Anne & Henry (5 page)

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 and 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.

“Thank you, sir,” I say, allowing pride to show through. Even Dad would've celebrated my athletic achievements. Maybe it's not going to advance my career, but I
like
football—the rush, the challenge. Winning. “I think we have a shot at the championship.”

“Hm,” he says thoughtfully, disappointed. I brace myself for the lecture. “Really eats into your time, though. I'd hoped you'd apply that commitment to the debate team instead.” The fireplace pops and hisses. Our shadows flicker on the wood-paneled wall. “You know, your brother was a natural. Just like your pops. I remember this one debate . . .”

I tune out the rest of his story. I've heard them all a dozen times or more, each a constant reminder of how closely Arthur followed in my father's footsteps.

Twenty minutes later, Mayor Mandell rescues me from the barrage of Davis's stories. He clinks a spoon against his glass and demands attention. “Before the senator begins his speech, I'd like to say a few words. Jim and I have been friends for two decades, and I can't imagine a more fitting man to run this country.”

There is a grunt of agreement, a clinking of glasses.

My mother slides up next to me, the scent of alcohol
emanating from her skin. She leans in close. “Pay attention, Henry,” she says, and though I know she's aiming for encouragement, it comes off more like a warning. The mayor's words momentarily fade into the background and all I hear is her voice, cool and calculated. “It's time to lock down the people who will further your career.”

She's talking about those with strong ties to the community and the ability to make things happen for me. For us.

But all I really want is to get the hell out.

I
fumble with the combination, tug on my lock.

Third time is
not
the charm. Almost a week in and I still can't get it right. I spin the dial again, pause as the numbers click into place: forty-four, thirty-five . . .

Shit.

“It usually takes me a full year to memorize my combo,” says a voice from my left. A girl leans against the wall of lockers, small and fragile, like a simple bump could snap her in half. Her long strawberry hair falls over her shoulders in two loose braids. I can't remember her name, but I've seen her before. She tilts her head and it hits me. She's on Student Council, the token female—Samantha. Sam.

“Exactly why I never bothered with a lock at my old school,” I say.

She grins, sarcastic, maybe a little shy. “Because you trusted everyone so much?”

“Never had anything worth stealing.”

I spin the dial on the lock again, click through the sequence of numbers, focus hard on remembering the last piece of the combination: twenty-four. Of course. When the latch pops open, I yank on the handle. My locker swings wide, exposing bare walls, empty shelves.

She lifts an eyebrow. “I'm Sam.”

Her smile is warm and welcoming, the total opposite of most of my interactions with the girls in this school so far.

“Anne,” I say, and grimace at her knowing nod. “Obviously.”

I sidestep an oncoming group of students waving purple and red pennants. One of them fake lunges at me, her Medina Greyhounds tee stretched tight across her oversize chest, and shouts, “GO HOUNDS!”

Sam shakes her fists in cheer, then turns to me and shrugs. “Football. Sometimes you gotta go with the flow.”

“I'd rather go with a no.”

“Aw. You should come to the game today.”

I cough on a laugh, envisioning myself squeezed into bleacher seats as a bunch of jocks chase one another across a field. “Yeah, not really my scene.”

Sam purses her lips like she's thinking, and I wonder what she's heard about me. One week in and I'm already rocking the boat, making waves and enemies. I wipe my sweaty palm on my skirt and pull out my tablet, pretend to study the interactive map of the school.

Despite Henry's personal tour, Medina Academy is a labyrinth of identical stone-covered walls and baffling intersections. So far I've managed to navigate by using the hanging portraits as guide markers. My locker sits across from the framed image of a past principal, the first female if I've interpreted the inscription correctly. Nancy Kratky.

“This place is massive,” I say as a second wave of fans marches by with whistles and blow horns, forcing me to shout. “You need GPS to find the exit.” I jerk my thumb toward the portrait of Kratky. “Currently, she's the only way I know how to find my locker.”

“I've got Arthur Tudor right above mine.” Sam blushes. “It's not so bad.”

“I'm almost shocked his picture isn't above everyone's. It's like he was some kind of god.” I look away, nervous I've offended or upset her with my insensitivity.

“He left his mark,” she says simply.

I close my locker, secure the lock, stuff my history text and notebook into my bag, and sling it over my shoulder. “I've never had so much homework,” I say, groaning. “And history is the worst. I doubt Ms. McLaughlin is the type to buy the dog-ate-it excuse, huh?”

“She'll cut you some slack if you go to the game.”

“Nice try.”

We start walking toward the giant school front entrance, my boots thudding in time with Sam's high-heeled click.
Above, the expansive vaulted ceiling crisscrosses with hand-hewn beams that might have come straight from a medieval castle. A line of evenly spaced arched windows offers glimpses of the lake.

Sam chuckles. “Seriously. Ms. McLaughlin is like Wikipedia—she knows everything about
every
sport. Want on her good side? Ask her who she thinks will win the World Series.” She nudges her head toward the front office, where students gather around the fountains and wrought-iron benches. Sunlight streams in through massive windows to create the illusion of warmth. “Aaand, going to the games makes the office staff happy. Administration would mandate attendance if they could get away with it.”

I chew on the inside of my cheek and glance at the giant Roman numeral clock on the far wall. How long could a game last? An hour? Two? “I don't know the first thing about football.”

Sam's eyes light up. “Me either, but if we go together, how bad can it be?”

If the size of the tiny bleachers are any indication, pretty bad.

A half hour later, I'm stuffed between Sam and an obnoxious, oversize guy who has now dumped almost an entire carton of buttery popcorn on my combat boots.

Enormous foam fingers and screaming fans smother me. I don't get it—there's no one even on the field yet. I'm so out of place. The shimmery skull on the front of my hoodie sticks
out like a homing beacon among the dozens of Greyhounds jerseys in the crowd.

I slink down on my bench and tuck my hands under my butt, waiting for something, anything, to happen.

Music pumps over the loudspeakers as a line of blond, anorexic cheerleaders run onto the field and take formation. Amid the sea of other Barbies, I spot Catherine and breathe an exaggerated sigh. Squad leader. I almost forgot.

“So I heard you and Catherine aren't exactly besties,” Sam says, nudging my shoulder.

Noise blasts at me from every corner. The
thump, thump, thump
of feet hitting the bleachers, the hoots and hollers, the catcalling and cheers. I use the distraction to think about a response. It's not like I've got anything against
Catherine,
exactly. It's just past experience dictates I don't blend in so well with those popular, perfect, too-good-to-be-true girls.