Get a Clue

by Tiffany Schmidt

  Let the bargaining begin. “You know what goes well with interrogations?” I asked. “Biscotti and extra-dry cappuccino.”

  “Well played and we’ll see.” But Mom’s smile slipped when the office door opened and Headmaster Williams said, “Please join me.”

  Despite there being three chairs on our side of the desk versus the one on his, the power balance wasn’t tipped in our favor. Part of this was structural: the chairs we sat in were shorter. The other part was decorative: the row of awards facing us, all proclaiming his greatness and authority.

  Headmaster Williams set his elbows on his leather blotter and leveled me with a look. “Why don’t you start? Tell us what you were thinking when you posted that video.”

  “I wasn’t thinking anything—it was an accident,” I said slowly. “But I can tell you what I was thinking when I recorded it: that everyone deserves an equal opportunity to participate.”

  He nodded stiffly. “While we can agree on that sentiment, it’s your actions I can’t condone.”

  “Sir, I’d been planning to send that video to two people for advice. It was never meant to be public.”

  “It should never have been recorded!” Headmaster Williams reached into a drawer and pulled out a slim black volume. “This is the school handbook. I have a form with your signature indicating you have read and understood its contents.”

  I’d read a digital copy during our drive from Ohio and knew exactly which section he was going to flip to.

  “There are a number of policies in here that you’ve violated, but namely the ones from the section on electronics and privacy.” He read aloud: “Students are not to use the image of any students or faculty without their permission. Do you understand this?”

  I nodded, appreciative that he didn’t do that gotcha game of naming everyone in the video and asking one by one if I’d had their permission.

  He flipped to another section. This one was titled “Grievance Procedures.” Dad scooted closer and Mom muttered a quiet “Oh, dear” as Headmaster Williams’s fingers lingered beside the word “infractions.”

  “No one is condoning what was taking place in that classroom. I was appalled and disheartened by what I saw, but we have established protocol you should have followed. And nowhere does it suggest making this hallowed institution the subject of mockery for social media and morning talk shows.”

  “Yes, sir.” I clutched the armrests so I wouldn’t tug on my tie.

  “I’ve spent the day on calls with concerned parents and disgruntled alumni. People are threatening to pull donations, students, and applications. Reginald R. Hero Preparatory School has had a sterling reputation for a hundred years. You undermined that with forty seconds of video. And have you seen the gifs?”

  “Of Clara?” I swallowed.

  “Well, she’s certainly in them—but these ones demean the school.”

  My “I’m sorry, sir” sounded like a croak. Mom patted my leg.

  “Mr. Baker, you are new to Hero High this year, yet this is not your first time in my office.”

  Crashing the after-hours Rogue Romeo party in the school theater in September hadn’t been my brightest decision, but I couldn’t regret it. My parents had been desperate for any sign of a social life, and while I may not have made friends at the party, Rory and I had bonded in the resulting Saturday detentions. Nothing creates camaraderie like scrubbing paint off a stage.

  Still, I put on a penitent face. “Yes, sir.”

  “This is your second strike. And if—”

  “Might I make a suggestion?” Dad interrupted. Mom whispered a second, more emphatic “Oh, dear!” and I braced myself.

  Headmaster Williams blinked in surprise that someone had dared to talk over him, but gestured for Dad to continue. “Before we get ahead of ourselves, let’s take a breath. I had a chance to peruse your handbook while we were waiting out there.”

  I’m not sure whose eyes went wider, the headmaster’s or mine. That was what he’d been reading? I rubbed the back of my neck, unsure if Dad was about to be brilliant or a liability. From the look on Mom’s face, she wasn’t sure either.

  “Now, it seems to me that other parts of the handbook are relevant too—specifically the ‘core values’ of mutual respect, equality, and responsibility to a greater community. Or the section of your mission statement about ‘ensuring a safe, supportive learning environment to provide all students with the opportunity to flourish academically and personally.’ ” Dad tapped the tips of his fingers together. “Is it safe to assume you agree Mr. Milverton wasn’t representative of those beliefs?”

  Headmaster Williams’s mouth puckered as he nodded.

  “Great, then we’re on the same page.” Dad sat back in his chair, and I fought the urge to clap. “As someone who is also well versed with the pressures of academia and the peculiar trials of raising teenagers, I’ve come up with what I believe is a logical consequence for Huck.”

  Clapping urge gone. Dad making Headmaster Williams eat his handbook’s words? Great. Dad brainstorming ways for me to meet up with Win? Yay! Dad in fixer mode suggesting punishments? Much less cool.

  “The way I see it, Huck needs to demonstrate knowledge of the stated boundaries for video and privacy, and he should help mitigate the damage he’s done to the school’s reputation.”

  “In an ideal world, but I—”

  Dad was not to be stopped. “Assign him to make a video that showcases Hero High’s best qualities. Filming within the parameters of the school rules, of course. It’d be a great opportunity for him to engage with his classmates while creating something that promotes the school.”

  I wished I’d taken Mom up on that Tylenol, because I had a sudden, massive headache. Of course Dad would turn this into a social project as well as a punishment.

  Headmaster Williams’s expression was strained. “While I appreciate your insight and I hope Huck spends his break contemplating his actions, I’ll be spending mine putting out PR fires and organizing sensitivity trainings for the staff.” He glanced at a framed picture of his kids, sophomore Sera and junior Fielding. Had I wrecked their breaks too? “And hiring a new science teacher, because Mr. Milverton has retired, effective immediately.”

  “Good.” Mom’s voice was firm. “Those poor girls.”

  Headmaster Williams blinked out of his to-do list, looking chagrined as he said, “Indeed. But a project like the one you’ve suggested would require significant supervision, and with these additional duties, I don’t have time to devote to it.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of expecting you to advise him, but surely there’s another faculty member who could.” Dad turned to me. “You’re always raving about Ms. Gregoire. Think she would?”

  When Headmaster Williams leaned forward and clasped his hands on the desk, I knew my spring break was also forfeited. “I like this idea. But make no mistake, Huck’s on probation. One more misstep and he’ll be asked to leave the school.”

  My parents and I overlapped in our “Yes, sir” and “Thank you, sir.”

  “I want this done quickly.” He scanned the calendar on his blotter, then pointed to a square. “Friday, March twenty-ninth. The last meeting of the admissions committee is that afternoon. It’s always the most contentious. I want the video to play there, to remind everyone why we work so hard to select our incoming students. Letters of acceptance and denial are mailed the next morning, and I’ll share your video on social media as the future students are receiving their acceptances. We need to put out a positive narrative—convince those students that Hero High is where they want to spend the next four years of their schooling. Understood?”

  It was March first. That gave me twenty-eight days. “I’ll get right on it—as soon as I talk to Ms. Gregoire.”

  Which is how I ended up trudging across campus and knocking on the classroom door of my favorite teacher while my peers were already an hour into their spring break.

  I hoped Ms. Gregoire would come up with some clever reaso
n this project was unnecessary. Instead she opened the door with a smile. “Headmaster Williams just called and filled me in. I love this idea, don’t you? It pairs perfectly with your Sir Arthur Conan Doyle reading.”

  “About that . . .” I reached into my backpack and pulled out the book, ignoring the echoes of Rory’s proclamations about this story being my destiny or whatever. “I might sign up for baseball. And with this project . . . I don’t need this anymore. I won’t have time.”

  “Oh, Huck.” Ms. Gregoire was an emoter. Her feelings were big and they were obvious. Usually variations of excitement or anticipation or enthusiasm, but right then I was blanketed in sympathy. It made goose bumps spread up my arms. “You need Sherlock more than ever. In fact, priority number one over your break isn’t the video. It’s reading that book. It’ll fortify you for what’s to come.”

  4

  I loved everything about coffee. The caffeine, the smell, the sound it made when it was being poured. The warmth of a mug between my hands. The taste—so sharp and bitter, alive on my tongue. But especially the caffeine.

  And when the world frustrated me, regular coffee wasn’t enough. I dug out the French press.

  I measured grinds with exactitude. Filled the canister with water, stopping precisely at the line etched in the glass. Set a timer and waited for it to steep. And when I thrust the plunger down, compressing the grinds while siphoning off the strong, rich brew—well, it was the most satisfying thing that had happened all week.

  Which said a lot about the state of my spring break.

  My room was sending pretty strong crisis-bunker vibes. Besides the French press hidden below my desk, there were coffee mugs on every flat surface. Empty, half-full, cardboard, ceramic. I’d had to banish Mom’s cat, because Luna kept knocking them over.

  And Mom—if she had peeked in and seen how flagrantly I was violating the “no more than two cups a day” rule . . . well, grounding would be counterproductive, but I could see them grabbing the Hero High directory and trying to schedule play dates with random classmates.

  I thanked the gods of door locks and doing my own laundry that she and Dad had no reason to wander in as long as I ventured out when they got home from work.

  But while they were gone, it was just me, coffee, and, on two different laptops, a tablet, and my phone, Clara’s face.

  I hadn’t yet apologized. I’d tried, repeatedly, but her phone went to voicemail and the mailbox was full. Rory had stopped by her house, only to learn that Clara had decided last minute to spend the week in New York with her dad.

  If I couldn’t apologize with words, I’d do so with actions. I hadn’t read any Sherlock or done anything for the video project. I’d been too busy teaching myself search-engine optimization, so I could do the opposite and try to eliminate or reduce the spread of Clara’s gif. I’d lost track of the number of image-removal requests I’d completed. There were no legal grounds for it to be deindexed in searches, but the more copies I got taken down, the less there were populating results. In the first four days of break, I’d gotten it from number twelve to number seventy-two when you searched for eager+gif.

  That felt like progress, so I set down my coffee when my phone rang. And after checking that it wasn’t yet another reporter looking for an interview, I picked up. “Hey, Campbell.”

  “You answered!” Rory said. “But, do you know Larken?”

  “Sometimes I think you think I don’t listen.” I moved three empty mugs so I could lean a knee against my desk. “I was there when Merri spent twenty minutes telling us ‘Larken is the new feminist pop-rock icon.’ ”

  “Yeah, well, sometimes you don’t listen.” Rory laughed. “Like any of the times you’ve been looking right at me, but totally lost in your head.”

  “Fair point.” I picked up a mug and took a sip—then spat it out. Wrong mug. And it had clearly not been the right mug for several days.

  “Back to Larken.” Rory’s voice grew serious and I sat up, still wiping my tongue on my sleeve. “She just posted the meme on iLive.”

  “Please be joking.” I was already opening the app: @IAmLarken: Me, trying to get a designer to dress me for awards ceremonies. Can a fat girl get some fashion love? #BodyPositivity #BigisBeautiful

  I slammed the laptop lid. In two seconds a wannabe singer—fine, she was actually very talented—had undone sixty hours of burial work.

  “I guess it’s game over for hoping it goes away?” Rory said.

  “I’m not giving up.”

  “You never do.” Rory paused. “But maybe take a break? Step away from your desk. Have you been outside?”

  “Yes, Campbell, I’ve been outside.” Dad had made me shovel the driveway yesterday. Because nothing says “spring break” like a fun March snowstorm.

  “Good. It’s not just Clara I’m worried about. Any gray hairs are both your faults.”

  After we hung up, I rooted around my desk until I came up with the correct mug. I’d just taken a sip when my bedroom door swung open. Luckily the coffee was now lukewarm, because I spilled the rest down the front of my shirt. “What the heck, Curtis? Ever hear of knocking? Or doorbells? How did you get in?”

  “I knocked. You didn’t answer. Your front door’s unlocked.” He shrugged. “My Knight Light mentor sensors detected trouble in the force—I decided to come check on you.”

  “I’m fine.” Except for the fact that there was a literal puddle of coffee on my collarbones and my shirt looked like a Rorschach test.

  Curtis raised an eyebrow and gave a slow scan of my room. “Yeah, I can tell.”

  So my bed was unmade and there was laundry and a towel on the floor from the last time I’d showered, which had been . . . sometime this weekend? What day was today? Tuesday?

  “It smells like a barista died in here,” Curtis said as he stacked empty cups. “Get changed. You’re coming over to play catch.”

  My first instinct was to protest that I was busy—but stupid, freaking Larken. I scrubbed a hand across my eyes. Maybe throwing something would be cathartic.

  “Will your brother be there? Win?” Like he didn’t already know his brother’s name. I gritted my teeth and tried to dim my lightbulb eagerness.

  “That’d be him.” Curtis grinned. “But he’s at school.”

  “Oh. Right.” I tugged my wet shirt off and added it to the laundry pile. I really needed to empty the clean clothes from my hamper so I could refill it. I flipped open the lid and grabbed a fresh T-shirt from the top. There—that was a start.

  “Huckleberry, you said you like guys, right?” Curtis asked, and I froze with my head and one arm inside the T-shirt.

  “Well, yeah. Some guys, some of the time.” I hadn’t settled on a label yet. Bi? Pan? Gay? Queer? Did I need to know mine already? Sometimes it seemed like everyone else did. They’d had kisses and dates and figured things out. And I . . .

  I was glad my expression was hidden behind the Buckeyes logo on my shirt, because there was zero chill on my face. There was also probably zero chill in standing here tangled in fabric like a toddler who couldn’t dress himself. I twitched everything into place and turned toward Curtis, whose eyes glowed with amusement and mischief.

  “Think you could like my brother?”

  My attempt at a nonchalant “Maybe?” earned me some skeptical eyebrows, so I begrudgingly added, “Win’s hot.”

  Curtis puffed out his chest. “He takes after me.”

  “No, he doesn’t.” Curtis was all easy smiles. Sometimes they were too easy. Sometimes they were performative. Win was sandpaper; he was grit and unpolished edges that I had no desire to ever polish . . . but wouldn’t mind rubbing up against.

  “I was there when you two met.” Curtis looked me over. “I don’t know why I didn’t say something sooner.”

  I shrugged, but seriously, with all my failures to be subtle, I was starting to doubt Curtis was as smart as his recent science fair win suggested. “I don’t know if he’s into me. I tried friending him—” />
  He waved away that comment. “He’s never on social media.”

  I blew out a breath. “Yeah, but he’s . . . I’m . . .” There was a huge difference between smitten daydreams and reality. In the former I was suave. In real life, not so much.

  Curtis smirked. “I’ve never seen you insecure before, Huckleberry. It’s cute. I get it; you’re a fragile, post-meme creature right now. And Win’s all prickly cactus, no agave nectar.”

  Eh, that was one interpretation. But maybe if I drank all the dregs in this room, I’d be caffeinated enough to fake confidence. Or maybe I should do the much more productive thing and continue to obsess over my ignored friend request from afar.

  “But no worries, as your mentor I’m here for all your needs. I can totally see you and Win together—he just can’t have any idea that I approve of you two.”

  “What?” I blinked at the plot twist. “Is this because he’s ‘antisibling rivalry’ or whatever that means?”

  “He’s not anti it in that he doesn’t experience it—more that if Win thinks he and I are going to compete or be compared, he nopes out or gets defensive. Win’s . . . complicated.” Curtis resumed stacking cups and avoided my gaze.

  Complicated, out of my league, and unwilling to friend me? “Let’s just forget the whole thing.”

  “No.” Curtis unearthed my sneakers and tossed them to me. “This is happening. Just know I’m going to pretend to disapprove.”

  I threw a shoe back at him in exasperation. “This is officially the worst pep talk ever.”

  He laughed and unhooked a sweatshirt from my closet door. “Like you really needed one.”