Anne & Henry Read Online Free Page B

she says. “Football quarterback, tennis, captain of the rowing team—tell me Superman, where do you keep your cape?”
    â€œIt’s at the dry cleaner’s at the moment,” I say, and she snorts.
    Students mill all around us, gearing up for first period. These sprawling courtyard gardens are a labyrinth of densegreenery dotted with park benches and tables—the place to gather, study. Make out.
    I want to take Anne somewhere private, spend a few minutes getting to know her better. But there’s no escaping the yahoos strolling toward us: Charles, Rick, and John. Anne sees them too. The air around us, around Anne, frosts with tension. I hold my chin high. One false move and my friends will know that something’s off, that maybe I dig Anne a little more than I should.
    â€œI believe you’ve already met the jesters,” I say to Anne. I slap Charles on the back, nod at Rick, cast a warning glance at John. He’s had an entire night to recover and plot some type of revenge for his humiliation.
    â€œDon’t let Henry fool you,” Rick says. “He’s the prankster here.”
    Anne shifts and bites her sexy lower lip. She tilts her head a little, then says to John, her voice dripping with sarcasm, “I think we all know who the real joke is.”
    Church bells ring, signaling the start of class.

CHAPTER FOUR
Anne
    I walk into chem, compose my face, and prepare for the worst. The awkward school introductions, the questioning stares, the fake kindness. I shrug off my backpack, the lingering sense of unease after seeing John—he’s such a jerk—and plop onto a stool at the only empty workstation in the back of the room, avoiding eye contact.
    The class is small, around a dozen, two to a desk.
    A handful of students whisper about boys, cars, the principal’s unibrow. It’s the chitchat gossip of familiarity, of kids who’ve grown up together, hung out together, passed, failed, skipped together.
    I hate being the new girl.
    A door swings open and the teacher enters, leading with a big, easy grin and a shopping cart of pumpkins. Tall, squat, fat—six of them in various shades of orange.
    I pull myself into proper sitting position, intrigued, a littleconfused. Flipping open my textbook and schedule, I double check that I’m in the right room.
    â€œGreetings, minions,” the teacher says. He parks the cart at the front of the class, slides out of his sports jacket and into a white lab coat, a cheesy smile stretched wide across his face. He points it at me like it’s a loaded weapon and fires off a welcoming shot. “You must be Anne. I’m Peter Galvin. I’ll answer to almost anything, though.” A quick pause. “Except Pete. My mother calls me Pete.”
    The room fills with laughter. It’s loud and false and makes me wince. The class has heard all of these jokes before. I slump low on my stool, rest my elbows on the desk, rub hard on the inside of my left wrist.
    Galvin pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose with one finger, then scrubs his hands together like he’s making a fire, eyes wide, impossible grin growing wider and wider until—
    â€œKaboom!” He explodes with enthusiasm. “We’re going to have a blast today, kids.”
    I cock one eyebrow. Maybe I expected someone a little stuffier?
    â€œSo I bet you’re all wondering what’s up,” he says.
    He rolls the shopping cart around the room, placing a pumpkin at each workstation. The tall desks form a semicircle facing the front of the class. Side tables overflow with beakers, Bunsen burners, various implements of chemistry.A banner stenciled with the periodic table stretches across the back wall. “In honor of the season, I’ve scared up a frighteningly good experiment.” The class groans. Pumpkins and puns.
    What a geek.
    The proud look on Galvin’s face is brilliant and I’m caught up in his