Anne & Henry (23 page)

I scan her features, looking deep into the corners of her eyes for the mockery I'm sure is there. Do they think I'm an idiot? That I'm stupid enough to believe they want to spend time with me—the school misfit, the girl who knocked Queen Catherine—their friend—off her throne?

“Funny,” I say, and bend down to pick up my purse. Henry's letters poke out and I stuff them down, afraid they'll fall out and that Marie and her friends will see them. “I get it,” I say, feigning nonchalance. “You don't like me, and that's
okay. I've never been in with the mean girls. All that really matters is what Henry thinks.”

Marie's mouth twitches. “Yeah, we figured you'd say that,” she says. “Because Henry said the same thing.”

My eyes widen. “He did?”

Liz nods. “Of course. He really cares for you.”

“More than we thought,” Marie adds. “We didn't want to believe it, because we just assumed Henry and Catherine would always be together, you know?” She twirls a piece of her hair around a well-manicured fingertip—bright red with black polka dots—and shrugs. “Henry set us straight.”

They stare at me expectantly, like they're waiting for me to have that moment of clarity, to thrust my hand up and shout, “Aha!” Instead, I regard them with caution, try to figure out their angle.

“So, you think we should, what? Eat lunch together? Maybe get pedicures?” The words snap from my lips with the razor-sharp edge of disbelief. “We could even start dressing alike.”

She giggles. “You're cute,” she says. “But we had something else in mind.”

Liz slips her hand into the pocket of her blouse and withdraws a slip of paper. “This is my address. I'm having a party tonight. You should come.”

“Henry will be there after he attends some function, one
last demonstration of his renewed commitment to his future,” Marie adds, rolling her eyes.

I bite my lip. It's true Henry won't be grounded anymore, but that doesn't mean we're free to go out. At least not alone. I haven't decided how to deal with his mother's warning to stay away from her son, don't know whether or not I should even tell Henry. This party may be the only chance we have to talk.

“Why the hesitation?” Marie says. “You know you want to come.”

“Will Catherine be there?” I hate myself for asking, but I'm not strong enough for that fight yet.

Marie and Liz exchange glances. “Yes,” Liz says. “Look. She's been through a lot, between Arthur and . . . this. She gets it, though. Henry's moved on. We've been friends a long time, and change is hard.”

I stare down at the ground, count the black scuffmarks on the tile.

Something stirs in my stomach, a sharp little thrill. Maybe I'm making a mistake and this is one big joke. It's likely I'll show up and no one will be there, or worse, they all will and I'll be the center of attention again, the butt of their collective joke.

But with Henry in my corner now, I'm stronger.

When I look up, Marie and her friends are staring at me like they're made of stone. Expressions unreadable. Cold masks that betray nothing, offer no comfort.

“Well?” Marie says, and the firm set of her mouth cracks into a smile. “You coming, or what?”

I inhale a deep breath. Blow it out as I throw my purse over my shoulder and shrug, faking an indifference I don't feel. I may be about to make the biggest mistake of my life, but Marie's right. Henry is hanging on by a loose thread, and I have to do something to ease the tension. He's sacrificed so much for me—surely I can handle a few hours with his lifelong friends. “Sure,” I say. “Why the hell not?”

T
he open notebook glares at me. Sentences I've scrawled across the paper in black ink—an effort to unjumble my thoughts, figure out the lies.

This is for your own good.

You're just like your brother.

Your father would be proud.

All the untruths my family, friends, perfect strangers have tried to make me believe.

But my father
wouldn't
be proud.

I'm
nothing
like Arthur.

And no matter what argument anyone produces, whatever evidence my friends think they'll find, keeping me from Anne is most definitely
not
for my own good.

I slam the notebook shut. I'm so angry I'm beyond language, beyond rational thought. All I see when I close my
eyes are my mother's lips, going back on her word, grounding me for just “one more night.”

What the hell kind of game is she playing?

I loosen my tie, glance at my cell. It's a useless piece of crap. My mother may have given it back to me, but not before deleting Anne's contact information. I tried texting, but the message came back blocked, undeliverable. I'm tempted to buy one of those pay-as-you-go things, but my mother's frozen my bank account. I'm penniless.

One more night.

I check my watch. Liz's party is just getting started. I doubt Anne will even show. Or, when she realizes that I'm not coming, that I'm stuck at home for yet another night, she'll leave.

I tug at my tie and shake the knot loose, unbutton my collar. Kicking off my shoes, I flop down on the bed and glare at my cell. What the hell is happening at that party?

I stare up at the constellation of glow-in-the-dark stars above my bed and pinpoint the big dipper, counting the dots to pass time. They're the only unorthodox accent to a room so typical, it's boring. So boring it's fucking lame.

My cell phone chimes. I glance at the text, knowing it's not Anne, and pause before opening John's message.
She just got here. Looking good.

I toss the phone on the bed, pretend he hasn't irked me,
that I'm not picturing what she's wearing. With a sigh, I snatch back the cell and type:
Send a picture.

Seconds later, Anne's face swims onto my screen and instant desire sets my body aflame. Leather pants hug her hips. The black tank underneath her sheer shirt covers just enough skin. Christ, I'm an idiot for asking him to send me a picture. I zoom in on her face. Fuck me. Black liner circles her eyes, and I'm trapped, sucked right in.

I've got to get out of here. But there's no easy way to escape, not without my mother catching me. I've only just earned back some of her trust—break it again, and I'm done.

The soft knock at the door pulls my focus. I click the image closed, turn the ringer to silent, and tuck the phone under my pillow. My mother inches open the door and peers inside. Her expression is hopeful.

“Fixed you a snack.”

I choke. “You actually cooked something?”

She steps in a bit farther, silver tray in her hand, and tilts her head to one side. “Well, no, but I carried it myself. That counts for something, right?”

I slide upright so my back presses against the headboard and draw up my legs to make room at the end of the bed. A silent invitation. “Depends what's on the tray.”

Taking this as permission, my mother sits on the edge of the mattress. This is a first step, an olive branch, but we're a
long way from normal. I've screwed up, caused important people to raise their collective brows. It's her job to bring them back on our side and make them understand I'm young, that it's natural for me to act out. Jesus, what do they expect?

“BLT,” she says. “Extra B.”

A family favorite—typical Tudor comfort food. And not a bad ploy if my stomach wasn't doing backflips. My cell buzzes from under the pillow, so softly I'm sure only I can hear it. But knowing I have a text inspires me to keep the peace, get my mother out of the room faster, with less drama.

I lean in and sniff the sandwich. “Smells like turkey bacon.”

She shrugs. “That's all we had.”

“Dad would never have settled for this,” I say with a half smile.

At the mention of him, we both go quiet.

“Your father knew which battles to fight,” she says, and lifts half the sandwich, takes a bite. Her jaw stretches and flexes until at last, she swallows. “After your performance at dinner, I anticipate a call from Harvard any day. You did well. But this is only the beginning. You know that, right?” She doesn't wait for my answer. “What are you fighting for?”

Freedom.

The opportunity to be myself. To not live under my brother's shadow or be guided by my Dad's final wishes.

Anne.

Another vibration. Another text. “Not everything has to be a war,” I say.

My mother stands and walks to the window, gazes out over the lake.

“Your father was just like you when he was young,” she says. I open my mouth to protest but no words come out. “I know you think you're so different.” She walks across the carpet, pauses at the photograph of me and Arthur, hands behind her back. “You may not believe this, but your dad was wild when I met him. Rebellious.”

I try to picture him this way, but can't get past his stoic posture, the permanent stern expression on his face. I can't even recall the craziest thing I've ever seen him do. The realization saddens me.

“He drove too fast, drank too much. Fancied himself a real painter.” She turns around and her expression softens. “Maybe you've noticed his obsession with art.”

The Pollock at the top of the staircase.

Van Gogh in the dining area. Monet in the master suite.

Our annual charity art gala.

“Did he have talent?” I say.

My mother perches on the edge of my rolltop desk, knocking my marble paperweight onto its side. She picks it up and rests it in the palm of her hand. Rolls it back and forth. “In time, he could have been good, I suppose.” With
care, she sets the weight on a stack of papers and folds her arms across her chest. “But your father was smart enough to know painting wasn't going to cut it.”

She spreads her arms wide, as if to encompass everything in my room. The expensive furniture, the opportunities afforded to me, even the medals on the wall and trophies in the case. Without privilege, I might never have entered Medina Academy. “His art wouldn't have supported us, couldn't have provided all of this . . .”

But what good is
all of this
if you don't have anyone to share it with? The question lingers on my lips. Instead, I say, “It's just stuff.”

“That's true.” My mother nods. “So, what do you want, Henry?”

Before Arthur died I was quite happy to live spur of the moment, carefree, even careless. My father's last will and testament didn't just shackle me to a future I wasn't sure I wanted, it snuffed out any hope I had of breaking free from all of this. Tonight, though, I wonder if I'd be so resistant to it all if it wasn't shoved down my throat. If I'd made the choices myself.

“I don't know anymore,” I say, which is only partially a lie. I want to make my own choices, follow my own path. Explore theater and the arts. Maybe I'm destined for politics—but it's so hard to tell when there doesn't seem to be a choice. But more than all of it, I want Anne.

As if reading my mind, my mother says, “I know you're upset with me about her.” A brief pause and then, “But I'm looking out for you. I just don't think she's the right girl.” She taps her stomach. “My gut tells me she isn't.”

“It's not your gut that matters,” I say, though my mouth is dry.

“I know that too,” she says. Through her veil of disapproval, the tough exterior she's worked so hard to keep strong, I see into her core and catch a glimmer of the mother I once knew. “But consider this, Henry. If you don't follow this path, become the politician—the man—your father wanted you to become, what kind of life can you offer any woman, let alone Anne?”

She stops to kiss the top of my head before leaving me alone with my thoughts. I consider her words, how far she's come, how far
we've
traveled in just this one talk.

In time, maybe my mother can even accept Anne. At least there's hope.

Another buzz cuts through the silence of the room and I reach under my pillow, grab my phone, anxious and eager, filled with the belief that I can have it all if I want it, if I'm careful. Not just Anne, but all of this, too. I can fulfill my father's expectations, secure my mother's dreams, give Anne whatever she needs. The life she deserves.

The first text causes a lump in my throat.

By the second, that lump is in my chest.

I can hardly stand to look at Catherine's third message. My eyes blur, my pulse races. Adrenaline pumps through my blood, hard and fast. I fling my cell across the room and it smashes against the wall.

I flip open my notebook. My hand tremors as I enter one last lie.

Love conquers all.