GRAYSON

WREN CASWELL IS TOO GOOD FOR YOU.

Luke Dobson’s words were a time bomb. I hadn’t given a second thought when he’d said it, knew he was just trying to get in my head. But as I was about to answer Wren’s text, which had been adorably vague and shy . . .

Hey. Sorry I had to leave.

Badaboom .

The truth hurts.

She was too good for me, and I’d known it since the day she saved my sorry ass from choking. I’d hypnotized myself into believing I deserved her. She was right to leave Andy’s party and better off getting far, far away from me. The inconvenient thing was . . .

I was pretty sure I was falling in love with her.

Luke’s threat to speak to Wren gnawed at me. She didn’t need to fall victim to the Dobson mindfuck, and if I didn’t do something, I knew he would get to her one way or another. The best way to avoid that was for me to stay away. For now. Or forever.

So I lay on my bed on a Thursday afternoon, pondering what route out of Wren’s life I should take and deciding whether to answer her second timid but logical “Hey, are you working Friday?” text, because yes, in fact, I was working on Friday, but if I took the Gray the total douche bag route, I’d just exit stage left. Never text or call again. End of story.

And the conclusion I came to as I stared at my popcorn ceiling (which was really more like an acne‑vulgaris ceiling, because it sure as shit didn’t resemble any popcorn I would eat) was that I couldn’t do that. I wanted to see her again. I kept thinking of her eyes, the depths of them, the way she looked right into me, and I wasn’t afraid of what she’d find. Even though I should have been, because if Wren knew all the shit I’d pulled . . . the way she looked at me would change forever.

And that was instant freakin’ karma.

“Grayson? You home?”

My rumination was interrupted by Pop’s voice. I grunted something that hopefully sounded like “Come in” and continued my staring match with the ceiling.

“When did you get in? I didn’t hear you.”

I propped myself up on my elbows.

“About fifteen minutes ago,” I lied. I’d been home for about two hours, skipped out on Physics. Ditching at Bergen Point was easy. They didn’t hunt you down and publicly flog you like at St. Gabe’s. I’d get a slap on the wrist and a computer‑generated phone call telling Pop and Tiff I’d missed fourth block, which I could easily intercept, and no one would be the wiser. Call it a mental‑health break.

He inhaled and made a face.

“Smells like a sewer in here.”

Pop swung my door back and forth to get the airflow going, then gave two clicks to the ceiling fan. Satisfied, he pulled out my desk chair and sat down, gathering his plaid robe around his bare legs.

“I’m about to crawl the effing walls,” he said, leaning back and swiveling toward me. Pop was usually hair‑gelled, suited‑up, real‑estate‑mogul perfection. His eyes looked rested, but his hair stuck up every which way, like he’d been trying to pull it out of his head. Tiffany had made Pop go cold turkey–no smokes, no Bushmills, no trans fats. Sugar was next on the roster. He was not a happy camper.

“Feeling better?” I asked.

“Yeah, like a cool mil,” he said.

“What’s up?”

These father‑son powwows had been routine in the weeks following my expulsion from St. Gabe’s. At first it had been all anger. You’re smart, effing brilliant , he had yelled. How could I do this to myself? To him? To Tiff? To my mother, who always deserved better? On nights he’d been mellowed with Bushmills, there were high school confessions. Things he’d screwed up royally himself, admitting that if he’d been smart enough to pull off what I did, he probably would have done it too. That if I needed money, why hadn’t I just come to him? And more anger with the brow piercing . . . You come home with a tat and I’ll kill you, Grayson .

But things had changed when school began. I spent less time staring at my ceiling and more time trying to pick up the pieces of my life. Our one‑on‑ones became few and far between. Something was up.

“I’ve been talking to your mother,” he said.

I rubbed my eyes. Oh, what , now?

“Grayson, this is a wake‑up call for me,” he said, patting his chest. “Life’s too short. You need to have a relationship with your mother and her family.”

“Thanks, Dr. Phil. I do have a relationship with them. It’s just not a good one.”

“I mean a more solid one. Once you had a car, you were supposed to visit more. What’s it going to take?”

A rewiring of my frontal lobe .

“She’s having a tree‑trimming party–” he began.

“Oh, no fucking way, Pop.”

“Hey, cool it,” he said. He wasn’t enough of a hypocrite to really mind my dropping an F‑bomb with him, but he had to pretend. “Tiffany found a box of ornaments up in the attic–belongs to your mother, some antique hand‑blown glass she thought she lost. Your mom would like you to bring them and stay for the party.”

“You’re kidding.”

“You could bring Wren. Have some fun, Grayson. You’re allowed, you know.”

Hearing Wren’s name made me smile. I could practically hear Grier saying, When and Gwayson .

“I’ll think about it.”

“It’s nice to see you getting serious about a girl, Grayson.”

“Serious? Pop–”

“I know, I know . . . you don’t want to talk about this with your old man, but even in the ER I could see the way you were around each other. She seems like a nice girl, Gray,” he said, rising from the chair with a creak. “I always liked those Sacred Heart girls. Thought those plaid skirts were cute.”

Guess the horndog doesn’t fall far from the tree.

“Dinner’s at six, when Tiff gets home. Will you be around?”

“I guess,” I said. My butt vibrated.

I made a deal with myself. If it was Wren, I’d answer. I could explain away two texts, but ignoring three would just be plain cruel. I stared at the screen.

Fuknuts, cum pick up ur drums @ Andys. L

Andy’s house had been the hub of my St. Gabe’s extracurricular life. And it was one constant after‑party. After school. After lacrosse practice. After games. As a freshman, I had my first beer in Andy’s basement. It was also where I got my V‑card stamped by some girl who was friends with Andy’s older brother. The Foleys were loaded and spent a good portion of their time working for it, overcompensating for their absence with a rec room that was pretty much a wet dream. Plasma TV. Killer audio. Every video‑game system as soon as it came out. The bar was always fully stocked with premium liquor, although I wasn’t sure how much of that was their doing and how much was Andy’s and his brother’s.

Andy’s basement was also where Operation Amsterdam was conceived.

The name was a goof, but it stuck, because it was better than saying “selling stolen goods to finance our post‑graduation trip to Europe.” We all liked the sound of backpacking across Europe, but Amsterdam, an eighteen‑year‑old’s version of Disneyland, was our goal. Our reward for four years of breaking our balls at St. Gabe’s.

And the whole thing had been started so innocently . . . by yours truly.

I’d met Caitlyn just over a year ago in the fall at a lacrosse tourney in West Orange. She was there watching her best friend’s brother play. I got her digits and, bingo, instant connection. We texted, she sent me some racy pics, and we set a date to meet. This was pre‑Chrysler, so our hookups were limited to whenever I could catch a ride from Andy’s brother, who was seeing someone from the same town.

Our relationship was no‑strings‑attached, purely physical. The first night we hooked up, we did it in her pool house.

This pool house made Andy’s basement look about as tricked out as a grass hut, and I wasted no time bragging about it to Luke. When Caitlyn texted me that she was going to Cabo with her family for winter break and she’d have to cancel our plans, I joked with Luke that we should go to her house anyway. He talked Andy and his brother into going too, because we had nothing better to do, so the four of us headed over.

We didn’t intend to take anything that first time, just hang out. I’d seen Caitlyn punch in the door combination for the pool house, and I tried it–making sure my hand was in the sleeve of my jacket so I didn’t leave fingerprints. Once inside we weren’t that careful. We drank the six‑pack we’d brought with us and watched a skin flick while the guys pushed for details of my hookups with Caitlyn. All in all a pretty boring night, and at some point, it felt wrong . We were about to leave when Luke suggested we make the visit worth our while by swiping some stuff.

Andy and his brother were stoked by the idea, which I didn’t get, because they already owned half the stuff anyway. We ended up taking a small flat‑screen TV. The whole time I felt detached, not really participating but not stopping them either. We left without the headlights on and tore down the street, pumped up with adrenaline from doing something so stupid. We stopped at a White Castle on the way home and didn’t talk about it again.

Until Caitlyn got back from break and wanted to show me her tan lines.

“Dude, you have to see her again. Show her you’re not afraid of going there–you’re not guilty of anything,” Luke said, almost making me believe it was true.

My nerves were on edge when I saw Caitlyn, but it was same old, same old. We hung out in the pool house. The TV we’d taken had been replaced by a bigger model. There was no mention of anything that had happened while she’d been away. I left that night, promising to call her, but I knew I wouldn’t. I changed my number the next day. And I never saw her again.

That was when the seed was planted. Hadn’t it worked out great? We didn’t even need to break in, Luke said. If we could do this . . . find a way to get in without being obvious, get to know the lay of the land, find out when a family would be there and when they wouldn’t . . . It was too perfect. I told him I thought we’d just been lucky. He said he was going to prove me wrong.

And he did. Swiping a gold necklace that he sold for the equivalent of five of my term papers. Our Amsterdam fund was born, but if we were really going to make a go of it, Luke said, we needed to get smarter.

We didn’t use our real names or personal cell phones, just in case there was a slipup. Logan and Dev, our lacrosse teammates, each wanted in, so then we were six. At first we took turns finding hits, but soon enough our talents sorted us out. Luke and I were best at finding the right mark. Andy, Dev, and Logan swiped the stuff. Andy’s brother unloaded it.

The selling part was a bit trickier. Andy’s brother dealt with the electronic stuff, the ones with serial numbers, the stuff that could be traced. Gold was a cinch to sell–Luke found a guy through Spiro willing to take our stuff, no questions asked. Deep down I knew what we were doing was wrong, but since I wasn’t physically stealing anything and was directly involved with only two or three hits, I could kid myself that I wasn’t a thief. I was only doing my part for the team. And with each successful job, we became more confident. Cocky. We were gods, on and off the lacrosse field.

Occasionally someone’s conscience would bubble up, but Luke was fantastic at talking anyone down from the ledge of I want out . We weren’t robbing people blind. Just lifting stuff here and there. GPS systems, iPods, jewelry people probably didn’t even wear anymore. Extra stuff, easily replaceable.

And we ate it up, all of us, the feeling of being . . . invincible.

So walking into Andy’s on that Thursday afternoon felt a bit like stepping back in time. Andy’s brother had moved on to Seton Hall, but the rest were assembled as always. Logan and Dev were planted on the futon playing Black Ops on the wide‑screen. Andy had headphones on, strumming his guitar. Luke was sitting behind the bar, to‑go cup of coffee in one hand, The Life of Pi in the other. I could picture myself there too, walking in with a sack of burritos from Taco Bell, setting up my laptop, writing my term papers, running my business. All separate parts of a whole. Would it be that easy to fall into it again?

Then I saw my drums. Or, more specifically, my bass drum, with a huge tear. Andy pulled off his headphones when he saw me.

“Grayson, sorry about the drum, man. Things got out of hand. Some chick put her heel through it. Accident.”

“Accident,” I repeated as I knelt down to assess the damage.

“Yeah, wouldn’t have happened if you’d stayed at the party,” Luke said. I stood up and turned to him; he was still reading. He used a drink stirrer to mark the page, closed the book, and placed it on the bar next to his coffee.

“Nah, probably would have happened anyways. Things were pretty outta control when I left,” I said, breaking down my kit.

“Grayson, why the rush? Hang out awhile, man,” Andy said.

“Yeah, hang out,” Luke said, hands in pockets.

Logan and Dev came up behind me. I stood up with the feeling I was about to get jumped . . . mentally, at least.

“What?” I asked.

They all just stared at me. Finally Logan spoke.

“Gray, you gotta come back. It hasn’t been the same without you around.”

“We’re sorry about, you know, not calling–” Dev began.

“But really, dude, if the great Grayson Barrett could get caught, what chance did we have?” Andy finished.

“Like it or not, you’re the proverbial glue that holds us together, Grayson,” Luke said.

If I’d heard this speech six months ago, I would have fallen into step again. Now it seemed contrived. Getting kicked out of school for selling term papers was humiliating enough, but I was picking up the pieces, working my way through it. Getting caught for the Operation Amsterdam stuff would be damaging beyond anything these idiots would be prepared for. I may have missed St. Gabe’s, but I was not willing to go back to the way things were. I’d broken free of the cave and the shadows on the wall. Maybe I wasn’t too much of a hedonist for The Republic to sink in after all.

“You’re doing fine without me,” I said.

“Maybe we are,” Luke said, “but we’re expanding a bit.”

“Yeah, my brother’s got a lock on apartments at school, an easy hit,” Andy said.

“And none of us can score the best hits like you, Gray,” Logan said.

“Well, except maybe for me, but I’m just one. Strength in numbers,” Luke said, putting a hand on my shoulder.

I returned to breaking down my kit, silent, but their questions and pleas swirled in the air around me.

“I’m rusty,” I said. It was all Luke needed to hear.

“Dude, please. It’s like riding a bike. Easy. Remember that hit you were working on, the chick from Hollister in Staten Island? Pick up with that again. You’ll be back in the swing of it in no time.”

Allegra .

“No, don’t think so,” I said.

Luke smirked and pulled out his phone. My stomach sank as he scrolled through his contacts and lifted the phone to his ear.

“What are you doing?”

His eyes were planted on mine.

“Hi, can I speak to Wren, please?”

I charged toward him, reaching for the phone, but he spun his back to me, moving away. Logan and Dev grabbed my arms. I squirmed against their hold, but four months without so much as lifting a five‑pound barbell and I was no match for them. Only Andy appeared shocked at what was happening.

“Luke. Don’t,” I begged.

He turned to me then, still on the phone.

“Oh, she’s at yoga? No, no message, I’ll just call back later. She’ll be in after seven? Okay, thanks, Mrs. Caswell,” he said, pressing End. He slid the phone back in his pocket. Logan and Dev let go.

“You’re fucking crazy.”

“No, I think you are,” he said, getting in my face. “I think getting tossed from school did a number on you. And since I’m your best friend, it’s my job to shock you out of it. We’ve been working on this since last winter. Don’t quit now. Wren is inconsequential.”

My jaw clenched. “Wren is not inconsequential.”

“Tell you what, just go see the Hollister chick–sniff it out–then you can do whatever you’re doing with Wren, take her to freakin’ prom for all I care. My theory being that once you get a taste again, you won’t want to stop.”

“And after I do this, you’ll just let me walk away?”

He folded his arms across his chest. “Sure, you can walk away and have polite, monogamous sex with your uptight, little, quiet chick. Although, yoga, hmm, she must be very bendy.”

“Fine, then,” I said. “Just stay away from Wren.”

He held out his hand. Andy chanted my name, quietly at first, “Gray‑son, Gray‑son,” until Logan and Dev joined in. I shook Luke’s hand. He grinned.

“Enough of this girlie‑man shit. Let’s have a beer,” he said.

Date: 2015-02-16; view: 654