Anne & Henry Read online

  Anne

  I walk into chem, compose my face, and prepare for the worst. The awkward school introductions, the questioning stares, the fake kindness. I shrug off my backpack, the lingering sense of unease after seeing John—he’s such a jerk—and plop onto a stool at the only empty workstation in the back of the room, avoiding eye contact.

  The class is small, around a dozen, two to a desk.

  A handful of students whisper about boys, cars, the principal’s unibrow. It’s the chitchat gossip of familiarity, of kids who’ve grown up together, hung out together, passed, failed, skipped together.

  I hate being the new girl.

  A door swings open and the teacher enters, leading with a big, easy grin and a shopping cart of pumpkins. Tall, squat, fat—six of them in various shades of orange.

  I pull myself into proper sitting position, intrigued, a little confused. Flipping open my textbook and schedule, I double check that I’m in the right room.

  “Greetings, minions,” the teacher says. He parks the cart at the front of the class, slides out of his sports jacket and into a white lab coat, a cheesy smile stretched wide across his face. He points it at me like it’s a loaded weapon and fires off a welcoming shot. “You must be Anne. I’m Peter Galvin. I’ll answer to almost anything, though.” A quick pause. “Except Pete. My mother calls me Pete.”

  The room fills with laughter. It’s loud and false and makes me wince. The class has heard all of these jokes before. I slump low on my stool, rest my elbows on the desk, rub hard on the inside of my left wrist.

  Galvin pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose with one finger, then scrubs his hands together like he’s making a fire, eyes wide, impossible grin growing wider and wider until—

  “Kaboom!” He explodes with enthusiasm. “We’re going to have a blast today, kids.”

  I cock one eyebrow. Maybe I expected someone a little stuffier?

  “So I bet you’re all wondering what’s up,” he says.

  He rolls the shopping cart around the room, placing a pumpkin at each workstation. The tall desks form a semicircle facing the front of the class. Side tables overflow with beakers, Bunsen burners, various implements of chemistry. A banner stenciled with the periodic table stretches across the back wall. “In honor of the season, I’ve scared up a frighteningly good experiment.” The class groans. Pumpkins and puns.

  What a geek.

  The proud look on Galvin’s face is brilliant and I’m caught up in his thrill. He almost makes it easy to forget I’m the new girl.

  Until I realize this is a group assignment and I’ll be paired off. My throat constricts. There’s an odd number of students, an extra. Me.

  “Since we seem to have a missing student this morning,” Galvin says, freezing me with one of those easy grins, “you can work with me, Anne.” He plants a stalky pumpkin on the desk. “I’ll be right there. The rest of you—”

  Galvin’s gaze shifts to the opening classroom door and flashes with annoyance.

  “Mr. Thompson, how nice of you to grace us with your presence.” He glances down at his watch. “And only a few minutes past the hour. Please, share with us your excuse this time.”

  “Sorry, teach. I was chatting up the ladies and missed the bell.”

  Snickering ripples through the class. My insides twist. I already know that voice. It grates on the back of my skull and turns my veins cold.

  John.

  “Illuminating,” Galvin says. “Given your mad skills with the ladies, I’m sure you won’t mind working with your new classmate, then. I’d like you to meet—”

  “We’ve met,” I say. It’s clear now I should have left John alone at the party, kept away from him and his friends. Let them believe the worst of me. Like I’m not already used to that.

  If Galvin hears the tension or senses John’s disgust, he ignores it and refocuses on the class.

  John slithers across the room, finds me hiding in the back, spreading newspaper on the workstation, gathering a small knife, a glass dish. I’ve been in Medina a couple of days and I’ve already had enough of John.

  “Together again,” he says.

  I bite back a sarcastic response and slide into my lab coat.

  Galvin writes on a whiteboard at the front of the class in orange and black. “Your first task is to carve a pumpkin,” he says. He draws a simple jack-o’-lantern face, triangular eyes, nose, a long mouth with three teeth, two up, one down. “Now, for all of you Picassos in the room, you’ll need to keep your pumpkin faces simple.” He taps on the picture, pokes his finger through one hand-drawn eye. “This is about as artistic as I want you to get.”

  A student on the opposite side of the room snickers, raises his voice. “No fair. I’ve already drawn my Frankenstein face.”

  “You are a Frankenstein face,” a girl chimes in.

  I recognize her as one of Catherine’s friends, a sparkly princess from the party.

  John yanks our pumpkin toward him, slides the knife in and out of its flesh in a circle around the stem. “Sorry to wreck your daydream, darling, but this class doesn’t go all day.” He pulls the top off and the pumpkin’s guts hang like human entrails, ragged and slimy.

  “Go ahead, get right in there,” John says, nudging his head toward the cavernous hole in the top of the gourd. “You seem the type that likes to get dirty.”

  I snort. Stick my hands in the pumpkin and pull out a handful of guts and squish them around, fold them over my knuckles. A long, stringy strand slides between my fingers and lands on the newspaper with a gushy splat. I drop the rest of the guts on top, poking around for seeds to separate them from the pile of slimy orange mush. It seeps under my fingernails, taints my chipped black polish.

  “What is this? Food studies? Just get the shit out of there,” John says, more growl than command.

  I flutter my lashes, thrilled I’ve gotten under his skin. “You wish I was kneading you like this.”

  John’s wolf grin deepens. “A little culinary foreplay? Now that’s hot.”

  I choke on a laugh, for once unable to offer a comeback.

  He wipes the pumpkin’s skin clean with a paper towel, scrawls out a simple face with a black Sharpie. One eye is bigger than the other, the nose too small. I swallow the urge to say something—it is cute in a dysfunctional sort of way. I snatch up the knife and wait for John to pass over the pumpkin.

  “You think I’m letting you anywhere near me with a sharp object?” His mouth twists into a sneer.

  Galvin paces the room, inspecting our faces. “Make sure you cut all the way through,” he says, and mimes a sawing motion with his hand. “You want the pieces to slide in and out easily.”

  At the class’s combined chortling, he holds up his palm. “Mature, people. Real mature.”

  I focus on John’s steady hand, the small tufts of dark hair on his knuckles, the way his tongue sticks out from the corner of his mouth as he concentrates on the task. The first pumpkin segment drops out, lands on the newsprint. I wipe it clean, wait, repeat.

  John’s cheeks puff out. He cuts one tooth at a time.

  “Think we could speed it up?” I say.

  He looks up. His dark eyes are full of misgivings and mischief. “Maybe I like to go slow.”

  “I heard you were more of a two-minute guy.”

  His mouth twitches, like he can’t decide whether to chuckle or sneer, as though doing either would concede a point in my favor. “Stop living in the past,” he finally says, unaware of how deep those wounds cut. “You’ve been playing with boys until now. Real men live in Medina, babe.”

  “Yeah?” I say, raising an eyebrow. “Maybe you could point one out when you see him.”

  Galvin pauses at our station, squints at the pumpkin. “One eye is lopsided,” he says, and drops a sparkler, plus seven pea-size gray pebbles on the newsprint. They smell like the inside of fireworks, a little like rotting eggs. “There are earplugs in the cupboard. Consider wearing them when we do the experiment.�
�

  “Sounds good to me,” John mutters.

  Galvin returns to the front of the class, clears his throat. “In 1862, Friedrich Wöhler discovered that calcium carbide and water would react to form a very flammable gas.” He scrawls a formula on the board, adds orange flames and a sad face emoticon. “We’re going to demonstrate that reaction with our jack-o’-lanterns.”

  My skin tingles with curiosity.

  “Now, slide the pumpkin segments back into place—the face should be intact, like you haven’t carved anything,” Galvin says. “Then, turn your masterpiece around so it faces the center of the room.”

  John pushes in the eyes, the nose, struggles a bit with the mouth. I shave a little flesh from the pumpkin’s mug and his teeth glide into place. “We just needed to loosen it up a bit,” I say.

  He guffaws, covers his mouth with his hand. “I guess you’d know about being loose.”

  Here, I could crush him, but I bite my lower lip, refusing to take the bait. It’s my first day, and people are already watching me, trying to figure me out. How much of me do I want to put on display? I’ve been there before, fucked up, barely recovered.

  “Poke a small hole through the back of your pumpkin,” Galvin says, pausing after each instruction to ensure everyone keeps up. “And then pour a small layer of peroxide at the bottom of the gourd.”

  As soon as I do, it begins to react with the pumpkin, starts to gurgle and froth, dissolving the skin like some kind of flesh-eating disease. John pours water into an empty tuna can, sets it in the bottom of the pumpkin, and adds the calcium carbide pebbles.

  “We’ve only got a few minutes here, guys, so here’s what’s going to happen,” Galvin says. His voice rises, enthusiasm taking hold. The room buzzes with infectious anticipation.

  “Insert your sparkler into the hole at the back of your pumpkin.” Galvin moves over to the light switch, pauses. “I’m going to turn off the lights. Count to ten—that shouldn’t be too hard, right?” He carries on despite the groans. “On ten, light the sparkler. But”—he holds up a finger. Holy shit, I can hardly wait. “Don’t forget to put the lid on. I want one of you to keep your hand on the top. Make sure you’re wearing your oven mitt.”

  John tosses the red potholder at me, scowls. “That’s your job. You wouldn’t catch me dead with one of those on.”

  I’m too excited to respond, to think of a snide remark. I press my gloved hand down against the stem. My heart races, threatens to pop, pop—

  Click.

  The room goes dark. My senses are on high alert. The scent of sulfur lingers in the air and my skin tingles. John’s breath is hot on my neck. “You wanna make some trouble together?”

  The teasing edge of his voice is replaced by something ravenous and exposed. It’s not just that I’ve wounded his pride. There’s something more, and this class, this moment, isn’t going to even the score. I try not to think about it, not here, not now.

  Just get through the day. The week. This whole damn year.

  Lighters flick in unison.

  John lights our sparkler. It fizzes and sizzles, creating a small fireworks display. I push back the stinging memories of the past and forget about John, his ego, forget everything but this. Hold my breath, wait for something to happen, for the chemical reaction to—

  Bang!

  Pumpkin eyes, noses, teeth explode into the air and six orange bursts of light flash in the darkness. For a split second, a half-dozen gourds grin at me, say hello, glow in welcome, before they simply blink out.

  It worked. I can hardly believe it. Can barely keep my smile from taking over my whole damn face.

  “Kaboom,” John whispers, his mouth right against my ear, and my stomach drops down, all the way down to the floor, lands under the floor. “Who knew we’d have such explosive chemistry?”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Henry

  Here’s how this night should go.

  I’ll throw on another tuxedo and head over to the mayor’s house. I’ll nod and make polite, intelligent conversation about health care, women’s rights, and immigration. I’ll debate gun laws and listen to how I look just like my dead brother and how my father, rest his soul, is missed and revered.

  Touching, right? Except I know politicians are the best bullshitters in the business.

  My father, his father, and even my great-grandfather believed in action above promise, in making life better for the people they represented. We founded this town, but under the surface of each practiced VIP’s smile, their envy festers. Medina is full of people just waiting for me to fuck up—for another family name to waltz in and take center stage.

  I fidget with my bowtie, adjusting it so it rests dead center on my freshly pressed shirt. I catch my reflection in the mirror, the tired circles under my eyes. Football, rowing, homework, event after event. I look like a damn corpse.

  My mother hovers behind me, the mirror skewing her taller and thinner. Her royal blue dress clings to her and diamonds hang from her neck and ears. The Tudor matriarch. Most days, like today, she can pretend that she’s okay, that everything will be fine. We both know it won’t be.

  “You look just like him, you know,” she says with a soft, sad sigh. I don’t know if she means Arthur or Dad, maybe both. Disappointment has burrowed deep into her bones, leaving her weak and vulnerable.

  Under my mother’s body armor, she’s a shell of the woman she used to be, and when she snaps, it’ll be my fault. That fear is what powers me through the darkness, searching for the light on the other side, and gives me the strength to pretend that this is what I want.

  “Arthur would have known how to wear these,” I say, holding up my wrists to reveal the unclasped white-gold cufflinks engraved with my initials. “Maybe I should wear his instead.”

  It’s a bit tongue in cheek, a test to see if she’ll bite.

  “Tonight is all about you, Henry.”

  Tonight is definitely not all about me. My mother relies on these events to gain the ear of the mayor and other local politicians, an opportunity to schmooze, secure her place in the limelight. I’ve never understood why it’s so important to her. Or why it’s supposed to be for me. Wouldn’t it be better, easier even, to stop pretending to be something we’re not? To let someone else take over?

  She crosses the room and fastens the cufflinks with cool, capable fingers. I blink as if to take a snapshot, freeze this moment in time. This is the most intimate thing she’s done in the year since my dad died of cardiac arrest.

  “You know I want what’s best for you,” she says. “It’s what your father wanted too.” Sincerity glints in her eyes and I’m desperate to believe her. “The limo awaits,” she adds, quickly returning to the curt tone I’m used to.

  I nod, masking my lackluster enthusiasm with a fake smile. I’m well-versed in little white lies, have practiced them ever since my father died and left behind his ridiculous list of conditions and rules: go to an Ivy League school, immerse myself in politics, marry a Tudor-approved girl—or forget my inheritance.

  I consider calling Catherine and bribing her to join me. She’s often the voice of reason at these stuffy functions, the youth in a room full of old men in overpriced suits and the lingering scent of exotic cigars. I get a kick out of watching her work a room.

  I send Catherine a quick text instead: Wish me luck.

  Her response is immediate. You’re a Tudor. You don’t need it. Tell my dad he looks handsome—new suit!

  Catherine’s father is Senator Davis’s campaign manager. It’s how I’m supposed to get my “in”—an internship with him after college.

  Thanks for the heads-up, I reply.

  When we’re in the limo, my mother sips champagne and crams my brain with facts and statistics. She quizzes and tests, repeats, explains. I stretch out on the leather seat cushion and stare at the velvet ceiling.

  “What is your stance on gun control?” she says.

  Shoot me now.

  I press my lips together an
d blink hard. Erase the images etched into my brain, trying to focus and clear away thoughts of Catherine, Anne. Especially Anne. Jesus, why am I even thinking about Anne?

  The mayor’s house is tucked into a cove of evergreen trees, a red rock manor overlooking the lake. Our limo pulls up to the curb and idles while I step onto the sidewalk and wrap a shawl around my mother’s shoulders. She takes my arm and we cross a cobblestone bridge, aim for the front entrance—a solid oak door framed by stone pillars. Chinese paper lanterns line a path to the left of us, leading to a giant patio. Tonight, the water fountain will flicker in red, white, and blue in honor of the evening’s political agenda.

  The mayor’s wife opens the door and greets my mother with a quick peck and me with an extended hug. I have a soft spot for Susan Mandell. She’s always been able to find me—the real me—in a crowded room of political piranhas. She might be the only one who doesn’t compare me to my brother. “You look handsome,” she says, and plants a wet kiss on my cheek.

  I spot all of the usual suspects stuffed into tuxedos like penguins, milling about the room, pecking at appetizers, funneling booze. Catherine’s father sees me and nods. We’ll spend half an hour networking and BS-ing before Senator Davis addresses the room to unveil his presidential campaign strategy. That’s where I’m expected to pounce, offer abiding support, commit to him and his causes.

  “Henry, why don’t you go say hello to the senator?” my mother says.

  A vein on my forehead pulsates, but I know better than to stall. “Always a pleasure, Mrs. Mandell. Excuse me, would you?”

  “Of course,” she says, and as I’m almost out of earshot, adds, “He’s such a polite boy.”

  “Like his brother,” my mother replies.

  The mayor’s house is nothing like mine, all dark and earthy and warm. A mounted deer head above the mantel showcases his love of hunting. The senator raises his glass in acknowledgement when he spots me. I straighten my posture and prepare to perform. Like my mother, my exterior must be pitch perfect, flawless.

  “Caught the game last week. You’re a strong QB,” he says.

  His voice draws out memories from my childhood. Davis is an old family friend, one of my father’s trusted advisors. So many hours spent together on the patio, in our dining room, in the hot tub, bullshitting, strategizing, cracking crude jokes.