Robin Constantine - The Promise of Amazing

“Sorry? What were you doing there? ”

I wanted to crawl under the table and disappear. There was no easy answer for this.

“I was there to be with Grayson . . . alone.”

He ran a hand across his face and got up from the table.

“Jim,” my mother said.

“Ruthie, don’t.”

He walked over to the coffeepot and poured a cup. He brought it over to my mom before pouring another one for himself. “Do you want something, Wren?”

His tone had changed slightly, lightening even. The gesture was encouraging.

“No, no thanks.”

He sat down again, hands clasped around his mug.

“You’re . . . seeing . . . the Barrett boy?”

“Yes.”

He nodded. “Let me guess, you’ve been seeing him about a month now?”

“Well, yes, seems about right.”

“Hmm , now imagine that, because I’ve noticed some changes in you this last month. . . .”

“Dad.”

“Am I wrong, Ruth?”

“Wren, you have been more . . . animated lately,” she said.

“Animated? What are you talking about?”

“It’s like this, Wren,” my father began, “ever since you were in kindergarten, I’ve barely had to raise my voice to you. Every parent/teacher meeting your mother and I have ever been to could have been scripted. They would tell us we didn’t even need to be there, but if they had one complaint, it was that you should speak up more. That’s a complaint I can live with.”

“And that’s a good thing?” I asked.

“After Josh? Yes, it’s a very good thing,” my father continued. “You’ve never once been late to school, and then we get a call you cut your last period. You’ve lied about where you were going and who you were with. And now we find you with three boys, and your hair . . . is . . . blue . . . all since you’ve been seeing this boy.”

“You think all of this happened because I met Grayson?”

“Wren, we’re just concerned,” my mother said.

“To hell with concerned,” my father said. “I don’t think he’s the kind of friend we want you to have.”

My first instinct was to storm away crying, but I stopped myself. What would that solve?

“You’re wrong, Dad. All of this happened because of me. Me . I’m tired of being the quiet one. The kid who teachers don’t have anything to say about—you really think that’s the way I want to be remembered? How I want to go through life? I cut class . . . because . . . well, that was wrong, and being at the Camelot and breaking the window, all of that was stupid, but I didn’t do it because of some boy.”

“Wren, calm down.”

“No, Dad, because you know if Josh did this, you’d already be laughing about it, probably swapping stories—”

“That’s not true—”

“And if Brooke did this—”

“Brooke wouldn’t do this,” both my parents said.

“No, because Brooke is perfect and pregnant—”

“Wren, stop,” my mother said.

“No. I won’t stop. For the first time I’m making my own mistakes, doing my own thing. You guys are just going to have to deal with it. And Grayson is the kind of friend I want to have, because he likes me for who I am, Dad. He’s a good person—we made a mistake tonight, a huge one, but . . . you don’t even know him—so don’t tell me he’s not the kind of friend you want me to have because . . . I . . . I love him.”

My words rang out through the kitchen, filling the empty house. Had I actually told them I loved Grayson? I took deep breaths, getting my anger under control. My mother reached for my father’s hand. He seemed reluctant at first but then wrapped his fingers around hers.

“Fine,” my father began. “You won’t be seeing him for a very long time, because I’m not sure you’ll ever leave the house again for anything other than school or work. And we can be sure you won’t work the same shifts; I know the owner.”

“So . . . you’re not going to fire him?” I asked, looking between them.

“Wren, I’m not happy about what happened tonight, but no, I’m not firing Grayson,” my mother said. “He’s a good worker. If he wants to stay on through January, he’s more than welcome. And you can certainly work the same shifts; don’t listen to this guy.”

“But any and all keys to the love shack shall be given to me,” my father added. “I don’t want you there again unless it’s for an event. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, Dad,” I said. “Could I, um, get myself some hot chocolate now?”

He nodded. “Grab us some Oreos while you’re up.”

I turned on the kettle, grabbed the Oreos, and arranged some on a plate before returning to the table. I slid back into my chair and put the cookies in the center. My dad and I reached for the same one. He mock-scowled at me, and I smiled, letting him take it. He twisted the cookie apart and gave me half.

“Wait a minute. . . . Dad, who told you the staff calls the cottage the love shack?” I asked, raking my teeth across the Oreo cream.

Mom stifled a smile and squeezed my dad’s hand. They shared a playful look that seemed to transform them into teenagers again, and suddenly I felt like I was the one interrogating them. My father chuckled, and this odd realization came over me, one that made my skin crawl just a little. . . .

Was my father actually blushing?

“Who do you think named it that twenty-three years ago?” my mother said.

I swallowed my cookie and pushed away from the table to check on my boiling water. Maybe the three of us being quiet and going off to our separate spaces without talking wasn’t such a bad thing sometimes.

“Guys . . . that’s just . . . wow . . . TMI.”

I LAY ON MY BED, STARING AT THE ACNE-VULGARIS ceiling and attempting to send telepathic messages to Wren, since I was banned from all technical/electronic devices. This was a new one for Pop. Even when I was expelled, he’d let me keep my cell phone. I felt like I was under house arrest.

Not that I would have called Luke or Andy, but I kept wondering what sort of story they’d told about last night. Did Detective Preisano go back to Luke with my term-paper explanation? Did Luke deny it? When all was said and done, I felt like I’d put a pretty positive spin on it. And if Luke and Andy were smart, they’d just go along for the ride.

But Luke was vindictive and smart.

And Andy . . . well, just, shit.

My stomach lurched with a weird twinge of hunger or anxiety; I couldn’t tell the difference. I hadn’t eaten a thing since lunch the day before. Had it only been the day before? A school day? Friday. Christ, it felt like I’d lived a week in one night. I folded my head into a pillow burrito, rolled to my side, and groaned. When I let go to breathe, Pop was standing in the doorway. I sat upright. He looked like he wanted to smile, but it passed. He had two mugs, and he handed me one. Black coffee. I leaned against my headboard. Pop sat in my desk chair, placing his mug in the space my laptop usually occupied before he had confiscated it.

“Last night was not my proudest moment,” he said.

“Not mine either, Pop,” I said, sitting up and putting the mug on my side table. “I’m sorry.”

“I just thought we were past all this, Grayson. You seemed to be gettin’ on again, things looking up in school and with Wren. What happened? Why would you even think about writing those term papers? That’s all this is about—you were telling the truth last night, right?”

More or less, or less .

“Yes, Pop. It was dumb. I’m done with the term-paper thing.”

“Good.”

“Does Mom know?” I asked.

“A week and a half before Christmas, ya think I’m gonna saddle her with this shit? Nah, it can wait,” he said, taking a sip of coffee. “You know, maybe we don’t need to tell her at all. As long as we’re handling it.”