Anne & Henry (3 page)

A
nne's skirt rises and her pale thigh presses against the black seat cushion of my Audi. Damn, I wish those legs weren't so completely bare.
Eyes on the road, Henry.

Truth is, I haven't stopped thinking about Anne since last night. I can't shake the image of her heart-shaped lips, those hypnotic eyes. I've never seen passion like that before, never in eyes so haunting and beautiful.

Meanwhile, Anne stares straight out the window, like she's memorizing every inch of the landscape: the rising sun skulking just behind the mountain, creating the illusion that it's on fire; the massive trees that line the asphalt, gray against the inky depths of Lake Washington.

I know every nuance of this particular road—the sharp hairpin curve at the quarter mile, the upcoming lookout point, the long straightaway that begs to be driven hard.
Every skid mark, a story: dodging raccoons, learning to drive with Arthur, street racing with the guys. My adrenaline pulses with the need to go fast, but as Anne and I hit the homestretch, instead of stepping on the gas, I ease off. Drag out our time together.

“Maybe you're not taking me to the school at all,” Anne says with a hint of amusement.

I steal a sideways glance at her. Those thigh-high boots are a total uniform violation, but fuck me if they aren't scorching. I shift in my seat.

“Busted,” I say. “I'm actually kidnapping you and dragging you off to my secret serial killer cabin in the woods. Everything you know about me is a lie.” I widen my eyes in mock horror. “My name's not even Henry.”

She wags her cell phone at me, pretending to look serious. “I've got Medina PD on auto-dial, you know.”

My grin widens. It should be awkward—we're yin and yang—but instead being with Anne feels surprisingly . . . freeing.

Her sharp gasp turns my attention back to the road as the ominous shadow of Medina Academy looms into view. “It's a fucking fortress,” she says. Anne leans forward and puts both hands on the dash for a closer look, her shirt lifting a little to reveal a thin band of peach skin on her lower back. I grip the steering wheel so tight my knuckles go white.

“All that's missing is the moat,” I say with a sarcastic drawl.

“I bet the view from the top floor is killer.”

My gaze flits to Anne's face, to those amazing eyes, now as big as soccer balls. I chuckle, shift down, and cruise into the parking lot. I park close to the main entrance in the spot marked with my name. I get the sense Anne isn't easy to impress, and my pulse spikes with the sharp thrill of the chase.

Anne cranes her neck, looks up, way up to the caps of the turrets on either side of the school's front entrance. An enormous flag hangs between the stone pillars, all red, white, blue, and proud.

“Fancy,” Anne says, and pops open the passenger door. “My motorcycle really wouldn't fit in.” She steps onto the asphalt and stretches, reaching her arms high over her head. I climb out of the car and rest my hip on the bumper, waiting for her to take it all in. I pretend I'm not staring at the smooth flesh of her exposed lower stomach. She glances back and smirks. Busted again.

“These boots are over the top, aren't they?” she says.

I scan the length of them, the crisscross lacing that extends almost to her knees, and a whimper catches in my windpipe. “Fitting in is overrated.”

There's a skip of hesitation, as though she's concerned, worried maybe, about exactly that: fitting in. A little shy, nervous, insecure. It's not the impression I have of her at all.

As we walk to the entrance, she checks out the landscaping—the
meticulous diagonal lines in the grass, the polished stones in the red rock sidewalk, flowers crammed everywhere. I've seen the books; Medina Academy spends a pretty penny on maintenance. And the awestruck look on Anne's face almost makes it worth it.

“Who's the groundskeeper, Martha Stewart?” she says.

I bark out a laugh and hold the door as she enters. She slides by and our shoulders touch, sending a shockwave down my spine.

“We'll hit the office later,” I manage without stuttering, then point down the hallway cluttered with cautionary tape. “And we'll steer clear of the west wing. Renovations.”

Anne trails her fingers along the stone walls as we walk. Her heels
click, clack,
echo on the marble floor.

“The original structure is too heavy for the soil or something, and has to be rebuilt.” I pause, grind my lower jaw. I'm boring the hell out of her. “I guess since your stepdad's an architect, you'd know more about this stuff.”

“I don't give a shit about architecture.”

My voice lowers. “Administration has strict guidelines about swearing, Miss Boleyn.” She's clearly amused and I know I should shut up, quit while I'm ahead. I don't. “One of the many rules my brother enforced as student president.”

They're part of the ironclad Code of Conduct that Arthur cowrote, giving students the power to reprimand or expel
peers who don't fit the Medina mold. A mock courtroom was even created for trials.

Anne smiles, her face expectant and playful. I could get whiplash trying to keep up with her emotions. “Real life of the party, huh?” She spins around to face me, walks backward, her cherry-colored lips pursed and teasing. “Following in big brother's footsteps doesn't sound like much fun.”

Her flippant comment makes me flinch. It's clear she doesn't know that Arthur's dead.

On the second floor, we pause outside the music room and peer in. Dozens of instruments hang from the walls like high-end art, more aesthetic than functional. Medina Academy hasn't won any band awards as far back as I can remember, but the music department spends enough to feed the deception.

Anne lingers at the door, scoping out the drum kit, the trombone, a handful of guitars. A white piano takes up an entire corner of the room, its dusty ivory keys yellowed under the fluorescent light. Catherine used to play. But in tenth grade, she traded in her piano teacher for Coach Fuller and music took a backseat to cheerleading, the only time she's ever stood up to her parents about anything. The thought of Catherine pokes at me, a sharp intrusion of guilt. I refocus on Anne.

“Do you play an instrument?” I say.

“Sax,” she says.

I choke on air. “Excuse me?”

Anne grins. “I play the saxophone.”

A nervous chuckle escapes my lips, twists into embarrassed heat. “Seriously? That's cool.”

Anne punches my shoulder, lightly, but my whole body responds to her touch. “Do I look like I play the sax?”

I frown, confused. “So you don't?”

Her hypnotic black eyes lighten, flicker with mischief. She's totally playing me. I'm so not used to getting played. “Why sax?”

“Because it's the last thing you expected me to say.”

She's right. Nothing about Anne is what I expect.

We pass the art room and studio, spend a few minutes in the library. Anne touches the spines of old novels as though they might crack, pauses at a random book. She flips open
Le Deuxième Sexe,
reads the first page, her lips moving in slow motion. I try not to think about the title, the stark black-and-white cover. The way her mouth looks when she reads aloud.

Anne slides the book back in place. “de Beauvoir is a genius.”

“Absolutely,” I say, twisting the little white lie until it becomes truth. I've never read the book in Anne's hand, not one single page, but like hell I'll admit it.

We move from the library to a Student Council office down the hall. It's crammed with solid oak and polished brass, more law office than high school hang-out, formal
and stuffy. Two leather chairs frame a glass coffee table.

Arthur's spirit lingers here, practically suffocating.

I keep hoping that it will get easier, that the pain will fade and I'll stop thinking about my brother every day. How it should have been me who went off that cliff last spring. How if I hadn't bailed, I could have saved him.

Anne and I pause at the grid of photographs on the back wall, framed pictures of successful politicians, athletes, Arthur. So much Arthur. More than a dozen stills, various poses and expressions.

She zeroes in on an older picture of my brother and Principal Adams, just minutes after signing the school's Code of Conduct, chins high and proud, like they're passing the First Amendment.

I want to take this photograph down, box it up with the rest of his things, bury them in the basement,
under
the basement, along with my guilt. “That's Arthur.”

“You look like him,” Anne says. She leans in for a closer view, her emotions blank and unreadable.

My face reflects in the glass picture frame, milky and unfocused, a reminder that while our features are similar, I'll never be Arthur, will never quite measure up. The black hole in my chest widens. “He's dead,” I say, maybe for shock.

“I'm sorry,” Anne whispers, her gaze skimming from one image to the next.

“This isn't a photo collage, it's a shrine,” she says, and I'm
surprised she notices. She pauses on another photo, squinting as though to find a familiar face in the crowd. When she cocks her head, I know she spots Catherine. I can almost hear the clunk of gears shifting in her brain as she studies the way Arthur and my girlfriend are posed—interlinked hands, bodies slanted toward each other, lovestruck expressions projecting the kind of happiness I'm convinced only happens in movies.

She gives me a quizzical look.

I offer a terse nod, gnaw on my lower lip. “It's complicated.”

It's not, actually. As the lone children from the two most influential families in Medina, our relationship was encouraged, expected even, after Arthur's death. With both my father and brother gone, I've inherited it all—the grief, the drama, the responsibility. Catherine. I'm a follower. Picking up where my brother left off. Living another man's life. Maybe not by choice, but it doesn't make it any less true.

I'm relieved when Anne presses forward.

“Was he a good president?” she says.

The question catches me off guard. He wasn't a
good
president, he was
the
president, leaving behind footsteps so large and overwhelming not even a giant could fill them. “Only the best,” I say.

Anne smiles sadly. “What happened to him?”

I shake my head to show discomfort. She gets it and
suddenly I'm anxious to leave this room. I glance at the clock above the cherrywood desk. My brother's. Drawers overflow with his personal things—business cards, election pins, documents, an autographed Seahawks pennant.

“We should go. Class starts soon,” I say.

Anne nods, but she lingers at my brother's desk and lifts the only framed picture of me in the room—a group shot of the current council members. “Just one girl in the bunch,” Anne remarks, not with judgment, but awareness.

“Yeah, that's Samantha. Sam,” I say, without looking. “She's the council secretary.”

Anne shoots me an annoyed look and I shrug.

“Hey, I don't control the voting.”

On our way to the courtyard we pass the gym and pause at the trophy case filled with statues, medals, certificates. My name is engraved on more than half. I glance at Anne through my peripheral vision, looking for signs she's impressed. It's suddenly so damn important that she's impressed. I want her to see me for
me
, not the shadow of my brother.

“Quite an amazing collection of trophies,” she says. “Football quarterback, tennis, captain of the rowing team—tell me Superman, where
do
you keep your cape?”

“It's at the dry cleaner's at the moment,” I say, and she snorts.

Students mill all around us, gearing up for first period. These sprawling courtyard gardens are a labyrinth of dense
greenery dotted with park benches and tables—the place to gather, study. Make out.

I want to take Anne somewhere private, spend a few minutes getting to know her better. But there's no escaping the yahoos strolling toward us: Charles, Rick, and John. Anne sees them too. The air around us, around Anne, frosts with tension. I hold my chin high. One false move and my friends will know that something's off, that maybe I dig Anne a little more than I should.

“I believe you've already met the jesters,” I say to Anne. I slap Charles on the back, nod at Rick, cast a warning glance at John. He's had an entire night to recover and plot some type of revenge for his humiliation.

“Don't let Henry fool you,” Rick says. “He's the prankster here.”

Anne shifts and bites her sexy lower lip. She tilts her head a little, then says to John, her voice dripping with sarcasm, “I think we all know who the real joke is.”

Church bells ring, signaling the start of class.