Anne & Henry (15 page)

My mother tilts her head like she's stargazing. “I just don't understand what's gotten into you, Henry.”

“I'll contact the Harvard guy,” I say. “Set up a lunch or something.” I attempt a smile. “You know I can woo him.”

My mother carries her glass to the fridge, fills it with cool water. She takes a long drink and sets the glass on the counter with a soft clink. She doesn't look at me as she says, “I don't approve of that Boleyn girl. She isn't right for this family. Or you.”

I'm tired of hearing that, from Catherine, from my best friends, from my mother. None of them know her. They can't
feel
what I do when I'm with her.

“If you'd just give her a chance, you'd see—”

What? Anne wears her rebellion like warrior paint. That's all my mother sees.

Resigned, I lean against the counter and wait. I always cave first, desperate for some way to ease the sadness. But there is nothing I can do to fill Arthur's void. And for tonight, I've given up trying.

“You're so close, Henry. Your career, Harvard, everything you want, is
right
there.”

“No, Mom, everything
you
want is right there,” I say. When she recoils, I slump my shoulders. Back off. “I love you.”

Her eyes well, but the tears don't fall. I wonder if she's even capable of crying anymore. “You are my son,” she says.
“And I trust you will do the right thing. I know you will make me—and your father, God rest his soul—proud.”

I nod, wishing the
right
thing meant the same to all of us.

But as she turns off the kitchen light and leaves me alone in the dark, my cell phone vibrates again and I know that as long as I am with Anne, there's no hope of making my mother proud.

I
t's happening so fast. My feelings for Henry grow and swell, pushing against my heart. I've become one of those dopey girls, delirious and stupid with love.

Last night Henry and I texted for hours, almost until dawn. I'm wrung out, running on empty, and so happy. So ridiculously happy.

As I fumble to open my locker and shove my textbooks inside, a thick envelope floats to the floor. My name is scrawled on the front, the bold black lettering punctuated with a hand-drawn heart.

I slide my thumb under the seal and peer inside. The note is folded like origami, but even so, I can see through to the ink on the other side. My fingers tremble as I unfold and unfold and unfold until there is a full sheet of paper and . . . a locket? I pinch the thin chain between two fingers and hold it upright so it unravels to reveal a small heart held together
by a tiny hinge. My fingers fumble to undo it, the pterodactyl wings in my stomach growing larger, bashing against my sternum until—

The heart splits in half.

H+A
is written in blue ink on a slip of paper tucked inside.

My smile nearly stretches my cheeks out of shape as I clasp the locket back together, tuck it in my hand, and read Henry's note.

Anne,

I've got rowing practice during lunch, but maybe this heart will keep me in yours. It was my grandmother's. I can't wait to see you again.

—H

PS: Don't be alarmed that I broke into your locker. Being Student Council president comes with a few perks.

I fold the note into a tight square and stuff it in my front pocket. My lips are so dry from smiling, I'm convinced they'll crack, but no matter how hard I try to stop, the grin won't go away.

Distracted, I'm jostled from behind and pitched forward into my locker. My head hits the metal shelf. “What the—” I say, turning, my smile morphing into a scowl. But the crowd
moves like a herd of cattle, oblivious to what's happened.

“Our school uniforms should come with breastplates, right?”

Sam's voice snaps me out of my anger, and I close my locker with a laugh.

“Helmets, at least,” I say.

She nudges her chin toward my clenched fist where the locket dangles. “A gift from Henry?”

I bite my lower lip, nervous and a little alarmed. It's only been a few hours since Henry and I first kissed. “News travels fast.”

“I may have heard a rumor or two at swim practice this morning.”

And suddenly, I wonder if Sam is angry about the news, or if she even believes it at all. I'm anxious about backlash, what people will think. But one glimpse at the sparkle in my friend's eyes, and I know there's nothing malicious about her teasing. “I was going to tell you,” I say.

She waves me off like it's no big deal, and relief eases through me. No question Catherine and her friends will hate me, but I need Sam, her friendship, the belief I've got at least one person on my side.

“Do you want me to help you put it on?” Sam says, and holds out her hand. “It's okay, you can let go. I promise not to run away with it, even if I am a bit jealous.”

Jealous?
“I didn't think Henry was your type.”

“Oh, he's not—” She zooms in on the necklace. “Henry puts on a show, pretends he's a typical rich boy. But I've seen him at council meetings. There's more to him than most people realize.”

I hand her the locket, turn, and lift my hair. The chain is cool against my skin and the heart thumps against my chest. I clasp my hand around it as I turn.

“Thank you,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper. “I'm a klutz when it comes to putting on jewelry.” This simple locket is the most expensive thing I've ever worn, and my eyes swim with emotion I can't process.

Through my blurred vision, a trio of girls walk toward me, smirking and pointing.

Too late I realize they're friends of Catherine's. There's no time to turn around, to hide the locket or the look of joy on my face.

“Nice necklace,” Liz says, flashing a sinner's sneer. “I think Catherine has one just like it.” The three of them pass, cackling.

“Forget them,” Sam says with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Forget everything I said before and wear that locket with pride, girl. You deserve it. Hell, you're practically a rock star now.”

My throat dries. “More Johnny Rotten than John Lennon,” I say, thinking that clearly not everyone will be excited about this turn of events. Has Henry told his friends about me, about us? Are we a couple now?

Sam snorts. “Haters will hate. But you're a symbol of hope.” She squeezes my forearm. My body is thirsty, drinking up her encouragement. “I obviously underestimated you. If you can knock Queen Catherine off her pedestal, there's reason to believe in all kinds of miracles.”

A rush of satisfaction wells up inside me, a perverse thrill that my developing relationship with Henry has stoked such gut-deep and varying emotions.

“Come on, I'll buy you something to eat,” Sam says, and points to my plain paper lunch bag. “I guarantee the infamous fries in the cafeteria taste better than anything you've got in there.”

“I don't know,” I say, dumping the bag in a trash can as we make our way to the expansive lunchroom, working to ignore the sharp sense of dread that seeps down my neck. “My mother makes a mean cheese sandwich.”

Despite Sam's assurances that I should wear my new relationship status like a badge of honor, I stare more at the floor than straight ahead as we make our way to the cafeteria. Sam talks the whole way, loud enough to drown out the hollow echo of my pulse.

My anxiety peaks as we cross the threshold, too late for me to turn around, retrieve my bag lunch from the trash. I lift my head instead.

It's not the greasy smell of fast food that hits me, but rather the crisp scent of fruit and fresh-baked bread. Unlike
at my old school, there's no fried chicken on the menu, no slop to pass off as soup.

My eyes widen as I'm handed an overflowing plate of fries after ordering. “I know, right?” Sam says, nodding with approval at my tray. “I'd suggest we share, but that's really against my nature.” She pulls her tray up against her chest. “I'm sure you'll manage those on your own.”

Catherine's friend Marie slides into line beside me, and I brace for confrontation. “You know what they say,” she says, and eyes my lunch. “One moment on the lips, a lifetime on the—” Her hips shift, bump against mine.

She's off and laughing before I can respond. I resist the urge to trade in my fries for greens, but exchange the soda for bottled water. As Sam pays, I scan the room for an open table.

There are a couple of spots beside Liz and Marie. Liz shoots me a sly look and I avert my gaze. I'm so not ready for this.

“Hey, Anne, we've got room,” Marie shouts, her lips twisted with amusement. It's more dare than invitation. And I'm now the focal point of sixty-some sets of eyes.

The cafeteria noise grinds to a halt. There's a split second of silence before a few muttered whispers break the hush. Pieces of conversation float through the air.

“Can you believe—?”

“Henry and . . . her?”

“He's crazy.”

The gossip bubbles up around me until I can't tell where it's coming from anymore. My chest hurts, as though someone's using me in a bench press—and all I can think of is Henry, how I wish he were here, deflecting, defending, blocking the harsh whispers and accusing stares.

I shake my head, pull myself together, tune out the cacophony of gossip, and follow Sam to a long table dotted with familiar, friendly faces and nonjudgmental looks. A cute boy with spiked hair and ice blue eyes shifts down on the bench to make room for me.

“Hey,” he says like I'm not a spectacle, like we're the only table of people in the crowded room. “I loved your reading of
Le Deuxieme Sexe
in English last week. A bold choice.”

Sam rolls her eyes. “You'll have to forgive Chris. He's a bit of a geek when it comes to French literature.”

“And educated ladies,” he says, winking.

“Back off, tiger,” Sam says. “Anne is definitely off the market.”

I bite into a crispy fry and wash it down with a long gulp of water. I forget about Liz and Marie, focus instead on Sam and Chris, the others gathered around the table talking, teasing, and having fun. Maybe I
can
fit it here. Build a new life. Forget the past.

For a few blissful minutes, I almost believe it.

T
he glass-covered rooftop patio of the London Tower restaurant boasts the best view of Medina. Below, the town is a sprawling kingdom of forest, water, and beach. Houses, even the Tudor mansion, resemble pushpins on a map, fading into the maze of streams, trees, and back roads.

But it's not at all the view I'm checking out.

A strand of hair sticks to Anne's lips. Lips I haven't been able to take my eyes off since the waiter seated us. The way they move when she talks, smiles, laughs—Christ, it's the worst when she laughs.

She tucks her hair behind her ear, tilts her head, and sighs. “It's beautiful here.”

I'm speechless.

People often mistake the restaurant for a castle, wedged into the side of a mountain at the end of a narrow tree-lined
road. White Christmas lights hang from the branches all year long, giving the impression you're at the entrance of the Enchanted Forest. It's the perfect place to take Anne tonight—exclusive, expensive, and private, with an emphasis on private. I can't get enough of being alone with her.

Our table is tucked in the corner, surrounded by so many flowers, the smell is cloying. Flickering flames from the tabletop candles alternate shadow and light across her face, and I'm at once both anxious and thrilled. Anne is the unknown, my Cracker Jack box surprise.

I raise my water in a toast. “To beginnings.”

Our glasses clink. Her eyes meet mine.

The waiter sets our plates on the table. The scent of onions and red wine melds with the smell of braised chicken wafting from Anne's dish, something I can't pronounce, French maybe.