Anne & Henry (21 page)

“We don't have much time.” His voice is angry, cruel, desperate. My heart cracks a little from the pain. “I was driving, Anne. Do you hear me?” He runs his hand through his hair. “Fuck.” Henry leans in close, almost presses his bloodied face up against mine. “Listen to me: If they find out you were driving, you're done.”

I blink open my eyes. The tears come back and my voice wobbles. “But . . .”

My mother silences me with a finger to my lips and I'm struck by another moment of truth. She
knows
what Henry's done. That I was reckless and stupid. That if the police knew I was driving, I'd be in jail, not the hospital.

I want to scream that it's her fault. That because of the hurtful words she said to me, the fresh wounds she carved, I spun out of control. I put Henry, put
us
, in danger.

“I need to see Henry,” I say. “Is he in the waiting room?” The slight tremor in my voice gives me away and my mother looks beyond me, out through the window. Rain streaks the glass and in the distance a dark cloud hovers over the thick forest.

“Mom? Where is Henry?”

“He's at home, baby,” she says. “Please get some rest. We can talk about Henry later.”

Fresh panic pricks at my skin. Why isn't he here? I scan the window ledge, the side table, even the floor, but there are no flowers, no balloons, no cards of sympathy.

Isn't he worried?

Doesn't he care?

I try again to sit upright, but my mother pushes me back down with a steady hand. “Anne, please. It's important you get some sleep. You have a concussion. I'm sure Henry will be here to see you when you're feeling better.”

My mouth goes dry. “He hasn't been here at all?”

She shakes her head and tries for an expression of encouragement, but I've long ago cracked her emotional code. I've been unconscious for two days and Henry hasn't visited my room once.

Neither of us thinks this is okay.

A knock at the door halts fresh tears, but my hope evaporates when Sam enters. As much as I like her, she's not Henry. She carries a bouquet of daisies and a sheepish smile, says hello to my mom.

“I know this is super cliché,” she says, setting the vase on the night table next to me. “I couldn't figure out anything else.” She flops down on a chair. “You had me worried.”

Despite my inner turmoil I'm touched that she's here.

“Sam, this is—”

“Oh, we've met,” my mother cuts in, “Your friend has been here a couple of times.”

“You were like, totally out of it,” Sam says, with a chuckle that morphs into a sigh. “Want to talk?”

My mother stands and smooths her skirt with the palm of her hands, leaving sweaty prints on the suede. “I think I'll go find you something to eat,” she says nervously, like she's not sure what I'll say to Sam. “There must be something better than this hospital food, right?”

She slips out the door without glancing back and my body starts to shake.

“You scared her pretty good,” Sam says, and reaches into her purse for a chocolate bar and her phone. She sets both on the nightstand and I cling to hope by a thin thread. If I can just
talk
to Henry, we'll figure all of this out. . . .

An ominous shadow covers the hole in my chest. Maybe Henry isn't here because he's angry, upset at the terrible, awful position I've put him in. Pissed off at having to cover for my recklessness and stupidity.

“Sam, I need a favor,” I say. I'm a quivering mess. “My mother took my phone and I really want to talk to Henry.”

She looks at me sideways. “I get it. You guys have to get your stories straight.”

I know it's a test, but I won't take the bait. Whatever rumors she believes will have to be enough for now.

“I can't—”

Sam waves off my response and punches a number into her cell. The phone unlocks and Henry's contact information swims onto the screen.

“You've got ten minutes,” she says, standing. At the door, she pauses. “I'll be outside if you need me.”

I nod. “Thank you,” I whisper, but she's already out the door, and a hollow ringtone starts echoing in my ear.

On the third ring, someone picks up and my stomach clenches at the unexpected sound of a stern feminine voice. “Mrs. Tudor? It's Anne. Anne Boleyn.”

There's a moment of silence punctuated by the
thump-gallop-thump
of my heart. Maybe she didn't hear me or there's a bad connection on the line or—

“What can I do for you, Ms. Boleyn?” The tone of her voice is colder than fresh snow.

“Is Henry there?”

“He's resting, finally,” she snaps. “I suppose he has you to thank for this mess.”

It's not a question, so I don't bother with a response. Instead, I say, “Will you let him know I called?”

My gaze flits to the clock on the wall. I wonder how long before my mother charges through the door with real food and a false smile.

Henry's mother clucks her tongue and sighs, though it sounds as if she's breathing out of her nose like some kind of
nightmarish dragon. I shudder. “No, I don't think I will, Anne.”

Confusion muddles my response. “Don't think you'll—”

“Let him know that you called,” she says. “Actually, I think it's best you stay away from my son.”

I open my mouth to defend myself but no sound comes out.

“Henry won't tell me the whole story about what happened,” she says. “However, I do know this: He's lying. I don't believe Henry was driving your motorcycle. Not for one second. He's obviously covering for you.”

Guilt renders me speechless. She's right and there's nothing I can do about it, not one damn—

“Henry would never have lied to me before,” she continues. “But since you've gotten your claws into him, I don't know what to think anymore. I see what you're doing, young lady. Flaunting yourself. It's disgusting.”

The clock moves forward another minute as though in slow motion. Tick

tock.

The numbers blur under the haze of my tears. I want to hang up, to start over, to wind back the time by hand and forget the hospital, the accident, the tunnel—

No, not the tunnel.

I flash back to the moment Henry's hands start caressing my skin. Lips exploring my flesh. I swallow, fighting the sweet, dangerous memory, and shut my eyes briefly against the rising wave of longing.

“It's not like that,” I say.

“You may have seduced Henry, Ms. Boleyn, but you have
not
fooled me. I won't have him dragged into some kind of scandal. Stay away from him.”

I swallow my nerves and clear my throat. “You don't know what you're asking, Mrs. Tudor. I love—”

A merciless chuckle crackles through the line. “Love? Please. Henry doesn't have time for these pathetic high school games. He is destined for greatness, Ms. Boleyn. And I won't allow some tramp to get in the way of that.”

My hand grips the phone so tight I'm sure my veins will explode. “You know nothing about me.”

“I know enough,” she says. “Keep your dirty hands off of him. I won't ask again.”

There's a charged beat between us, a terrifying moment where decisions happen. Stay on the line and fight, or give in.

“I mean it,” she says with a sigh so deep I know I'm already done for. “If you care for Henry at all, let him go. You don't belong in his world.”

I
hover at Anne's locker, like I'm waiting to walk her to class, hold her hand, pretend everything's normal. Stupid, since I know she's not coming—and nothing's been normal since the accident. Now that I know she'll be okay, worry has morphed into anger. I'm pissed off that I'm paying for her mistakes.

While she's at home healing, trying to move on, I'm avoiding questions, making excuses, dodging those
I-told-you-so
stares. Does she even know the shit storm she's caused?

My version of the accident has earned me a week of my mother's house arrest. Stripped of my electronics and the keys to my car, and issued a chauffeur to ensure I don't go out of bounds. I'm dropped off at school and picked up like a damn kindergartener.

I guess it's better than the alternative. The combination of my mother's smooth talking and our family name has kept me out of jail.

And yet, no matter how furious I am, I can't get Anne off my mind. She has this way of getting into your blood and now I'm so scared to lose the high, I'll do anything—whatever it takes—to hold on.

I slam my fist against the wall and curse.

“Temper, temper,” clucks a voice in my periphery. “Dude, you have to keep that shit in check.”

I give John the finger without even turning around. I'd recognize that cockiness blindfolded and drunk. My response is met with a chuckle.

“Sounds like you need to get a lot of things under control,” pipes in another voice.

I spin around to scowl at Catherine, and I'm momentarily and unexpectedly frozen. We haven't been this close in days, weeks. Her presence unnerves me and puts me at ease all at once.

Things with Catherine were simple by comparison. She's predictable. Tudor-approved. Anne is . . . not.

“Something on your mind?” I say.

Catherine folds her arms across her chest and shifts her hips to one side. Her hair is blonder than I remember and she's wearing her makeup differently—dark, bold,
not her.
On the surface, she pulls it off, the sense that she's over it, over us, and moved on. But I see past that thick eyeliner to the truth.

Despite everything, there's something comforting about knowing she still cares, no matter how superficially.

Because Anne is foreign and unknown, often disconcerting. Maddening. She throws me off my game and makes me question—me. My future. But even though I'm pissed, I don't regret standing up for her, shouldering the fault. I got off with a warning about driving too fast and without a proper motorcycle license. The cops didn't bother testing me for alcohol, barely questioned my story. One of the many perks that come from being a Tudor, I guess. Anne would have been burned at the stake.

“Give me your phone,” I say to John. The morning bell rings and the halls begin to empty as students file into class, gossiping and groaning about homework and Mondays and how many weeks and days are left until Christmas break. Some wave, others pretend they're not looking, but no one stops. It's as though they're giving us a wide berth for whatever comes next. I hold out my hand. “It's a simple request, man.”

John clears his throat, averts his gaze. “I can't let you call her.”

My jaw leaps. “Why the fuck would you care?”

“Whoa. Chill,” John says, and holds up his hands in self defense, like I might hit him if he says the wrong thing.

I take a step back and lean against Anne's locker.

“Your mother gave us strict instructions,” John says. “She's . . . convincing.”

“You're shitting me, right?” My eyes go so wide I'll bet I look alien. “Since when do you listen to what she says?”

“Since when do you swear so much?” Catherine snaps.

I know what she's getting at, but I refuse the bait. “Fuck this,” I say, and try to push past her. “And fuck both of you.”

Catherine's expression registers shock and I recoil.

Jesus. What the hell is wrong with me?

Her cool fingers wrap around my wrist, holding me in place. “We're worried about you, Henry,” she says, her voice soft and tender. She searches my face, expecting some kind of reaction, maybe looking for a sign I've heard or even care what she has to say. “The accident . . .”

“I'm fine,” I say through gritted teeth. My fists clench, but Catherine doesn't let go.

“Still, man, you took a serious risk.” John runs a hand through his disheveled hair. “I mean, what were you doing? You can't learn to drive a motorcycle in one night.”

“He didn't,” Catherine says, and drops my wrist. My arm falls limp. Gone is the glimmer of compassion, the false sympathy. Her expression hardens. “He's covering for
her
. It's the only thing that makes sense.”

My limbs feel like lead. She's not the first to suggest this—the police, my mother.

“Is that true?”

I shift my gaze, focus on the window in the classroom across the hall. The teacher writes something on the whiteboard and I squint to read it. The swirl of letters doesn't make sense, some kind of poem, maybe. I've just about made out
the first sentence when a shadow moves in front of the glass and blocks my view.

“That chick's not worth it,” John says. “She's trash.”

It happens fast. I grab his jacket, spin him around, and slam him against Anne's locker. Draw back a fist. “Say that again,” I growl.