Anne & Henry Read Online Free

door as she enters. She slides by and our shoulders touch, sending a shockwave down my spine.
    â€œWe’ll hit the office later,” I manage without stuttering, then point down the hallway cluttered with cautionary tape. “And we’ll steer clear of the west wing. Renovations.”
    Anne trails her fingers along the stone walls as we walk. Her heels click, clack, echo on the marble floor.
    â€œThe original structure is too heavy for the soil or something, and has to be rebuilt.” I pause, grind my lower jaw. I’m boring the hell out of her. “I guess since your stepdad’s an architect, you’d know more about this stuff.”
    â€œI don’t give a shit about architecture.”
    My voice lowers. “Administration has strict guidelines about swearing, Miss Boleyn.” She’s clearly amused and I know I should shut up, quit while I’m ahead. I don’t. “One of the many rules my brother enforced as student president.”
    They’re part of the ironclad Code of Conduct that Arthur cowrote, giving students the power to reprimand or expelpeers who don’t fit the Medina mold. A mock courtroom was even created for trials.
    Anne smiles, her face expectant and playful. I could get whiplash trying to keep up with her emotions. “Real life of the party, huh?” She spins around to face me, walks backward, her cherry-colored lips pursed and teasing. “Following in big brother’s footsteps doesn’t sound like much fun.”
    Her flippant comment makes me flinch. It’s clear she doesn’t know that Arthur’s dead.
    On the second floor, we pause outside the music room and peer in. Dozens of instruments hang from the walls like high-end art, more aesthetic than functional. Medina Academy hasn’t won any band awards as far back as I can remember, but the music department spends enough to feed the deception.
    Anne lingers at the door, scoping out the drum kit, the trombone, a handful of guitars. A white piano takes up an entire corner of the room, its dusty ivory keys yellowed under the fluorescent light. Catherine used to play. But in tenth grade, she traded in her piano teacher for Coach Fuller and music took a backseat to cheerleading, the only time she’s ever stood up to her parents about anything. The thought of Catherine pokes at me, a sharp intrusion of guilt. I refocus on Anne.
    â€œDo you play an instrument?” I say.
    â€œSax,” she says.
    I choke on air. “Excuse me?”
    Anne grins. “I play the saxophone.”
    A nervous chuckle escapes my lips, twists into embarrassed heat. “Seriously? That’s cool.”
    Anne punches my shoulder, lightly, but my whole body responds to her touch. “Do I look like I play the sax?”
    I frown, confused. “So you don’t?”
    Her hypnotic black eyes lighten, flicker with mischief. She’s totally playing me. I’m so not used to getting played. “Why sax?”
    â€œBecause it’s the last thing you expected me to say.”
    She’s right. Nothing about Anne is what I expect.
    We pass the art room and studio, spend a few minutes in the library. Anne touches the spines of old novels as though they might crack, pauses at a random book. She flips open Le Deuxième Sexe, reads the first page, her lips moving in slow motion. I try not to think about the title, the stark black-and-white cover. The way her mouth looks when she reads aloud.
    Anne slides the book back in place. “de Beauvoir is a genius.”
    â€œAbsolutely,” I say, twisting the little white lie until it becomes truth. I’ve never read the book in Anne’s hand, not one single page, but like hell I’ll admit it.
    We move from the library to a Student Council office down the hall. It’s crammed with solid oak and polished brass, more law office than high school hang-out, formaland stuffy. Two leather chairs frame a glass coffee