said, kissing her cheek.

“The ceremony was so touching,” Tiffany chimed in.

I stood back, feeling about as useful as a bobblehead. A brown-haired bridesmaid, who I’d seriously eye-fucked during the wedding vows, waved to me. Two hours ago the adrenaline surge from flirting had made me rethink my foray into monkhood. I hadn’t been with anyone since . . . Allegra. A wedding reception where everyone was juiced up and ready to party seemed like a prime moment to get back in the action.

Now it didn’t matter. I was more interested in Wren’s mother and the waiter she was talking to who’d come in behind Katrina. He put a hand up to his mouth, nodded, and disappeared into the ballroom. I was about to follow, hoping he could lead me to Wren so I could say thanks, or what’s up, or whatever was the appropriate thing to say to a person who saved your life, when Pop tugged my sleeve.

“C’mon, Gray.” He waved and mouthed something to Tiff as the wedding party rustled into formation, lining up to make their grand entrance. The pretty bridesmaid tapped my shoulder as we brushed past them.

“Dance later?” she asked. Her glossy lips promised sweetness and warmth. A familiar rush, the thrill of being with a new person, made me pause. Then I thought of Wren; her body pressed against my back, soft but strong, and fighting for me. Even though I’d done jack shit to deserve it.

“No, I’m heading out,” I said, and followed Pop into the brisk autumn evening.

Pop paused at the top of the stairs and fumbled around with a cigarette case and lighter. The business card fell from his pocket. It whirled helicopter-style and landed on the bottom stone step.

“I hate weddings. Here, help me,” he said, cigarette dangling from his lower lip. He handed me the lighter and cupped his hands against the breeze coming off the bay. I ran my thumb across the spark wheel until it flickered with a pop. He sucked in, making it look painful. The tip of the cigarette glowed orange. I tossed him the lighter, and he tucked it back into his jacket.

“You should quit, Pop,” I said, watching him exhale a long stream of smoke.

“Yeah, yeah, I know. That and eat bran fiber. They’re on my list,” he said. “C’mon.”

At the bottom stair, I picked up the business card.

“Here, you dropped this.”

“Don’t need it.”

“But . . . she was nice,” I said, feeling oddly protective.

“Nice?” Pop said. “Gray, she was covering her ass. She doesn’t want to get sued. Not that I would do that to the Caswells.”

“You know her?”

“No, not her,” he answered, shaking his head. He took a hard hit from the cigarette and blew out another deliberate smoke stream. “Jimmy Caswell was first string on St. Gabe’s with me. We took ’em to a championship that year.”

“You never mentioned him,” I said, running my finger across the engraved letters on the card.

Ruth Caswell

Proprietor—Banquet Manager

The Camelot Inn

“Lost touch after high school. He’s an attorney with the city now. Thrown a few clients my way, but that’s as far as it goes. Why so interested?”

“No reason,” I lied, sliding the card into my wallet. “Pop, I don’t need to go to the hospital.”

“Yes, Grayson, you do.” A jet-black Mercedes chirped and lit up as we walked toward it. Pop’s leased wheels to impress potential home buyers. “You’re acting weird. And your mother will be all over me if I don’t take you somewhere to get checked out.”

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.

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.