Get a Clue

by Tiffany Schmidt

  Luckily my phone interrupted before I actually started drooling. “What’s up, Campbear?”

  “Hey, you left a book at my house,” Rory said. “You know, the day you fell in love.”

  “Hmm.” I tapped my lip. “I seem to remember another person who was recently deeply invested in a one-sided romance.” It’d taken months of matchmaking prowess to get Rory and her boyfriend, Toby, together. But they’ve been bonded like epoxy since New Year’s Eve.

  “Good point.” She laughed. “Plus, Win was digging you. This was not one-sided.”

  “I’ve got an unaccepted friend request that says otherwise.” I clicked back to his feed.

  “Weird. Anyway. Want me to drop off the book? I need an excuse to get out of my house before Merri ropes me into redecorating Lilly’s room for Eliza. Can you even imagine how mad Eliza will be that Merri’s gone through all her stuff?”

  “Sure. Come on over.” I swiveled in my chair. Eliza Gordon-Fergus had recently moved in with the Campbells while her scientist parents were stationed at the South Pole, where she was currently visiting them. It was during the move-in that I’d met Win. And while Rory was always welcome here, she was wrong. Eliza might bluster about Merri’s redecorating, but she’d be deeply touched and wasn’t half as bristly as she wanted people to think.

  “You leaving now?” I should send the video to Phil and Susie before she arrived. All I had to do was click—“Shoot! No. No. How fast can you get here?”

  “You okay?” Rory’s voice went high. “I’ll be there in ten, but what happened?”

  I cringed and swiveled away from my computer. I’d clicked—but not on sending the video to my friends. Instead I’d made a rookie stalker mistake: I’d clicked Like on a six-month-old photo of Win. Panic sat in my lungs like the weight bar that time during lacrosse practice when Curtis had spaced out while spotting me for bench presses. I reached out with a jittery hand to send the stupid science video, then slammed the laptop lid, unplugged it, and shoved it in a drawer.

  I had my head down on my desk when Rory let herself in. I mumbled an explanation without moving. “On a scale of never-leaving-the-house to witness-protection, where does this land?”

  “It’s not that bad,” she said. “Just click Unlike.”

  “He was online,” I said against my arms, the words making my face flush hot again.

  “Oh. Then he’s already gotten the notification. How old did you say the photo was?” I groaned and she patted my back. “Maybe it’ll be a reminder to accept your friend request.”

  “Or a big red flag that says Stay away from the guy who’s obsessed with you.”

  “First: I was there when you met. Merri agrees; he was vibing with you. I thought you guys were going to exchange saliva before names.” She patted my back again. “Second: Hello? What happened to the guy who wouldn’t let me give up on Toby? Where’s my hopeless-romantic Huck?”

  “He died, Campbear,” I said. “Of embarrassment.” This was why I focused on other people’s crushes and kept my own safely on celebrities. As for exchanging saliva? Yeah, no. My first kiss wasn’t going to be some impulsive, public thing. And it was probably safe to assume it wouldn’t be with Win either.

  “What can I do?” Her phone beeped in her bag, but she ignored it.

  “Distract me.” If I had to slip-click, why couldn’t it be on a picture of him and his siblings? But, no. It had to be shirtless.

  “Okay.” She pulled a massive book out of her tote and dropped it on the desk. “Let’s talk about Arthur Conan Doyle’s Complete Adventures of Sherlock Holmes. Why did Ms. Gregoire assign it and where are you in it?”

  “I haven’t started.” It was my parents’ latest attempt to force me to “put myself out there at Hero High.” They’d said if I didn’t do a spring sport, then I needed more than just orchestra. “Some extra assignments to keep busy—perhaps a book club!” I’d called their bluff; they’d called Ms. Gregoire. And while it wasn’t a book club per se, it was a book she’d picked for me. But if I let Curtis talk me into baseball, Mom and Dad would back off. Frankly, they’d throw a parade and hopefully, finally stop worrying that the move had ruined my social life. “I’m thinking I’ll return it.”

  “No!” Rory hopped off the bed, upsetting my cup of pens. She swept up a handful and pointed them at me. “You can’t.”

  “Or you’ll ink me to death?” I laughed and shoved her hand away.

  “Huck.” Rory bent so our eyes were level. Only I hoped mine weren’t open that wide, because she looked ridiculous. “You need to tell me everything Ms. Gregoire said when she gave you the book. Exact words if you remember.”

  Of course I did. “ ‘It’s only fitting my most perspicacious student should study literature’s most perspicacious hero.’ ” I’d had to look that word up to make sure it wasn’t an insult—it meant “perceptive and discerning,” which, true. “And, ‘You’ll learn a lot from Sherlock.’ ”

  The whole thing had been weirdly intense. I mean, Ms. Gregoire was my favorite teacher and she was always enthusiastic, but that day she’d been eerily earnest.

  “Hmm.” Rory chewed her bottom lip. Her phone beeped again, but her eyes stayed fixed on mine. “That doesn’t sound very romantic. But you need to trust the process.”

  “Campbell, you’re making zero sense. What are you talking about?”

  She held up a hand. “Hit pause on the eye-rolling and hear me out. Ms. Gregoire does this thing with books. She picks one, you fall in love. She set up Merri and Fielding. Me and Toby. Eliza and Curtis. Apparently even Trent and Lilly, though he won’t give us any details.”

  I scratched the back of my neck. Rory was a born cynic about everything but Toby. And art. She was the antithesis of her effervescent sister. So who was this quixotic imposter, or what was the punch line? My phone rang, but I hit the Ignore button. Probably my parents on their way home.

  “Do you remember when I asked you to start making sense? Can we skip to that part?” I squinted at her. “Are you doing some weird impression of Merri? If so, I don’t get it. Also, I set up you and Toby.”

  She shrugged. “Well, you, and Ms. Gregoire, and Little Women.”

  I remembered her whining about reading that book for extra credit, but . . . “I still don’t understand.”

  “Just . . . read your book.” Rory picked up my hand and placed it on the cover. “If Ms. Gregoire gave it to you, it’s important.”

  I shivered. The tingles I was feeling weren’t coming from her touch—platonic, thank you very much—but from the cloth-covered cardboard beneath my fingers. It was a low-key buzz, like when you touched a radiator as it kicked on, or the hum of fluorescent lights. If Rory’d noticed, she didn’t react, but I snatched my hand away. I didn’t like things I couldn’t explain. And I couldn’t explain this. I wiped my hand on my pants.

  The book was going back.

  “Who’s blowing up your phone?” I pointed to her bag, the illuminated screen glowing through its canvas sides. Mine was ringing too, but that was likely part two of Mom’s voicemail—where she reminded me that cereal wasn’t dinner and coffee wasn’t a nighttime beverage.

  “Probably Merri asking my opinion on twinkle lights or feng shui.” Rory dug through her bag. “Toby’s at piano and Clara’s—” She paused as she read the top text on her screen, then scrolled through others with stiff, frantic fingers.

  “What’s up?”

  “Um, Huck . . .” She looked from her phone to the power cord dangling off my desk. “Did you post a video takedown of Mr. Milverton?”

  “What? No.” My stomach was already knotted, but it clenched. “I sent it to two friends in Ohio.”

  She clicked on the iLive app then thrust her phone at me. “You sent it to everyone. According to the latest comment, they’re currently playing it on the local news.”

  3

  My navy-and-red school tie was choking me. It had been all day. I dug a finger between it and my collar, but it didn’t relieve t
he pressure in my throat.

  I dried my hands on my pants and wished I could as easily fix the sweat sticking my shirt to my back. There was something about waiting, something about this room—an antechamber to the headmaster’s office—that made me feel small. Since I wasn’t actually shrinking, I’d distract myself by deducing the why of it. I stood and made a slow study of my surroundings: maroon area rug on marble floors, my parents seated in adjacent wingback chairs, the dark wooden side tables stacked with brochures.

  I turned to face the wall and the answer practically leapt off it: the portraits.

  They were overly oversized—unless the former headmasters had been giants, these were larger-than-life depictions. Framed with more gilt than necessary and hung higher than any designer on Dad’s favorite HGTV shows would recommend. The overall impression was of mammoth people staring down their noses from lofty perches.

  I sat back in my chair with a satisfied thump, no longer choked by my clothing or having a crisis about my hard-won growth spurt having been revoked. I was still sweating though.

  “Please stop fidgeting,” Mom begged as she sat furiously knitting—but wasn’t that just glorified fidgeting? “I know you’re nervous, but we’ll figure this out.”

  Easy for her to say. She and Dad had arrived on campus at dismissal. I’d had to be here all day. Through the people staring and talking about me, unsure if they should be hostile, impressed, or amused. Though, if my parents knew this, they’d probably be pleased that everyone on campus finally knew who I was. All it’d taken was a viral scandal and ruining Clara’s life . . .

  I knew this thought wasn’t fair or accurate, but then again, neither was the World Wide Web. The thing about the internet was, it’s like toothpaste. Once something was out, you couldn’t squeeze it back in. I knew because I’d tried. I’d deleted the original post—the one that in my cyber-stalk-fail flail I’d accidentally sent to all instead of Phil and Susie—but it had already gone viral, which I would’ve realized if I’d checked my phone. Those calls had been the local news station asking for my comment.

  And that was before the meme. I swallowed. Whatever happened in the headmaster’s office, it wasn’t going to be the low point of my day. That had already happened.

  I felt ambivalent about the video—foolish for misclicking—but it was the truth and it was problematic. But the spliced-down version that some jerk had created? I got queasy just thinking of it and the apology I owed Clara.

  I hadn’t had a chance to give it though—she wasn’t in school today. But her face was everywhere, on every tablet and laptop and cell phone screen. A desperately eager expression and a hand that zoomed into the air over and over on a loop. The “clever” captions were legion: Tryouts for a deodorant commercial. Every woman on The Bachelor. If Hermione went blond. Me, when my gym class picks teams.

  Every time I’d glanced at Clara’s empty desk in science class, I’d legit wanted to cry.

  The school admin, Mrs. York, appeared in the doorway. “The headmaster asked me to pass along that he’ll be a few more minutes. He’s finishing up an interview.”

  She smiled tightly in response to my parents’ “Don’t worry about it. Tell him to take his time,” then disappeared to her desk.

  I stared at my tapping thumbs. If the low point of my day was the Clara gif, the high point had been Mr. Milverton’s absence. Except—I tugged at my tie again—I hadn’t meant to get anyone fired. Or humiliated.

  Or for anyone besides two people to see the clip.

  And for bonus humiliation funsies? I’d checked: Win still hadn’t accepted my friend request.

  I leaned my head back against the wall—there was plenty of room beneath the closest picture frame—shut my eyes, and groaned.

  “Do you have a headache? I’ve got Tylenol. Let me just find it.” Mom handed her needles to Dad, who had his nose buried in some book he’d plucked off a shelf. He moved the yarn out of the way and turned the page. Thanks for your concern, Dad. All that was missing was his glass of merlot and Sondheim CD, and he might as well be sitting on our deck. Mom looked up from her cavernous purse. “Do you have a drink? Ask that nice Mrs. York to direct you to a water fountain.”

  “I’m fine, Ma-ahhmm.” Her name became something between a stutter and a moan, because Headmaster Williams’s door opened and the person who appeared wasn’t the stodgy administrator—well, he was there too. But my eyes were fixed on the guy at the receiving end of a perfunctory handshake who looked as uncomfortable in his tie as I was in mine.

  “I’ll be right with you,” Headmaster Williams said before shutting the door and leaving me face-to-face with the student he’d been interviewing. Because did I mention I’d stood up? Not out of any show of respect for the headmaster, but from some weird jack-in-the-box instinctual need to get closer to Winston Cavendish.

  “Win? Hi?” Neither of those should be questions.

  “Hey, Huck.” He grinned down at the feet he was shuffling. “I didn’t think I’d see you. I know you go here, but it’s the office and why would you be—Why are you here?” He glanced up with raised eyebrows, and the angles of his arch and chin and cheekbones made me momentarily hate Rory, because I wanted to capture his expression and save it forever. Her artistic specialty was portraits, and mine was pottery. Which was zero percent helpful. Rory gave Toby adorable sketches; what could I do, offer Win a super-duper romantic homemade mug? I tilted my head; actually, if it came prefilled with coffee, that might be a gift worth trading my first kiss for. Even if it was lopsided or lumpy.

  The mug. Not Win—who was neither of those things.

  As my scattered-focus silence stretched, his jaw tightened. “Not that it’s any of my business. I’m well acquainted with principals’ offices. No judgment.” Except he was clearly judging himself, and I didn’t deserve absolution.

  “I accidentally made a viral video about the school.”

  “That was you?” His eyes sparked. With amusement? Approval? I’d need to spend more time with him to be sure, but whatever it was, he glanced at my blatantly eavesdropping parents and tamped it down. “That teacher was . . . How’s Clara?”

  I blinked in surprise—then realized he knew Clara, would’ve gone to school with her at Mayfield. But it wasn’t only their association that caught me off guard; it was that his concern was for her. All day everyone had been so caught up in the hype and scandal.

  “Absent.” I could barely say the word without gagging, and vomit was not a good look on anyone. I reached to cup the back of my neck and my sleeve grazed his. Had I stepped closer, or had he? Because we were pretty much breaking every rule of personal space. In front of my parents. “How was your interview? You’re transferring?”

  “Trying to.” His eyes shuttered and he stepped back. “I should go.”

  “Oh. Right. And I’m—” I gestured to the headmaster’s door.

  He grimaced. “Good luck. See ya.”

  “I hope so.” My earnest words came first—then the realization that Win’s had been a closing, not a question.

  But before my embarrassment and panic could battle for emotional control, Win grinned. “Me too.”

  I was staring at the doorway and jumped when Dad’s hand landed on my shoulder. “So Pucky, who was that?”

  The name printed on my birth certificate was four letters long: H U C K. This didn’t stop Curtis from adding “-leberry” or my parents from substituting a P for the H.

  “Puck,” or if they were feeling extra sentimental, “Pucky.” Not after the trickster fairy I’ve been told my dimpled grin resembles, but the sports equipment for dad’s favorite game. And like my ridiculous nickname, there was no point in me playing it cool. My parents and I had been close for every one of my fifteen years, despite their annoying post-move obsession with making sure I was “well adjusted”—aka popular—and no way was I convincing them Win was “just a guy I know” or anything acquaintance-like.

  So, I was zero percent surprised Dad put down h
is book and Mom abandoned her yarn. Each of Miles’s dates and girlfriends had been analyzed and scrutinized like future grandbabies depended on corsage color preferences. I swore Miles went to college out of state to prevent them from showing up at his dorm on Sunday mornings with cinnamon rolls and surveys for him to complete about his plans from the previous night.

  And while they’d spent the whole school year trying to expand my friend group beyond Rory and Curtis, I’d never given them any fodder for their romantic machinations. Mom and Dad exchanged looks of anticipation.

  Since there was no chance of escaping, I sighed and answered. “You know Curtis? That’s his younger brother. He’s a freshman at the public school, Chester High. Not here.”

  “But, an interview! Maybe he will be.” Dad waggled his eyebrows. “Maybe he’ll need someone to show him around campus.”

  I bit back a grin. I’d volunteer to tour-guide the heck out of Win, except . . . “He wouldn’t start until September.” And I couldn’t endure half a year of crush-limbo.

  “Good point. We’ll need something sooner.” Dad steepled his fingers and began to pace. Maybe I should’ve been embarrassed, but I liked that Dad saw us as possible. I liked a plan. And I was primed for Baker Brainstorming Sessions from years of watching Dad and Miles fill whiteboards with potential date ideas. “What do you know about him? Sports? Hobbies? Does he play any instruments? Oh, does he like salsa music?”

  Mom shook the Tylenol bottle to get our attention. It rattled like the egg-shaped maracas she’d used when she taught toddler music classes. “Can you two focus, please? We’re not here for The Dating Game.” She held out two pills and when I rejected them, offered me a butterscotch candy instead. “Though he was very handsome, and I’d be happy to hear about him later.”

  Which meant I could likely persuade them to stop at Cool Beans for coffee if I made them think I was a reluctant participant in this conversation. The reality was far more humiliating: I wanted to talk about Win, and they were the best option. For one thing, they won gold medals in the supportive parents category. For another, there were only so many times I could rave or whine about him to Rory, Curtis was clearly no-go for all conversations about his brother, and it wasn’t like I could say, “Hey, random classmates, want to hear about my crush’s earlobes?”