by Dawn Ius
“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.
CHAPTER SIX
Anne
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.
“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 wa
s 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.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Henry
Arthur 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 str
awberry 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.
