GRAYSON

NO FEAR, AND SILENCE.

That was always our contingency plan–because when you’re screwing girls, swiping goods, taking the profit, and planning a monthlong party in Europe, you needed to know how to deal if the cops ever got involved. Sounds simple, until reality hits and you realize that fear part? You’ve got no control over it.

I stood about a foot away from Wren, hands over my head, willing my jackhammer heart to slow down. I wanted to hold her hand, tell her this was all going to be okay, but really? Another siren blared outside, short and loud. I didn’t know how many police cars were outside, but from the glow of the red and blue lights flashing strobic across our faces, my guess would’ve been a very unscientific shitload.

Luke and Andy were on the other side of me. Luke didn’t look particularly concerned–with the exception of the blood on his face and his hands in the air, he could have been waiting to get a haircut. Andy, on the other hand, looked as fragile as a preschooler about to hurl. He winced as he was patted down.

A cop pulled something out of Andy’s front pocket.

“What’s this?” he asked, bringing up a baggie to his nose.

Andy made a series of spluttering noises and looked over at us. The cop shook his head and reached for his cuffs.

Luke and I shared what was probably the first and last look of friendly agreement in a long time. I imagined the collective thought bubble over our heads would read:

Fucking. Bonehead. Stoner

.

I wanted to pummel Andy. Shake some sense into him. It was stupid enough for him to rat to Luke about what we were doing, but carrying a freakin’ dime bag around like a pack of Skittles? Luke muttered and looked up toward the ceiling. Andy was cuffed. We were screwed.

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.”

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, hurt, or make Wren hate me forever, 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.

Date: 2015-02-16; view: 714