Anne & Henry Read Online Free PDF Page B

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.
    â€œKaboom,” 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
    H ere’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 centeron 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.
    â€œYou 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.
    â€œArthur 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