Anne & Henry (6 page)

“She's actually really nice,” Sam says when I don't respond. “Unless you get on her bad side or hurt one of her friends.”

I don't have proof, but I suspect Catherine's behind the rumors about me—apparently I've already got a rap sheet a mile long. My phone number is spray painted on every bathroom stall between Seattle and Medina—how original—and my affection for motorcycles somehow translates into a heroin addiction. In one creative spin on the truth, I sacrifice kittens and hold séances. Shit, if I was a boy, I'd be considered mysterious.

I'm certain the rumors are worse because Henry doesn't treat me like I have the plague, not to mention me publicly humiliating John. Their group is close—so close I'm shocked they're not stitched together. Piss one off and the rest follow? That's usually how it works.

The cheerleaders jog off the field to make way for the players. Maybe I don't get football, but my pulse sure as hell spikes when I see Henry in uniform. He looks up into the bleachers and I'm positive he sees me,
feels
me, too.

I try to look away. It's like my eyes are imprisoned, glued to his well-cut, impressive build, the way his pants cling to his hips and thighs. How his jersey accents the muscles on his arms. Funny that I never noticed his biceps before. I shake the fantasy of those strong arms wrapped around my waist and blow out a long, calming breath.

“That's the other mistake you don't want to make,” Sam says, her tone a mixture of amusement and warning. “Catherine can be a bit possessive about her boyfriend.”

“I'm not after Henry,” I say, a little too quickly.

She shoots me a look of disbelief and stuffs a handful of popcorn into her mouth. Her voice muffled, she says, “Everyone is after Henry.”

On the field, Henry bends over, waiting . . . for something to happen. Of course I'm staring at his ass. The play starts. Henry catches the ball with strong, capable hands. Extends his torso, arches his back, and throws downfield. The ball
soars in slow motion. Ten, fifteen, twenty yards, I'm sure. The crowd erupts.

Sam stands to watch the catch and slumps when the one of the players is tackled near the goal line. “I'm not kidding, though.” She turns to me, serious. “Catherine is the most popular girl in school. She rules this place—but not in a power trip kind of way. These guys have all known one another since elementary.”

I cringe as Henry is tackled, wait until he stands and shakes it off. “I can hold my own.”

“This isn't Hogwarts. The good don't always triumph.”

Sam's warnings are starting to tweak my nerves. Compared to the raucous, obnoxious vibe of my old school, Medina Academy is about as subdued as a morgue. I survived. “Who says I'm one of the good?” I say with a mischievous grin.

I study the football field. Henry gathers his team in for a huddle. My eyes are trained on his torso, his muscular legs.

“Touché,” Sam says. “So, new girl. You got any siblings?”

A response catches in my throat. “Just me,” I say and swallow the lie. I look away fast, pretend I'm fascinated with something on the field, unprepared for this line of questioning.

“You're from Seattle?” she asks, pressing.

“North.” My old house sat a few streets off Aurora Avenue amid a cluster of cheap motels and pawnshops. It was a weathered dump with low ceilings, short doorframes,
and a leaking toilet the landlord used as an excuse to ogle my mother.

Sam blows out a breath. “This must be quite the change then.”

She says it like I shouldn't be embarrassed by the past, as though it's normal to feel out of place, unwelcome . . . unliked here. My guard drops a little. “For sure. Any tips on getting through the culture shock?”

Below, Henry tucks the football under his arm and pushes his way through a crowd of oncoming tacklers. He dodges left, right, pile drives his way toward the end zone. Bodies fall all around him.

“Honestly?” Sam says, and we both stand to cheer Henry over the goal. “Stay clear of Catherine, her friends, and
especially
Henry. It's the only way you'll survive the year.”

Henry spikes the ball to the ground. Touchdown! Fireworks explode from the sidelines. The crowd chants Henry's name and it reverberates in my head, tunnels down somewhere deep in my gut. He whips off his helmet and looks up into the crowd to wave. My chest balloons with ridiculous pride.

He glances toward me and this time there's no mistake. He sees me, too.

A
rthur and I used to eat at the Medina Diner once a week. It's an old-style mom and pop burger joint where the locals hang out. While I ordered us strawberry shakes and double cheeseburgers, Arthur worked the crowd, increasing his supporters, his popularity, and his personal female fan club. Just like Dad. A slick smile, an innocent touch on the shoulder—bam! Instant follower.

Today, my mother sits across from me, out of place at the usual table, her pantsuit and pearl earrings an odd contrast against the torn checkered tablecloth. The scent of burned grease is so thick I'm halfway to cardiac arrest. I grab my shake and suck back a long swig.

“That's hardly attractive, Henry,” my mother says with a cluck of her tongue. She lifts her coffee cup and swirls what's left, takes a small sip. Her mouth curls with distaste.

I don't bother hiding my grin.

A couple of guys from school duck in through the doors, spot us sitting in the corner, and fake a football toss my way. I mimic the catch and the room erupts with cheers. Residual excitement from last night's win.

My mother sighs. “Tell me again why you chose football over something more . . . civil?”

Because I love it.

“Try a shake,” I say instead, dodging a repeat of a familiar debate. Anything to loosen her up. It's not just that she's overdressed. Her whole aura is too stuffy for the laid-back feel of this joint.

My mother runs her tongue along her top teeth. “I don't even know how you convinced me to eat here.” She lowers her voice to a confidential mutter. “The atmosphere is absolutely . . . bohemian.”

“Harsh, Mom,” I say, wiping ice cream from the corner of my mouth with the back of my hand. Sure, the pleather upholstery is sealed in places with duct tape and the booths have seen better days. The neon signs advertising beer and soda buzz, pulse, and threaten to sizzle out. But classic rock thumps from a vintage jukebox. It's comfortable. Real. Something normal I can cling to. “Arthur always said the place had charm,” I say, leaning on my brother's memory to keep her seated, at least until our food arrives. “And the burgers are out of this—”

The word hangs on the tip of my tongue as the restaurant
door swings open. Anne and her mother stand at the threshold, eyes narrowed, scanning for a table. Anne cocks her head and pouts. I can't help it. Before I think about the consequences, I stand and wave my hands back and forth like an idiot until Anne sees me.

Our eyes lock.

She hesitates.

Maybe I should be nervous, wary of my mother's inevitable reaction, but it's like I'm someone else, someone decidedly not Henry Tudor. I motion Anne over and make room on the bench beside me.

“Mrs. Boleyn,” I say, and point to the seat next to my mother.

“It's Harris now,” she says, holding out her hand like we all need a reminder of her new status. Her diamond is blinding under the harsh overhead lights. My mother's skin pales, and for a second I revel in her discomfort. Mrs. Harris may be married to the architect, but she's not an equal—not by a long shot.

Anne slides onto the seat next to me and our thighs touch, a split second of shared heat.

My mother plasters on one of her “for the people” smiles. “Lovely to see you both,” she says, though I notice she doesn't look at Anne, not even from her well-practiced periphery. “Your husband is . . . ?”

“Away,” Mrs. Harris says, and sighs. “I thought it might be
a nice time to explore the neighborhood. Grab a quick bite to eat.” She twists around to scope out the room. “This place is . . . charming.”

“Indeed,” my mother says, giving me an evil side-eye. I'm so going to pay for this.

Sweat dots Mrs. Harris's chest and forehead. There's a strand of thread unraveling at the collar of her faded black sweater. Though not as polished, pulled together,
regal
as my mother, there's something striking about her. Not hard to see where Anne gets it from.

“What's good here?” Anne says.

I hold up my cup. “Best strawberry shakes in the state.”

“How about the chocolate?”

I shrug, try to suck more out of the straw, and come up empty. “Never tried it.”

Anne wrinkles her nose. “Pretty cozy there in your comfort zone, huh?”

The slight twinges a bit. She hasn't known me long enough to make those kinds of comments, even if she's half right. “If it ain't broke . . .”

My mother fishes around in her designer purse and pulls out an embellished gold wallet. She digs out a hundred-dollar bill and hands it to me with a counterfeit smile. “Henry, go pick out a couple of burgers for Mrs. Harris and her daughter. I'm sure you'll know what's best.”

“Oh,” Anne's mother says, and presses her palm against
her chest. “That's generous of you, but I can get this. My husband left me his—”

“Double cheese, Mom?” Anne says, a deliberate interruption. I almost wince with her embarrassment.

Anne slips out of the seat, not bothering to wait as she makes her way to the front counter. She surveys the menu, the extensive list of burger combinations, everything from plain cheese to Arthur's favorite, the Mexican. I come up behind Anne, breathe in her earthy scent.

“Well, this is awkward,” she says, not looking back.

I glance over at the table where our mothers appear engrossed in conversation, though I can't imagine what they have to talk about. “They'll figure it out,” I say.

Anne orders two identical double burgers, loaded, minus the onions, extra on the ketchup and Jack cheese, pickles on the side. She passes on the shakes, asks for sodas instead.

“You're seriously not even going to try one?”

Anne presses her lips together. “Lactose intolerant.”

“Oh shit, really?”

“No.”

Fuck me.
Played again.

Before I can come up with something witty, Anne pays for the order, waves away my mother's cash, and sidesteps down the counter to fill two paper cups, one with Diet Coke, the other with a swampy mix of fruit juice and Seven-Up.

“Sometimes I don't know what to think of you,” I say.

She raises an eyebrow. “Maybe you shouldn't be thinking of me at all.”

Back at the table, our conversation is stilted, punctuated by long pauses. With each question, Anne responds with reservation, her tone clipped and terse. My mother's jaw is set, eyes flat—I can sense her annoyance.

“The mayor shared the final plans for the theater with me,” I say, addressing Anne's mother. “The way your husband plays with light and scale is impressive. Twenty-foot ceilings, exposed beams. Brilliant.”

“Thank you, Henry,” she says, and her whole face lights up. “I didn't know a thing about architecture until I met Thomas. Now I can almost carry on a conversation without looking the terminology up in a dictionary.”

My mother all but rolls her eyes. Anne's posture stiffens and I clear my throat before she can call my mother out on her rudeness. The girl's like a ticking bomb with a missing kill switch.

“Are you anxious about Harvard?” Mrs. Harris says. “Still a few months until early decisions.”

“I've got to get in,” I say, nodding. “I don't have a Plan B.”

“Of course you'll get in,” my mother replies. “Harvard is the best.”

The conversation pauses as a waiter delivers our food, placing each hot plate on the table. The toasted sesame seed buns look like they've been brushed with canola oil.
Cheese drips over a thick meat patty all dressed with lettuce, onions, tomatoes, and ketchup. My mouth waters but I'm hesitant to dig in. I miss Arthur, and our regular ritual of who can eat the fastest.

“Goodness, this is a giant burger,” Anne's mother says.

Mom follows with a disgusted mutter. “It's obscene, actually.” She looks up at me and shakes her head. “Really, Henry. You can't expect me to eat all of this?”

“Not at all,” I say, with a grin designed to diffuse her mounting frustration. “I'm just guaranteeing myself leftovers.”

Anne shifts, takes a bite of her burger. Chews. Swallows. I'm captivated by her mouth, the tiny dot of mayonnaise on the corner of her lip.

Without realizing it, I've tilted my body so I can watch her, can observe every nuance of her expression, and I'm aware that while I stare at Anne, our collective mothers stare at me.