Get a Clue

by Tiffany Schmidt

  “So why are you stupid? Or you’re describing Win, right? I warned you.” Curtis raised his hands. “Remember, I’m Swisser than cheese.”

  The front door opened before I had a chance to lash out with angry words that likely would’ve cost me my Knight Light. “What are you guys talking about?” There was a defensive edge to Win’s question, but based on what Curtis had just said, it was merited.

  “How Huck is stupid, apparently.”

  That statement had never felt more accurate. “I was just—” I stepped sideways, like I could dodge my emotions by putting space between myself and both Cavendish brothers. It didn’t work. I nodded at Curtis. “He’s right, I was stupid.”

  “Because you bolted when I tried to kiss you? I’m not going to disagree with you on that one, Dimples.” The laughter in Win’s voice wasn’t mocking, and I dared to lift my chin. His eyes were full of amusement, mine brimming with regret.

  I would’ve forgotten we weren’t alone, except Curtis singsonged “sitting in a tree” as he slipped by his brother and into the house.

  Win shrugged. “So what now? I’ve been pretty obvious I like you. I’m less clear about how you feel about me.”

  “Seriously?” I felt like I couldn’t be more obvious, and obviously inexperienced, if I carried around a neon sign that read “Winston Fanboi”—spelled with an i for maximum patheticness.

  “Well, you did just vault the couch to escape kissing me.”

  “Yeah, but—” Which of my many humiliations did I offer up as proof? Now was probably not the time to bring up how I’d upset him by calling him a puzzle or accused him of being careless with his phone. “I’m not good at this,” I mumbled.

  “Answering questions?” One side of his mouth twitched, but he cut off the smile by biting his cheek. “Because you still haven’t.”

  “Do I like you?” I rubbed the back of my neck. “Yeah, because who likes tall, dark, and snarky? No one ever. Must stink to be you.”

  He laughed again. “I’m going to assume that’s a yes. Also, you’re taller and you’ve got these—” He reached out like he might touch one of the divots bracketing my smile but pulled back. “Between the cheekbones and the dimples and the way you pout when you’re thinking—which is always—cameras must just hate you.”

  The next move had to be mine—but the thought of intermingling our personal space made my heart race in contradictory ways. He was amazing and I was . . . a lot. Did he know me well enough to know what he’d be getting into?

  Because unlike his phone, I had no protective case. What happened if he dropped me?

  “Can I . . .” I ground out the words slowly, like I was testing their stability.

  “Get your number?” he prompted. “Yes.”

  Well, sure, I wanted that too. But also more time for my head and heart and body to sync. I had all these facts, all these observations. Sherlock would scoff at my inability to add it all up. But this wasn’t a place for subtlety or interpretation. This was a place for blunt honesty and no chance for misunderstanding. I took a deep breath.

  “Winston Cavendish, I like you. Will you go out with me? On a date?”

  6

  I had a new shirt from Mom hanging in my closet. I had two tickets to a movie Dad helped pick on my desk. I had a hundred strategy texts with Rory on my phone.

  I have a date with Winston Cavendish.

  I held on to this thought as I headed down Hero High’s long driveway on the Monday morning after spring break. Dad had dropped me at the curb, which meant I had a quarter-mile walk to convince myself not to turn around.

  And a good reason not to was that I had a date with Win Cavendish on Wednesday. If I got caught skipping school I’d be grounded. If I got grounded I couldn’t go on my date. With Win. This Wednesday.

  It was the only night Showe Time Theatre—the local artsy place that took itself as seriously as the e-ending name implied—was showing Dead Poets Society. I’d never seen it, but Dad promised it was perfect, and Win’s text about it had said You pick this time. I’ll get next.

  Next.

  I clutched those four letters like a shield as I approached the main campus—where Clara was standing in front of the science building surrounded by friends. Their expressions were a variety pack of sympathy: pinched eyebrows, creased foreheads, and voices high and whispery, like someone had died.

  Clara’s hair was straight—even though it should be Monday curls. She had her chin up and her shoulders back, and she was shrugging off the eager squeezes of her entourage. “Thanks, but—I have to go talk to Lynnie.”

  She dodged out of the group, and I watched her exhale before dashing across the quad to catch her brother Penn’s girlfriend.

  All those enthusiastically sympathetic girls were left without a focus, and it took only a second for them to find a new one: me. They pounced with collective rage.

  “I can’t believe—”

  “Do you even know—”

  “How could you—”

  None of them were wrong.

  Last night I’d lain in bed and texted Win. Not about anything flirty or fun—about this. I need to apologize in person. Her humiliation was public, should my apology be too?

  I owed her the chance to say whatever she wanted, however she wanted. And I had to accept it and listen without defending myself. Even if the whole school turned against me, it was less than a fraction of the attention she’d received.

  I don’t want her to hate me—I know that’s not my choice. But still . . .

  It had been a lot of vulnerability for eleven p.m. and pre–first date. I’d twisted in my flannel sheets as I waited for his response to light up my screen.

  I get your urge to give her a chance to “get back at you” or whatever. But I’d do it privately so it doesn’t look performative.

  It had been the perfect advice. And “performative” was the perfect word for the chorus of sympathy groupies who were trying to outdo one another with their indignation.

  “How can you show your face here?” asked Mira. “I mean, after you showed hers to the whole world?”

  There was one person in the group not nodding or chiming in. Rory detached from the others and came to my side. “It’s almost time for art,” she said, leading the way to our lockers and first class.

  She filled the trip with anecdotes about Merri’s decorating disasters: Eliza returning to all her clothes piled on the floor because the glue Merri had used to stick wallpaper to the inside of her drawers wouldn’t dry. I smiled, but it wasn’t because of the story; it was because of this toothpick of a girl who was attempting to act as my bodyguard.

  “Hey,” I said as we set up our easels in our favorite corner of Mrs. Mundhenk’s studio. “Thank you.”

  She held up her wrist, showing off a lumpy lime-green, red, and electric-blue friendship bracelet. I’d promised it to her the first time we met, right after I awkwardly, half-jokingly asked her to be my best friend. I’d known immediately that we could be—it had been a moment’s observation to deduce our personalities, talents, and interests were compatible. By the time I’d actually figured out how to make the thing—and I was never admitting the number of iLive videos I’d watched or the wad of tangled rejects on the floor of my closet—it was true. “I seem to remember a certain someone who’s had my back every day in this room.”

  She snapped a piece of paper to her easel and picked up her pencil. This was the Rory version of saying enough sappiness, so I took her cue and turned to my own drawing. Luckily I no longer had to divide my attention between my art and safeguarding hers. We were the only two freshmen in Advanced Art, and I was good—great at pottery—but Rory was a once-in-a-lifetime talent. That hadn’t gone over well with the upperclassmen. Especially back in the fall when there’d been a fellowship with Andrea Snipes on the line.

  By now the class had calmed down. Rory and I even hung out with Byron de Grance, the junior whose twin sister, Lynnie, was dating Clara’s older brother. Which,
based on loyalty priorities, meant he probably hated me now too.

  But I had a date with Winston Cavendish.

  I’d looked up all the restaurants within three blocks of the theater. We could do Italian. Except, garlic breath. Based on past patterns, the Chinese place rarely had a wait on Wednesday nights, but it was noisy. Pizza My Heart had better seating, but the name might be too much. Pho Sure was an option, but service was slow. I might need to adjust our timeline . . .

  I wanted Win here, now. Holding my hand. Which was both premature and selfish, but man, I hoped he got into Hero High so that on some future day he could.

  “What are you thinking about so hard over there?” asked Rory.

  Her eyes were on my paper, where I’d added so much shading to a drawing of a mug that the cup was indistinguishable from the coffee inside. I sighed and picked up my eraser. “This drawing is just like my mood and my coffee: black.” It was meant to be a joke. Glib was what I did. Normally it was easy, because normally I could see through problems to their solutions. But I didn’t see a solution to getting Clara off the internet.

  Rory confiscated my eraser and smirked at the hole I’d worn through my paper. “I think you’re experiencing what we mere mortals call ‘stress.’ ”

  “I don’t like it.” English class was next and probably my best chance to apologize . . . especially if I could get Rory to run interference. “Hey, I need your help.”

  Rory was as private as Merri was public. If Merri could’ve drawn even passable stick figures, she would’ve handed out sketches like party favors, but Rory turned red and closed her notebook if anyone even glanced at the margin doodles on her class notes.

  So the fact that she’d gathered Ms. Gregoire and the bulk of our English classmates around her desk and was talking book covers and showing them sketches—that was better than any friendship bracelet.

  It gave me the perfect chance to poach Clara from the edge of the group with a soft “Hey.”

  “Hi.” She lifted a bare-nailed hand to her hair, but there weren’t curls to twirl.

  Ms. Gregoire was praising something in Rory’s drawing, but her eyes were on me. She gave a nod. I took a deep breath. “I don’t know if you got my emails—”

  “I did.” Clara’s cheekbones looked sharper—either she’d lost weight or was biting the inside of her cheeks.

  “I really am sorry. I didn’t mean for it—”

  “I know.” She retreated to her desk. It was a conversational red light. I read and respected her signal.

  Ms. Gregoire clapped her hands. “Thanks for sharing, Rory. I think everyone in here benefits from a good reminder that what we see on a cover so rarely reflects the internal story.”

  As my classmates shuffled to their desks, she added, “Before we begin, I have a schedule change from the office. Next period you’ll be having a Knight Lights meeting.”

  I doubted anyone heard the assignment she gave afterward. They were all too busy staring at Clara, at me. Next period—third period—was usually science.

  Did Clara think avoiding that classroom and our new teacher was a reprieve, or, like me, just a prolonged purgatory?

  I could’ve deduced this from a glance, but I refused to add mine to the eyes already on her.

  Knight Lights meetings were held in a big open room above the cafeteria. It had chalkboard paint and all sorts of eclectic seating—floor cushions and foam cubes, tall stools and low chairs. Exposed Edison bulbs. Framed vintage pictures of graduating classes. It looked like there should be baristas with names like Kale and Vortex who made unbelievable foam art to go on top of the world’s strongest lattes. Actually, I could’ve done without Kale and Vortex; it was the caffeine I really wanted as I approached the group around my mentor.

  Rory and Toby were curled up in a giant wingback chair. Sera and Hannah shared a beanbag, flanked by their adoptees, Merri and Eliza. Dante was checking his phone, while his mentor, Lance, was digging through his backpack. When I reached them, Curtis pushed a stool toward me with his foot, then stood up from his own and held out his hands like he was about to give a sermon.

  “Now that Huck’s here, I want to say something. This room, this area right here: it’s a safe space, a shun-free zone where we don’t beat people up over their mistakes—no matter how much they deserve it.”

  Whether or not I deserved it, I’d gladly take his offer. Wren had approached me in the hall on the walk over—and they’d been right to do so. I didn’t know them—other than that they were a senior and editor on the yearbook—but they told me they’d been hurt by my “exclusionary binary-gender analysis.” I hadn’t had an answer beyond listening and acknowledging their pain. I’d offered an apology and a promise to do better and gained a new reason to self-recriminate, a new group of people I’d accidentally injured.

  “I won’t tolerate anyone picking on my adoptee. Got it?” Curtis had clearly failed the part of kindergarten where you learn “indoor voice,” but the rest of the room was oblivious, busy creating its own noisy chaos.

  But when I scanned the crowd, I spotted Clara. She was tucked by the back wall, on a chair beside her mentor. Sitting on her hands. It was a thing she did now. And she hadn’t volunteered all English class. I swallowed past an itch in my throat and turned to my group.

  The Campbell girls were nodding. Eliza shrugged indifferently. Dante had an eyebrow cocked. “Milverton’s a waste of mucus. I’m glad you busted him.” He was looking at Clara too—only the Clara he was looking at was an iLive post on his cell. “This meme’s a sick takedown of Hero High.”

  Lance swiped the phone. “C’mon. It’s not like we haven’t all done something stupid for a girl before. Hannah, you dyed your bangs green because it’s Sera’s favorite color. The red is way better. Toby’s gone maestro for Rory. Curtis practically ate peanuts for Eliza. Who here hasn’t done something like this? I . . .” Lance faltered. “Never mind what I did. My point is, we’ve all messed up.”

  “To clarify,” said Curtis. “I didn’t eat peanuts for Eliza. That was an accident.”

  “One you won’t repeat,” she commanded. “Let’s be clear, there’s not a single instance where anaphylaxis is romantic.”

  “I want to hear about this hair thing,” said Sera. Her soft voice was the opposite of Curtis’s; anyone more than six inches away had to strain to hear her. She turned to her girlfriend. “The green was for me?”

  Amid the laughter and teasing, the red had faded from Lance’s cheeks. His skin was as fair as Dante’s was dark, and he didn’t so much blush as splotch. He was a good guy; a heck of a lacrosse player and Curtis’s best friend. If I were still meddling, I would’ve figured out the recipient of his mystery crush. I would’ve started finding ways to make their paths cross and talk him up.

  Instead I did the mental version of Clara’s sitting on hands. I shoved the idea to the corner of my mind. He hadn’t asked for help. Not my place to interfere.

  “I didn’t do it for a girl.” They were all talking, but if what Lance said about me was what they thought, I would need to correct that now. I spoke louder. “It wasn’t about impressing Clara.”

  My back was to the front of the room. I didn’t see Mr. Welch walk in, so as everyone else fell quiet, I raised my voice even more. “I definitely don’t like Clara.”

  Maybe at some point I’d become accustomed to so many pairs of angry eyes, but not today. And my tall stool made me an easy target for the collective glares of the freshman and sophomore classes.

  Curtis clapped a hand on my shoulder. “Phew. Because I really don’t want to have that conversation with my brother.” And maybe there would’ve been more laughter or whispers, but he pivoted toward the podium and boomed out, “Hey, Mr. Welch, what are we up to today?”

  The soft-spoken media teacher jumped into an explanation. “You’ll be working in groups to propose new ideas for the school’s spirit days. We’ll vote at the end of the period, so get started.”

  Eliza pulled out a noteb
ook. “I’m all for options besides ‘dress-down day.’ ”

  “Anyone else not shocked that Eliza has a problem with casual?” Toby teased. Though “casual” and “dress-down” were relative terms. One Friday a month we were allowed to wear the Hero High sweatshirts with our last names on the back that we’d received with our admissions letters—but they still had to be paired with pants or a skirt that fit the uniform dress code.

  “My problem,” Eliza clarified, “is with the patriarchal and heterocentric tradition of girls wearing their boyfriends’ sweatshirts. It’s antiquated and sexist: a girl wearing a guy’s name to prove she’s his . . . his property? And if that’s not what that indicates, why don’t guys ever wear girls’ sweatshirts?”

  “I hear you,” Curtis said. “But, Firebug, your sweatshirt would be a crop top on me.”

  “So? Yours would be a poncho on me.” She raised an eyebrow. “This tradition was never about making a fashion statement.”

  Curtis paused. “That’s—that’s a good point.”

  “Do you ever wear each other’s? I’ve never noticed,” Merri asked Sera and Hannah.

  They shook their heads. Though, to be fair, Sera didn’t participate in dress-down day. Neither did her brother, Fielding. I wondered if being the children of the headmaster meant they weren’t allowed to go casual.

  I opened my mouth to ask, then glanced at Clara, still sitting on her hands. Never mind. I was done meddling.

  “See? Problematic.” Eliza waved a finger at Curtis.

  He caught her hand and kissed the fingertip. “Fine. Bring me your sweatshirt on the next dress-down day. I’ll prove I can rock a crop top while bucking the patriarchy.”

  Eliza smiled. “That’s all I ask.”

  My eyes shifted from them to Sera and Hannah, to lovelorn Lance, to Clara. I chewed my lip and stayed silent.

  7

  Monday night I texted Win: Can I call? Because I didn’t have the patience to correct autocorrect, and I wanted more clues than my screen provided: tone of voice, pauses, inflection.