Anne & Henry Page 5

  “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.

  “What about you, Anne?” my mother says, cutting through the tension, deflecting my dangerous thoughts with razor-sharp precision. “Any thought to what college you’ll be attending in a couple of years?”

  Anne shrugs, her mouth full of food. She takes a sip of her swamp mix, swooshes it around a little. I’m mesmerized by her confidence and envious of her fearlessness, the ability to be herself.

  “Anne is still finding her way,” Mrs. Harris says, resigned. “Our family has had a few set-backs . . . but things are starting to stabilize again.” She smiles a little, and I feel a wash of relief when some of the sadness in her eyes fades. “It’s time for all of us to move forward. Hopefully, Medina will inspire her.”

  “Wow. Could we not talk about me like I’m not in the room?” Anne pushes her plate forward, folds her arms across her chest, and then looks down as if knowing the position gives her cleavage a little boost.

  My mother leans back against the seat and straightens. She bumps her knee on the table as she crosses her legs, tilts her head, tries to look interested. “And how are you finding the Academy?”

  Anne shrugs. “Fine, I guess. It’s fucking huge.”

  Mrs. Harris gasps and looks sheepish. I try to think of when any of my friends have sworn in front of my parents. Zilch. Nada. There’s no way they’d dare.

  To my shock, my mother waves off the curse. Moves in for the kill instead. “How about friends? I’m sure everyone in the school has made you feel at home.”

  Anne coughs out a bitter laugh. “Yeah, I’m a real social butterfly,” she says. “I might have to start passing on invitations soon.”

  It’s hard not to compare Anne to Catherine, who would rather starve to death than dish out sarcasm to my mother, to anyone in our circle, really. But there’s something incredibly hot about how much Anne doesn’t give a shit.

  “Well, I hope you wait until after Henry’s little party this weekend,” my mother says, wiping the smirk off my face.

  Sweat slicks my palms.

  I open my mouth to say something, to admit I hadn’t intended to invite Anne. It’s not just the rumors, I don’t pay attention to most, but there’s no question she’s . . . different.

  Anne shifts to face me. “You’re having a party?”

  “Just some friends,” I say. “Watch movies, play a little pool. Maybe start a poker tournament.” I muster up my best you-can’t-resist-me grin. “You should come.”

  Anne’s mother claps her hands together. “What a wonderful idea,” she says. “It’s brilliant that the two of you have already become such good friends. Thank you, Henry.”

  When I glance over at my mother, she looks pained, as though knowing she’s made a mistake and can’t go back, can’t uninvite Anne, or pin this slipup on me.

  “Besties, right, Henry?” Anne says, and loops her pinky finger through mine.

  Anne’s touch ignites me from the inside out. We’re two teenagers with obvious sexual tension between us—this is normal, right? Everything will be just fine if I don’t act on my feelings. Not that I have a choice. Because if I cross that line, I’ll lose everything.

  “Yeah, the best,” I finally say, though it’s barely a whisper, and I don’t dare look my mother in the eye.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Anne

  A dull ache starts at the base of my neck, spiderwebs across my forehead, and thumps against my temples.

  Thumps to the echoing clash-clang-cling of the pinball machine, the angry roar of a car chase reverberating through surround-sound speakers, the snap-swoosh-pop of the eight ball sinking deep in the pocket. Henry and I are tucked in the corner of his small poker room, but on the other side of the glass window, his basement buzzes like a sports bar, jam-packed with people I don’t know and don’t like.

  I focus on my cards and tune out the background noise. Pretend it’s just me and Henry.

  It’s not, of course. Judgmental eyes watch us from every corner.

  Henry peeks at his cards, then presses them flat on the table so hard the tips of his fingers go translucent. This Texas Hold’em tournament’s been going for an hour and half already. It’s just us now. Everyone else has been knocked out.

  He checks his cards again, looks up. “You in?”

  Trouble? Yes, I am. I’ve tried to avoid Henry and my growing attraction to him. Tonight, though, my willpower’s dissolving like a sandcastle in the cold Seattle rain. I lean forward, not too far. Just enough so the strap on my tank top slips a little, showing off a hint of cleavage. He probably won’t even notice.

  I toss another chip into the middle of the table. It pings against the porcelain pretzel bowl. “Call.”

  Henry takes the top card from the deck, puts it face down, and then pulls the top three cards. He flips them face up with one smooth swoop of his wrist.

  The king of hearts and two deuces.

  Henry leans back and settles into the leather chair. His hair sweeps across his forehead, uncharacteristically shaggy and unkempt, and I want to run my fingers through it.

  He looks up. Our eyes connect. I scan his face for a subtle tick, a glisten of sweat, a signal that his cards are good, bad, indifferent. Henry sports an epic poker face.

  I clear my throat, tuck one foot under my butt, and lean into the middle of the table, stretching my arms, my torso, and dig for a pretzel. A subtle shift, a touch more skin. The AC kicks in, shooting cool air over my flesh. Henry’s cologne mingles with the scent of popcorn and salt.

  “You gonna raise?” Henry’s lips twist, eyes glisten. Shit he’s cute.

  I cough out an awkward laugh. “Think you know what I’ve got going on?”

  Henry’s g
aze lowers, hovers on my chest, pretends to study the royal bulldog on my Sex Pistols tank. His voice drops. “Oh, I know.”

  Hook.

  I sit back, real slow, like an old film reel cranked by hand. Lick my lips. Stop frame. Bite into the pretzel. One crunch. Stop. Rewind. Play.

  Line.

  The pretzel slides down my throat. It happens all at once. Henry’s eyes widen, a tiny noise squeaks out.

  Sinker. His right finger twitches.

  “Check,” I say.

  His head snaps upright and he gives me one of those double eyebrow raises. “You’re trying to cheat.”

  “You’re stalling,” I say.

  The minute hand jerks closer to midnight.

  Henry taps the table twice, signaling a check. The next card up is the queen of spades.

  My foot brushes against his under the table, lingering a second too long.

  “Good card?” Henry says, all nonchalance. His poker face slides back into place. “Got a couple of pocket aces or something?”

  The winner takes home bragging rights, high stakes all around. But unless I’m imagining it, for me, for me and Henry, for us, the ante seems even higher. “I’m not that easy.”

  I weigh the odds against raising, calling, holding, folding. Bluffing. I was good at that once. But things are different with Henry.

  Even though they shouldn’t be, can’t be, won’t be as long as there’s—

  I sense Catherine before she enters the room. And then suddenly she fills the space, her shadow looming over us, everywhere that Henry is.

  “You have to watch this guy, he likes to cheat,” Catherine says.

  She leans in and kisses Henry on the cheek. An innocent peck, sweet like candy, cream soda.

  “Hey, babe,” he says. I chew on the inside of my mouth. It’s obvious he cares for her and I try to understand, to see what he sees. Maybe there’s more to their relationship than people think, but I doubt it. I’m new to Medina and I already know this much: It’s the sort of place where name and money mean everything.

  Still, with her hair pulled back into a tight ponytail, porcelain skin brushed with effortless makeup, blue eyes, pink lips, rosy cheeks, I guess I get some of Catherine’s allure.

  Henry studies his cards, intertwines one hand with hers. Her ring glints, making me wonder if it’s a promise of something, a token Henry gave her. Or Arthur.

  “What’s going on out there?” Henry says. He doesn’t look at Catherine or take his eyes off the cards.

  I really just want him to let go of her hand.

  “I’m kicking butt at darts,” she says. She holds one up for us to see, or maybe just for me, a warning. Oh, she’s good.

  I’m better.

  I slide a few chips on the table, a decent bet, and ignore Catherine. “Raise.”

  Catherine yawns. “Well, don’t have too much fun.”

  I will myself not to watch as they kiss good-bye. “I don’t think your girlfriend likes me much,” I say when she’s gone.

  Henry brushes me off, confused, or maybe just playing confused, and waves his hand in dismissal.

  Four cards on the table: king of hearts, a pair of twos, and the queen of spades. It’s looking good for me.

  “Raise,” he says, and pushes out a few more chips.

  He taps his finger lightly on the cards. I listen for the pattern, some kind of Morse code. But I don’t need the signal, I already know.

  I raise his bet. Not much; I don’t want to scare him.

  My hand lingers in the middle of the table, hovering over the stack of chips. Our fingertips touch. Seconds pass. Neither of us moves, even though the voice in my head screams at me to pull back.

  He calls the bet and turns the last card. It’s the queen of diamonds.

  Holy shit.

  The minute hand moves closer to the XII.

  Ten minutes to our curfews, ten minutes until this night, this moment has passed.

  “You can do better,” I say. He raises an eyebrow.

  Maybe he didn’t hear me. It’s possible I never actually spoke aloud, never voiced what I’ve been thinking and feeling since the first time we met. Then his forehead crinkles, eyes go blank. Confused? Angry? Shit, I’m not even sure.

  “I’m sorry,” I say.

  Henry sighs. “It’s not that simple. You know that, right?”

  I do know. He’s trapped under the weight of expectation—school, family, Catherine.

  I shift and our toes touch, innocent. A warmth unfurls beneath my shell. “Maybe it could be,” I say, not knowing whether I’m talking about Henry, or me, or Henry and me. “Maybe everything’s not as difficult as you think.”

  The clock tick-tocks, breaking the spell, and an old, familiar guard springs up around my heart when he doesn’t respond. “Whatever,” I say, feigning nonchalance, pretending I’m okay, better than okay. I’m fine, great, perfect.

  I’m bluffing.

  I push the rest of my chips into the middle of the table, wait for Henry to accept the challenge. He peeks at his cards one last time. It’s a big risk, a chance to have it all—or lose everything.

  Noise surrounds us. The clash-clang-cling of the pinball machine, the angry roar of a car chase—

  Henry pushes the rest of his chips up against mine. Our eyes lock, a split-second spark. And I know.

  He’s all in.

  I am too.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Henry

  The oar slices through the water, propelling the rowboat with long, even strides.

  I inhale.

  Breathe out on the next stroke.

  Recover.

  On the seat in front of me, John mirrors my strokes. We shift forward in unison, bringing the oars out of the water, pushing back on the extraction. Repeat. We find our rhythm and surge against the smooth surface.

  Morning fog hangs over Lake Washington, casting the tree line into silhouette.

  The beach is uncharacteristically empty, but I don’t envy anyone lazing around in bed. If it wasn’t for rowing practice, I’d be pumping iron, running a marathon, doing something, anything, to ease the white noise of voices churning doubt in my mind.

  Focus.

  Seated behind me, Rick and Wyatt keep pace, their labored breaths punctuated by the synchronized splash as all oars pierce the surface in unison. Charles sits at the stern to call each stroke, eyes on our target, his bleached blond hair silvery in the muted light.

  With just weeks before the fall regatta, we can’t afford to mess up.

  My heart packs an unsteady wallop—too fast, too uneven, too loud. A heavy roar in my eardrums. And buried deep, yet not fully out of reach, the seductive whisper of Anne’s voice: You can do better.

  As if on cue, Catherine’s house emerges into view. It’s not the largest mansion along the shore, but from an architectural standpoint, it’s one of the most impressive. A single light shines on the lefthand side of the second floor. Catherine’s.

  The oar slips from my grip.

  Too late I reach for it, hold on so tight my fingers dig into my palms. The boat jerks out of rhythm.

  John curses.

  “Christ, Henry, get in the game,” he says, his tone sharp and annoyed. “That’s the second slip since we left shore. Where’s your fucking head at?”

  The oar digs into the water and almost slips from my hand. “Let it go,” I say.

  “His donger’s all twisted over the new girl,” Charles says. He laughs like he’s lightened the mood, but tension spreads across my chest and pulls my intestines into a knot.

  “Mind your own business, dickhead,” I snap.

  Charles is new too, less than a year in Medina, his family having transferred to the U.S. from Australia. He’s got that surfer look about him—the perma tan, shaggy hair, laid-back, don’t-give-a-shit—shite?—attitude. I haven’t decided where he fits yet, but he certainly hasn’t earned the right to just throw that out there.

  He tosses me a bottle of water. I catch it one-h
anded, twist off the cap, and take a swig. Mercer Island looms in my side vision, an elongated patch of land lined with massive homes and trees so green they look like AstroTurf. We’ve got about a two-mile stretch to cover before we hit our morning target, then a full three miles back. School starts in just over an hour. Most days the time crunch wouldn’t faze me.

  “He’s joking, right?” Rick says.

  I don’t bother turning around to answer.

  “I mean, she’s sexy,” Wyatt says, and Rick chimes in with a low, “Oh yeah.” Wyatt clears his throat. “But she’s not the kind of girl you bring home to mom.”

  “Especially not your mom,” Rick says with a dry chuckle.

  “And she’s definitely not First Lady material,” Wyatt pipes in.

  Because they’re seated behind me, I can’t tell if they’re joking around, just giving me a hard time, if they’re smirking, smiling, or on the verge of laughing. Doesn’t matter. I’m not in the mood. I blot my damp hands on the knees of my sweats and grunt. Rising frustration gnaws on my insides.

  “It’s a serious question, bro,” John says. “Something you want to share?”

  I turn my head slowly to meet John’s gaze. Eyes wide, jaw slack. It’s obvious he’s more worried than shocked. Why does he even care? He’s not into dating—unless it involves a keg, a drunk girl, and the backseat of his car. Anne’s not even his type.

  “I’m with Catherine,” I say with a finality that comes off forced and insincere.

  The lines across John’s forehead relax, and I can’t help wondering if his relief has less to do with my reputation than his own desire. Shame washes over me as I recognize the signs of jealousy. No matter how much I try to dismiss it, tell myself I’m being ridiculous, I can’t explain the dull ache pulsing in my chest, the sharp spike of adrenaline surging through my veins. I don’t like the way John looks at Anne.

  I grip the oar with both hands, resisting the urge to warn my best friend to back off and leave her alone.