Oh, Henry

by Mimi Jean Pamfiloff

  “Answer me,” I demand.

  “Uhhh…nine-nineteen?” he stammers.

  “Wanna make it to twenty? Then apologize to my little sister,” I snarl.

  He slowly turns his head toward my sister, who is now absolutely mortified, nearly in tears, because I’ve called so much attention to her.

  Dammit. But what was I going to do, let them make fun of her?

  Just as the idiot is about to speak, Georgie bolts inside.

  “Excuse me,” I say to my father’s guest and go after her. I weave through the crowd inside—mostly rich people wearing expensive suits and flashy dresses, getting hammered on expensive champagne—and head upstairs to my sister’s room. She lives on campus at an all-girls university just outside of Houston, but we all have rooms here for show. Yes, we’re one big happy family.

  “Knock, knock,” I say, poking my head through the door. Georgina is stretched out across her bed, lying on her back with her eyes closed and hands folded across her stomach like a corpse. It disturbs me since the room is so sterile—white carpets, furniture, and linens—that it almost looks like a funeral home. I can’t stand thinking about anything ever happening to my sisters. Especially little Georgie.

  “Hey, you all right?” I ask.

  She doesn’t answer.

  “I’m really sorry about what happened down there. It just really pisses me off when—”

  I notice her lips starting to curve into a muted smile.

  “Georgie…” I snarl.

  She pops open one green eye and snickers. “Sorry, but I couldn’t pass on the opportunity to ditch the party.”

  “You sneaky little girl.”

  She sits up. “Who are you calling little? I’m turning twenty-one soon.”

  I’m only twenty-two, but still, “You’ll always be a little brat to me.” I sit beside her on the bed and push her face, making her fall back.

  “Hey!” She laughs.

  “That’s what you get for worrying me.”

  She gets upright again and sits with her legs crossed. “So what’s going on with you lately? Why haven’t you called?”

  “You hate talking on the phone,” I point out.

  “True. But you could at least call so I know you’re still alive or not locked up in the looney bin. I worry.”

  “Why?”

  “I’ve seen how you’re playing lately. I can only assume that the ’roids are getting to you.”

  I laugh. She knows I don’t touch that stuff. Never will. “Nope. I’m still a naturally fucked-up asshole.”

  “Then what’s the deal? I’ve never seen you suck so badly at football. And I could swear Dad has a perma-smile.”

  “He tastes blood,” I say, debating if I should tell her about the issue that’s bringing my father closer to his dream: my football career ending. Hell, maybe I should confess. Georgie will say my head’s up my ass and maybe I’ll believe her and move on from all this.

  “I met a girl,” I say.

  Her eyes pop wide open. “You’re in love?”

  “No. It’s not like that.” I grumble out a breath and rub the back of my neck. “I think she’s messed with my…headorsomethingreallystupid,” I mumble those last words, unable to believe I’m saying them aloud.

  “Sorry? What was that? Sounded like you said she’s stupid.”

  I groan. “No, I’m stupid. We only dated casually for a few weeks.”

  “And?”

  “And then she dumped me,” I confess, noting how it hurts way more to say than I’d thought.

  Georgie’s mouth pops open, matching her wide eyes. “You got dumped?”

  “Shut up.”

  “No, sorry, it’s just hard to believe.” She shakes her head.

  I know. I’m awesome. Only, maybe that’s changing.

  “Well,” she continues, “then it makes perfect sense. She’s disrupted your game mojo.”

  “Why? It’s not like I got attached to her.”

  “Maybe not, but you liked her and she dumped you. That’s never happened.”

  “I feel fine. I promise, no broken hearts here.” Though maybe I do miss hearing Elle’s snorty laugh.

  “If you say so, but she’s planted a seed of doubt in that thick skull of yours. So you’re going to have to find a way to fix it.”

  But how? Elle hates me. And we fight every time we see each other. “Easier said than done.”

  “Not really. Whatever you did to piss her off, just apologize.”

  “I didn’t do anything. She says we’re just not right for each other and accuses me—me of all people—of not being a man.”

  My sister frowns and rubs her pointed little chin. “Hmmm…then man up. Show her you’re not afraid to grovel a little. If that doesn’t work, then hit her with the old Henry charm. I’ve yet to see a girl resist you when you act like an actual human being.”

  “Gee. Thanks, Georgie,” I scoff.

  “Call it like I see it.” She shrugs. “But hopefully the worst case is you’ll end up friends, and it might be enough to let you move on, get your head back in the game.”

  I start thinking about landing in the friend zone with Elle. I don’t like it one little bit. Seems…wrong somehow. On the other hand, maybe I could convince her to come to a few games and test out my theory. Because there’s no denying the truth: The moment we stopped seeing each other, my game went to shit. She shows up? Gold again.

  Still, I don’t have time to dick around, groveling and praying Elle might forgive me. I need to take immediate action.

  I look at my sister. “I have to go and check some stuff out. You’ll be okay up here by yourself?”

  “Way better than downstairs with all those scary people.”

  My poor sister. One of these days, I’m going to have to figure out a way to get her out of her shell. Some serious social immersion therapy or something. Because sooner or later, she’s going to graduate and have to get a job whether it’s with my dad or someone else. There are no free rides in the Walton family despite our billions.

  I pat her head of brown hair. “Love you.”

  “Love you, too, Henry.” She smiles when she says it, but looks away. It’s the one thing we have in common. At the end of the day, we’re both kind of private people, and we don’t feel comfortable with I love yous. Not even to the people we love. But little Georgie is always my exception.

  I get up from the bed and head for “my room” to do some research on my phone and make a call. I quickly find what I need online and then dial Hunter and tell him what I’m thinking.

  “Tassie’s roomie Elle? Dead-cat T-shirt Elle?” He coughs.

  “Yes. Elle,” I growl.

  “The woman you screwed for a couple of weeks has single-handedly ruined a lifetime of training and now you need her to win,” he says with a hint of laughter. “You’re not suffering from a concussion, are you?”

  Now I’m kind of kicking myself for telling him, but it had to be done. “I’m not the only player who believes in good luck charms. Not that I’m superstitious.” Although, if I were, I can’t see the big deal. Over eighty percent of our teammates have a ritual or lucky rabbit’s foot, so to speak.

  “You’re really going to tell her all this?” he asks.

  “No choice, which is why I need a favor.”

  “What?” Hunter asks.

  “I need you to talk to Tass.”

  “Why?” he asks.

  “Because when I tell Elle, she’s going to laugh in my face, accuse me of being illogical and unscientific, and then rip out my nut sack for wasting her time with something so beneath her intellect. Tass needs to convince her to do this.”

  “Why would Tass do that?”

  “Because she’s into you, man. She’ll do anything for you.”

  There’s a long pause on the other end of the phone, and I’m guessing it’s because Hunter just made up with Tass earlier this week after some front-yard, family-versus-family blowout. I know this because yesterday I invi
ted him to the party and he told me about it—the nondramatic version for guys. Anyway, I’m glad it all worked out, because Hunter and Tassie are clearly into each other, unlike me and Elle. I liked her, sure, but I never loved her. Now I just need to find out if my theory is true.

  “I don’t know, Henry. I’m wondering if Tassie won’t throw up on your idea, too.”

  “Hunter, man, you have to help me.” And I know he will because A) he’s a good guy and B) I gave him a place to live so he could afford to stay in school and play football since his scholarship only covers the basics and none of us can realistically work during the season. Between practice, games, travel, and classes, we barely have time to study or sleep.

  I continue, “Look, man, I know how lame I sound right now. Even telling you this makes my balls want to shrivel up and fall off. But I’m out of options and I’m out of time.”

  Hunter groans on the other end of the phone. “I’ll talk to Tass, but no guarantees. Our truce is on thin ice. When are you going to do your pitch to Elle?”

  “Tomorrow. I’m going to her house.”

  “On Thanksgiving. Uninvited.” His tone indicates he doesn’t think that’s such a great idea.

  “I’m not going to crash their dinner. I’m just going to stop by, beg, and leave. It’ll be harder for her to say no on a day when you’re supposed to be all charitable.”

  “How do you know she’ll even be home?” he asks.

  “I just checked the math tutoring site. She posts her hours and schedule there.” Elle once told me to use it so we could figure out our hookup schedule. “Says she’s home for the week, but available for online tutoring sessions.”

  “Stalker.” Hunter laughs.

  “I call it smart. I’m a resourceful guy.”

  “I call you fucking nuts, bro.”

  “Yeah. But what do I have to lose?” I say.

  Hunter is silent for once. He gets how far I’m willing to go to succeed. I’ve told him about my dad.

  “I’ll call you tomorrow to check in,” I say. “And have a happy Thanksgiving with your new in-laws.”

  Hunter laughs. “Hey, we’re not married. Yet. But I am thinking Christmas will be a good time to pop the question.”

  Huh? Hunter is nineteen, three years younger than me, so marriage sounds pretty insane. “You’re serious.”

  “Yeah, man,” Hunter says without shame. “I mean, we wouldn’t get married until after college, but it took us over a decade to get here. Tass needs to know I’m not letting her go.”

  Oh boy. I sense we’re going to need a bigger apartment for next semester—me, Tass, Hunter, Mike C., and Nathan—luckily, my family owns the building. The only catch is my father will want something in exchange. He always wants something. Just getting the apartment in the first place cost me the summer. I’ll be working for him, overseeing some new pharmaceutical venture he says is a big moneymaker. I don’t mind earning my keep, but I know it’s my dad’s way of covertly preparing me for what he feels is the inevitable: me giving up on football to work for him. It’s why he’s forced all four of his kids to major in business. One by one, he guilted us to drop our chosen majors. I’d wanted to get my BA in sports science, focusing on sports management. I thought that maybe someday, when I retire, I might want to have my own agency or something. Too many slick sharks in the sports waters, trying to take advantage of young, bright-eyed athletes looking to get signed. I would protect them and mentor them along the way. Of course, I have to get through my own shark-infested waters first, and there will be no swimming if I don’t play with perfection over the next four weeks.

  I clear my throat. “Well, thanks for helping me out, Hunt. And I’m glad things are in a good place with Tass. She’s, uhh…”

  “Overbearing, opinionated, and quirky?” Hunter says.

  “I was going to say pretty—but yeah.”

  “Well, she keeps me on my toes and has since kindergarten. Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  I think it’s a weird match, like if Elle and I decided to get married and have kids. Nerds and jocks just don’t make good teams. No common ground when it comes to interests. But hey, maybe Hunter and Tass will be the exception.

  “All right,” I say. “Call you tomorrow after I visit Queen Brainiac.”

  “Be careful. I have a feeling she bites.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  ELLE

  I have received seven texts from Henry since yesterday, which is mighty peculiar considering how things ended after his practice last Friday. But I put the blame on myself, of course. I never should have gone to see him, and clearly I wasn’t welcome.

  Oh, but now you need to talk, Henry? And it’s important? I can’t imagine what his issue is. Maybe he’s lost his jockstrap and his tiny brain needs help finding it. Or maybe they’re out of Bud Light for his Thanksgiving feast and he’s hoping I know how to make more. I don’t know, and I don’t care, so I block his number. I don’t have time for his juvenile games right now, because from the moment I walked through the front door of my parents’ house last Saturday, my worst nightmares came true. My older sister, Lana—who looks like me with blonde hair and brown eyes—was in the living room, consoling Aunt Debbie, my mother’s sister. Uncle Frank was nowhere to be found—coward. My father was in the garage, crying over Christmas ornaments. Cousin Keri was keeping my mother company with a box of tissues and her own tears while my mother mustered a smile from her bed and tried to assure her that come what may, it will all be fine.

  “Hi, I’m home,” I said, peeking into the doorway of my parents’ bedroom. “Can I get you anything?”

  “Elle.” My mother smiled, the circles under her brown eyes darker than the last time I saw her a week ago. “I’m so glad you’re home. Maybe you and Keri can make the shopping list for Thursday while I take my nap?” My mother’s eyes made a little flicker toward my cousin in a silent plea to get her out of there.

  “Sure. Come on, Keri. We’ll take inventory of the pantry first.”

  Keri, who has short black hair and dark eyes and looks more like her dad, Uncle Frank, made a little sniffle. “Okay. But if you need me, just call,” she said to my mom.

  I wanted to kick her. Yeah, just what my mom needs, you crying all over her like it’s her funeral. Not that I didn’t want to bawl my eyes out, too, trust me, but our jobs were to put on smiling faces and give that woman a happy fucking Thanksgiving.

  Anyway, after that, I’d gone up to my room to unpack, taking extra care to hang my T-shirts and plan out which ones I’d wear throughout the week. I know how ridiculous some people think the pooping glittery unicorns or historical figures riding dinosaurs look, but they help remind me to smile once in a while. Even the late Mr. Nucleus’s sweet little furry face reminds me of better times—the way he used to chase after my laser pointer was pure comedy.

  Unlike today. Which will forever be cemented in my mind as the last turkey I’ll ever share with my mother. Fucking, fuck you, cancer.

  My chin quivering and cheeks wet, I check my messages as a distraction. Tass went home last weekend, too, and we haven’t had a chance to talk. Apparently, from what I gathered from her texts, the moment she pulled into her parents’ driveway, she had some sort of run-in with Hunter, whose parents live next door. “I hate him! I hate him! I hate him!” Tass had messaged without any further detail despite my inquiries. Then the next morning I got another text saying, “I love him! I love him! I love him!” I seriously hope it means those two have worked out their shit because they’re obviously not keen to live without one another despite Hunter being a serious football player and her being a super-nerd, like me.

  Yes, I see the parallels to Henry and myself, but those comparative lines are razor thin. Henry and I have only known each other for a few months. He’s also rich, hot, and completely closed off. Or self-absorbed.

  Ugh. Why can’t I stop thinking about him?

  Anyway, no new texts from Tass, and it’s time for me to get on with my day
and help in the kitchen.

  I get up from my bed that has my favorite psychedelic cats comforter and go to my old white vanity. It still has pictures of Spock and Princess Leia superglued to it from when I was in high school—at thirteen. I should clean it all off, but I just don’t care about any of it.

  I look at my puffy face. “Jesus, Elle. You look like crap.” My brown eyes are bloodshot, my pale face is ruddy, and my hair looks like it’s in dire need of life support. I know I’ve showered this week, but I can’t remember conditioning my hair.

  I pick up my brush from my vanity and get to work, making myself presentable for my mother. She needs to see me happy. She needs to see I’m okay.

  But I’m not okay. I’m fucking just not.

  HENRY

  Elle never told me where she lives, but I had no problem finding her address on the Internet. Her house is about an hour away in Bellville—a small town somewhere between Houston and Austin.

  My plan is to show up, give her a dozen white roses to call a truce, grovel a little over our last encounter, and then spring my plan on her. I’m hoping she won’t yell at me or do that little thing with her lips where she puckers them tightly. A pissed Elle is a scary Elle. She looks like a woman on the verge of a felony, secretly planning your demise. Yes, be afraid of smart women. Be very afraid.

  Anyway, I don’t need to be at my parents’ house today because Thanksgiving is always leftovers, hangovers, thank-you calls, counting donations, and—if you’re my mother—gossip with your friend about your other friends day. So after this, I’m heading over to Michelle’s to hang out with her, Georgie, Claire, and Michelle’s new husband, Chukwuemeka-something. I can’t remember how to pronounce his name properly, but luckily he goes by Chewy. Michelle met him while on a business trip to Nigeria, and next week they’re leaving to spend the holidays with his parents, who are schoolteachers from a small village. I’m fairly sure the trip is because my sister is not on good terms with my parents, who weren’t happy about the “scandalous” elopement. Not because they’re racist, but because they think any event in our lives should be their opportunity to impress their friends. Especially my mom, who comes from a long line of Coppolas, who are, according to her, Texan royalty because her great-grandfather was one of the first to strike black gold in 1903. Really, they’re Italian immigrants who got lucky, not royalty. Anyway, she married my dad, Chester Walton—the son of a banker—and now my dad runs the oil show. He might act like a big important man, but like the old saying goes, “Behind every great man is a powerful woman with a huge inheritance.” In any case, I’m definitely eloping, too, if that day ever comes.