Robin Constantine: The Promise of Amazing

There were more voices and footsteps coming toward the cottage. Someone whistled long and low. Mrs. Caswell’s face appeared behind the shattered window, her eyebrows jagged lines of anger as she took in the empty space. She said something to one of the officers outside and put her phone to her ear.

Then Mr. Caswell walked in, followed by two more officers.

The officer closest to the door saw him and smiled. “Jimmy? Why’d they send someone from the prosecutor’s office?”

“Not here officially, Mike. Just here. Family business,” he said, patting the officer’s shoulder before taking a look around.

“Your father’s with the prosecutor’s office? Priceless,” Luke whispered, peering over at Wren. She wrinkled her nose at him.

“Unless one of you wants to explain why you’re here, I’d keep silent,” said the younger cop who’d cuffed Andy and was standing beside him.

“Sorry, sir,” Luke said.

Mr. Caswell took in the damage, looking from the window to the lamp to the fallout on the floor. He crunched some broken glass with his foot and kicked it aside. Then he folded his arms and stood in front of us, eyes on fire like the fucking Chernabog.

That should have been my cue to tell him this was my fault. That I’d pay for the glass. That I’d steam clean the carpet. That Wren was the most innocent party in all of this.

Except my nuts pretty much slithered down my leg and crawled out of the building when his eyes landed on me. Your father was defensive tackle. No one could get by him . All I could think of was Pop’s description of Mr. Caswell. Fitting. Safe to assume my marginal cater-waiter skills would no longer be needed at the Camelot.

“Would someone like to tell me what’s going on?”

“Dad—please . . . we were just hanging out . . . things got out of hand,” Wren said.

“Hanging out?” He motioned for one of the officers and took him aside to speak to him. The officer looked at Wren and nodded. Wren’s mom came into the cottage, her face grim as she took in the scene. Our eyes met. I had to look away. Mr. Caswell called Wren over.

“Wren. Go with your mother to the office. Now.”

I stole a glance at Wren. Her eyes were wide, sad.

Sorry , I mouthed.

“Don’t look at her,” Mr. Caswell said to me.

“Dad, it’s not Grayson’s—”

“Wren. Go.”

Mrs. Caswell put her arm around Wren, but she wrestled away and got closer to her father. “No. It’s my fault too. Don’t send me away.”

He gave her a look so forceful, I half expected Wren to crash into the wall behind her. “Take. Her. Out. Of. Here,” he said to Mrs. Caswell.

Wren relented, looking over her shoulder at me as her mother led her out.

Her father turned back to us. A half dozen cops were behind him . . . waiting.

“Seeing as my daughter was the only one without blood on her face, it’s safe to say she had nothing to do with this damage?”

“Yes, sir,” we all mumbled together.

“You’re Blake’s son,” he said, stepping closer. “Can’t imagine he’d approve.”

“No, sir.”

He crossed his arms again, staring me down. His eyes were the same shade of blue as Wren’s but without the openness. This look told me exactly what he thought of me. Not much. Again this was a moment to defend myself, us. My mind went blank.

“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 could see she dug me way more than I dug her, well, yeah, it would bother me, but I could always 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.”