Get a Clue

by Tiffany Schmidt

  I blinked. I did. And I couldn’t understand why Curtis and Rory didn’t get that. How did everyone else make the transition from impossible crushes to possible kisses?

  “But I’m putting this out there: if you and Win hit it off, I want all the credit. And if you go Chernobyl, then I’m Switzerland and you don’t blame me. I’m not down for hostile Knight Lights meetings or lacrosse games. Sound good?”

  I shrugged. It sounded . . . overwhelming.

  “Now, come on, mole person. Let’s go play catch.”

  Curtis marched me around the back of his brick ranch, pausing only to collect a ball and two gloves from the garage. I shuffled my sneakers in the snow and looked around the small, fenced-in yard.

  “You know the saying ‘keep your eyes on the ball’?” Curtis threw as he said this, and I let the ball plop in the snow so I could keep my eyes on him. Because, yes, I’d heard that, but my parents had always emphasized “Look at someone when they’re talking to you.”

  I tossed the ball back and he added, “That’s the whole secret. ‘Eye on the ball’ and you’re golden.”

  “It’s hard to see the ball when it’s the same color as the snow.” I made an attempt to reach his next throw, but between sun glare and slush shoes, it sailed past me.

  “Also hard when you have absolutely no desire to play catch,” Curtis said with a grin.

  “Am I that obvious?” I kicked at the snow until I found the ball. “It’s not my sport. Too much standing around. I need the constant movement of lacrosse or skiing.”

  “How do you feel about swimming?”

  “Most public pools are virus-ridden cesspools.” It was an evasion, not an answer. “If you can smell chlorine—run. A clean pool is odorless. The chemical smell comes from the chlorine reacting with human waste and—”

  “Now that’s a fun topic,” said Curtis. “Please make that your pickup line for Win. And let me watch—I want to see how it goes over.”

  My stomach tightened. Should I be planning pickup lines? Not that one, obviously.

  “How about running?” Curtis pulled off his glove and I gladly copied. “I’m doing a half-marathon, and my training partner abandoned me for the South Pole.”

  That’d be Eliza. Curtis’s girlfriend looked like a cover model and studied like she planned to follow in her parents’ Nobel Prize footsteps. She and Curtis had covertly flirted with each other for weeks before they’d owned up to dating. I didn’t understand how everyone else hadn’t noticed, but there’d been no misreading Eliza’s discomfort the one time I’d brought it up. Thankfully they’d made everything public and official before she’d headed to Antarctica for an extended spring break measuring ice caps or something.

  “I don’t hate running,” I said.

  “Good. I’ll let you off the hook for baseball if you do my long run with me this weekend. Now let’s go in the house, my feet are freezing.”

  An hour of video games later I had my jacket on and was tying my sneakers when the front door opened. The twins entered in a jumble of conversation and coats.

  Win froze when our eyes met. I did too. Was it possible to take my coat back off in any suave manner? To find an excuse to stay? To ever say “Hey” to him without sounding like I was holding in a sneeze?

  “Hey,” he echoed, still holding my gaze.

  Curtis leaned over the couch. “How was school? Did you play nicely with others?”

  Win raised an eyebrow. Man, he had good eyebrows—eyelashes too, the kind that announced all his emotions in bold font. But it was his eyebrows that killed me. They excelled at two modes: confident and vulnerable. Right now those arches were set to stun. “Play nice? Never.”

  “You don’t know how good you have it with your fancy spring break.” Wink collapsed dramatically on the love seat in a ball of pink down and faux fur.

  Curtis stretched out across the couch, tucking his hands behind his head. “My classes are just that much harder than yours—we private-school folk need a week to recover from our arduous studies.”

  Wink laughed, but Win’s jaw tightened. “Remind me of that part where your media teacher lets you watch manga and your French teacher has ‘pastry Fridays’?”

  Curtis grinned. “Don’t forget Knight Lights’ sledding day, mentor-mentee baked goods, and the time Dr. Badawi let us re-create melting videos from iLive.” Win yanked the throw pillow from beneath Curtis, but he laughed as his head landed on the couch cushion. “All this could be yours too, if you aced that interview last week.”

  It was like all the good humor and oxygen evaporated from the room. Wink stood, Win stiffened, and Curtis looked chagrined.

  It had gone so quiet that the tzzzzh of my jacket zipper sounded obscene. “I’m, uh, going to go.”

  “We’re not going to fight; you don’t have to leave.” I thought Win was talking to me, but he’d turned to his sister, who’d been slinking toward the hallway. “In fact, I’m leaving.”

  Now he faced me, his eyes still blazing with a heavy emotion I couldn’t name yet. “You headed home? I need to go that way; I’ll walk with you.”

  I shoved my hands into my pockets, squeezing them into yes fists. “Sure. That’d be cool.” I breathed a silent prayer to the gods of attention spans and self-absorbedness that I was the only one who noticed Win hadn’t said where he was going, and I hadn’t told him where I lived.

  “Ugh, make your own friends, Win.” Curtis’s faux-disapproval voice was passable, but I couldn’t look at him, because I doubted his poker face was. “Are we on for a run this weekend, Huckleberry?”

  “Sure.” But before the brothers could get contentious again, I bolted out the door.

  “Is Curtis recruiting you for the race too?” Win asked once we’d reached the sidewalk and I’d turned left toward my house. I’d tried to do it smoothly, pretending not to notice he had paused to let me navigate.

  “Nah, I’m a training stand-in while Eliza’s gone.”

  “Maybe he’ll get some actual training done then. I swear he and Eliza just make out in the woods.”

  “Oh.” My cheeks heated and I had all the mental pictures—but not of Eliza and Curtis. Of me and the other Cavendish boy. “Yeah, we won’t be doing that.”

  “Eliza’s cool though,” said Win. “I don’t know what she’s doing with my brother.”

  Curtis’s rivalry insights helped, but I hadn’t fully decoded the animosity between them. It was constant, and if you took it at face value, brutal. And yet, it rang hollow. Like a rote script they were both stuck delivering. Back when my brother lived at home, Miles and I had argued. But when we were mad, we were mad. The interactions I’d witnessed between the Cavendish brothers were like cayenne on a cupcake: they looked spicy, but underneath, they were sweet. Win and Curtis truly liked and loved each other—so why did they constantly pretend they didn’t?

  Win coughed and I realized I’d been quiet too long.

  “What’s Wink’s full name?” I blurted. “I’ve been trying to figure it out and I keep forgetting to ask. Wilhelmina? Or something Egyptian I’m never going to guess?”

  He laughed. I wanted to do a victory dance for having caused it. Instead I looked away so he couldn’t see my expression go heart-eyed emoji. “Lincoln. Wink’s a Curtis-ism.”

  “Ah. That makes sense.” Curtis’s nicknames were infamous. But I was finally alone with Win, so we needed to stop talking about his brother. I took a deep breath. “So there’s a thing I do. I call it ‘The Question Game’—but there’s no points or winners or anything. Basically it’s that I’m awful at get-to-know-you small talk, and . . .”

  I scrunched my hands in my pockets and wondered if I was failing at pickup lines or simply doing them my own way. I glanced sideways to see how he’d reacted. Win was giving me an expectant look, one I knew too well and that Miles accompanied with a flick to my forehead while saying, “Pay attention.”

  “Sorry, could you repeat that?” I asked.

  Win shrugged. “I sa
id, ‘Small talk is the worst.’ How do you play?”

  I unclenched my hands and exhaled. I couldn’t have done another block of unstructured stress-walking, trying to flirt while making sure I didn’t get lost in my thoughts or get us lost. “We take turns asking questions and answering. You can ask anything. Like, ‘favorite drink?’ ”

  “Cranberry juice.”

  Tart and sweet, like him. “Black coffee.” Eh, did that mean I was bitter? “Now it’s your turn.”

  A tiny crinkle appeared over his left eyebrow as he mused. “Favorite reality show?”

  “Okay, I watch this with my parents—and before you laugh, it’s fascinating as a way of analyzing body language and motives.” Dad and I always competed with predictions; Mom watched it for the dresses. “The Bachelor.”

  He recoiled. “That’s my least favorite.” This didn’t shock me. I’d already deduced he’d hate televised rejection. I knew his answer wouldn’t involve competition even before he said, “I’m digging Tidying Up with Marie Kondo. But fair warning, I’m a slob.”

  I would not picture his bedroom. I would not picture him in his bedroom. While I was focused on not doing these things, I skidded on an icy patch and Win’s arm shot out to grasp mine.

  Technically his touch steadied me, but I felt even more off-kilter. My voice cracked when I said, “Okay, my question . . .”

  Sometime between “favorite animal?” (his guinea pig, Hudson, and for me, otters) and “favorite season?” (summer for both of us), our footsteps had changed. They were slower, looser. Closer.

  “If I could travel anywhere I’d—” I looked over my shoulder to where Win had lagged. He was bent over a snowbank, fishing something out. A fuzzy purple mitten. So small the whole thing would’ve fit one of his thumbs. He shook it off, then carefully arranged it on a black spire of the closest yard’s fence.

  And I couldn’t help but grin.

  He looked up and caught me, caught up to me. “What?”

  I shook my head, but my grin had only grown.

  “No, seriously,” he said. “What?” But he was grinning too as he nudged my shoulder with his.

  I didn’t know what that meant; I only knew what I wanted it to. I wished I was brave enough to reach out and take his hand, the one that could’ve fit that mitten in its palm. The one that wanted to make sure someone’s tiny fingers weren’t cold.

  My hand wasn’t. Was his?

  I searched for words—a way to combine them that was clever, but not a “dad joke” like Rory teased me about. Less corny, more flirty. I’ll be your mitten. Or I got your hand-warmer right here. “Smitten” rhymed with “mitten”—was there anything there?

  I winced. Yeah. No. I was so grateful telepathy wasn’t real and that this humiliation was only happening inside my head. And maybe—just maybe—that meant I should stop sniffing him. I doubted I was as subtle as I was trying to be. He smelled like spicy dude deodorant, but there was something else too, something sharp and chemical. And layered over both of those were whatever pheromones made me want to keep leaning in and taking lungfuls.

  “Do you have a cold?” he asked. “I might have a tissue.”

  So, yeah, that was a no on subtlety. I cringed and mumbled, “I live on this next street.” Though I was tempted to find some longer way home so we could keep walking.

  He nodded. “Finish your answer. Where’s your dream vacation?”

  “Iceland. Or maybe Australia, but I don’t know about the whole spider thing.”

  Win laughed. “I’ll come and squash them for you.”

  “Would you? At least the poisonous ones.” We were almost at my driveway. Should I attempt a front-door maneuver? What would that even look like? Why hadn’t I drawn a schematic of my front porch and ever diagrammed out this possibility? Though if the free fall panic in my stomach was any indication, I was in no way ready. I could invite him—

  “Huck!” I turned toward the voice. Merri, the adorable and effervescent middle Campbell sister, was standing next to Rory on my front porch.

  “Hey,” I said. “What are you doing here?”

  “We came to do a welfare check. Rory said you were hermitting.”

  “But clearly you’re fine and we’ll go now.” Rory flashed me apologetic eyes as she tugged Merri’s sleeve.

  Her sister ignored her and beamed at the guy beside me. “You’re Curtis’s brother, right? I hear you might be transferring to Hero High. Fingers crossed!”

  Win looked like a deer in headlights.

  Merri could be . . . a lot. As demonstrated by the fact that she bounced through the snow to offer him a hug before he’d even answered. He stepped back and thrust out a hand instead. “I’m Win.”

  “Win? That’s so cute. And you’re with Huck—who should really be named Hunk, am I right?”

  I prayed to the gods of civil engineering and city planning that some undiscovered sinkhole would open beneath my front walk and swallow me whole.

  Rory yanked her sister backward by the hood of her coat. “I swear we’re not related. And I’m forever sorry for bringing her along.”

  “No, it’s okay.” Win’s serious expression cracked into a smirk. “Normally I reject anyone that enthusiastic out of principle, but this time I have to make an exception and agree.”

  Merri opened her mouth, but I threw up both hands like a highly stressed crossing guard. “Everyone freeze.” Shocking me, they did. “Campbells, I’m fine. Win, thanks for walking me home—I mean, keeping me company on your way to . . .”

  He grinned. “I was walking you home.”

  “Good. I was hoping.” My hands were still up, but now the corners of my mouth were too. “I’m going to leave right now, before anyone says anything else. Because that’s the perfect ending. So everyone shut your mouths until I’m through the door.” I pointed to it with one hand while making a shush sign with the other.

  Once on the other side, I slid to the floor and grinned against my knees while raining celebratory fists against the foyer rug.

  Win thought I was a hunk.

  5

  Rory showed up the next day with a Cool Beans latte and an apology for Merri’s behavior. I waved it off—“Did you miss the part where Win agreed I’m a hunk?”—but downed half the latte before we’d made it to my room.

  She looked around and whistled. “I’m getting serial-killer vibes. Or college student before finals. Maybe I should take that cup—clearly you don’t need more caffeine.”

  “Don’t you dare.” I held it out of reach. “Things got messy. Want to help me clean up?”

  “I’ll supervise. I haven’t had all the shots required to handle this without a hazmat suit.” She sat on the end of my bed as I loaded my arms with old coffees. I would’ve needed to do this today anyway. Mom had been making suspicious comments about our missing mugs. It took three trips to the kitchen. Then I washed my hands, because Rory was right, there was something funky growing in some cups.

  “Done.”

  She looked up from her phone and gave a pointed look at my laundry pile but didn’t say anything.

  “What’s up?” Because if she’d wanted to apologize, she could’ve texted; if this was a hangout visit, she wouldn’t be so quiet.

  “So, Huck.” She was sitting on the bed like a kid waiting for the flu shot. I braced myself. “Remember when we had that conversation about me and Toby—how people aren’t projects?”

  I nodded. Of course that was before I got her and Toby together, so . . .

  “Clara said she didn’t want your help with Milverton.”

  “But—”

  “You should’ve respected that.”

  I scratched at coffee stains on my desk. “It was an accident. And I didn’t do it just for her. She’s not the only girl in his classes.”

  “But she is the only one in the gif.” Rory sighed. “And the one who’s gone into spring-break hiding.”

  “I’m going to fix it,” I said. “This Larken thing is a setback, but—�
��

  “Maybe you should let it go. Accept that you can’t.”

  I lowered my head. “I don’t know how to do that.”

  “Then you need to start your reading assignment from Ms. Gregoire.” While I’d been making trips downstairs, Rory had unearthed the massive book with the black cover. She hefted it toward me, and even though I hadn’t caught a single pass from Curtis yesterday, and even though I wasn’t expecting her to throw a book at me, it settled gently in my hands. “We never finished our conversation about her, and I’m still trying to figure out why she assigned you this book, but I trust the process. You need to read it. You get that, right?”

  I looked down at the silhouette of a detective in his famous hat holding a magnifying glass. Ms. Gregoire’s agreement seemed to ring off the pages: she’d called this book “priority number one over break.” And while I wasn’t sure I bought into the whole woo-woo, supernatural reputation our teacher had, if it was this important to Rory, I’d play along.

  “Fine,” I said. “If it will make you happy, I’ll read it.”

  “Good!” Rory stood and patted my arm. “Start now.”

  I was supposed to meet Curtis for a nine o’clock run on Saturday, but it wasn’t until I tried sipping from an empty mug that I looked up from my book and saw that it was nine thirty-four. I shoved my feet into sneakers and figured the sprint from my house to his would count as a warm-up.

  It was Ms. Gregoire’s fault. And Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s. Since I’d opened The Complete Adventures of Sherlock Holmes three days and nineteen short stories ago, I’d dreamed of poison and bodies and treasure and Scotland Yard. It killed me to be putting distance between my eyes and the pages where orange “pips”—which I’d looked up; they were just seeds—were being used as a harbinger of death.

  For thirty seconds after I knocked on the Cavendishes’ door, it was silent, then footsteps and a lock and knob turning. The door opened to reveal Win with a glorious case of bed head and sleepy eyes. If I hadn’t already been bewitched by him, I would’ve lost the battle in that moment.

  “Oh. Hey.” He scrubbed a hand over his mouth to hide a yawn. Then stretched and revealed a sliver of stomach between his flannel pajama pants and rumpled T-shirt.