He answered immediately: Talk on the phone? For you, I guess. But you owe me.
I exhaled my relief and dialed. He answered with “How’d it go?”
“Not well. Do you think I should try again?” I was asking a lot of him, especially since Win and I hadn’t even started yet. We were in the prologue of whatever our story would be. But I was certain he wouldn’t mind. If anything, he’d be flattered I was trusting him, because based on my observations, his family didn’t.
Which was stupid on their part, because he gave empathetic advice. But first, he paused. Normally I hated “downtime” or “think time” or whatever it was called now, but since I didn’t have an answer for this question, I appreciated him being thoughtful as he constructed his.
“I think you try one more time. If she doesn’t want to hear you, you respect that and let it go. Otherwise you’re making the apology for you, not her.”
“You’re right.” His words had been slow, but my response was immediate.
He snorted. “I should record that and make it my ring-tone. But no one would believe it’d been said about me.” He was trying to sound like he was joking, but his voice was tight, the chuckle forced. If he were here—and man, I wished he were—he’d have the pinched line above his eye.
“Thanks.” I shoved as much sincerity as I could into the word. “This helped.”
I could hear the smile when he said, “I’ll see you Wednesday.”
It rivaled mine when I answered, “It’s a date.”
In the meantime, I was looking for my chance to get Clara alone and try again.
It was harder than it should’ve been. Tuesday was a dud. The only positive being our new science teacher, Mrs. Vogelsang. She had a masters in biochem, a background in pharmaceuticals, and a smile for every student when she greeted us at the classroom door or called on us—equally—during class.
Wednesday. Date day! I woke up hopeful and determined. Clara and I had two classes together before lunch, but her friends were still acting like bodyguards—oblivious to her posture, the flickers in her smile, or the dozen other signals she was giving off that screamed Back up. I need space.
Somehow she managed to escape them during lunch. I saw her slip down the dead-end hallway with the water-bottle-filling fountain and followed, only to second-guess. Was it selfish to steal her hard-won private moment and force an apology on her? Win was right: the only person who’d feel better if I intruded was me.
I lurched to a halt, my shoe squeaking on the tile floor.
Her head jerked up. “Huck?”
“Hey. I don’t want to bother you. It seems like everyone’s bothering you.”
She shrugged but didn’t deny it.
“I want you to know how sorry I am. If I could take this back, I would. And if you want, like, horrible photos of me, or to tell me off—”
“I don’t.”
“Clara, I just want to fix this.”
She looked down at the floor. “But you can’t.”
“There you are!” We both turned to see Mira and Elinor charging down the hallway. “What are you doing, Huck? Haven’t you done enough?”
Clara squared her shoulders. Anyone who underestimated this girl was a fool. That included every one of her friends who thought she needed or wanted to be coddled. “You have to leave Huck alone. I’ve forgiven him, which means there’s no excuse for anyone else.”
Elinor simpered an insincere “Of course. Anything you want.” Mira stayed silent.
Clara met my gaze and nodded. She’d heard me, and I’d heard what she didn’t say: Give me space.
Normally my mind worked in plans. Figuring an end goal, then reverse engineering the steps to achieve it. I looked at a lump of clay and saw a tall, graceful vase. I’d met a stranger in art class and saw a future friend. I’d observed Rory and Toby in an auditorium six months ago and known that with the right prodding they’d be the mega couple who inspired the most #relationshipgoal posts on iLive’s Hero High freshman forum.
I thought I’d feel better after apologizing. I didn’t. Nothing had changed. Clara had to live with what I’d done. I had to live with the knowledge that I couldn’t fix it.
Ms. Gregoire stopped me during my race to be the first one out of Convocation—Hero High’s daily end-of-the-day whole school assembly. “Huck, come by my room. I want to check in about your video.”
I stifled a groan. I was supposed to be heading home so I could change and have a predate strategy session with Rory. I needed to finalize my restaurant decision, and she was pushing hard for something called a “lip mask.” But Ms. Gregoire was doing me a favor with the project, so I nodded and knocked on her door after stopping at my locker.
“I’m sorry,” I told her. “I’m not sure how productive this meeting will be. I haven’t come up with an idea yet.”
She shrugged. “Grab a seat and let’s brainstorm.”
There was a reason English was my favorite class—and it was the teacher, not the material. When she taught, she moved around the room, engaged us all. Rory called her “dramatic,” and she wasn’t wrong. But whatever label you pinned on Ms. Gregoire, she made it easier to focus. I’d never gotten in trouble in here or had to borrow someone’s notes because I’d gotten so lost in my head that I missed a discussion.
So it killed me to have to tell her, “I can’t.”
“Oh?”
I rocked back on my heels and blurted out the words I’d been mentally replaying all week. “I have a date.”
“Really?” She laughed in delight. “That’s a good excuse. Do I know them?” She held up a hand. “To be clear, you do not have to tell me. I’m just being nosy.”
I wasn’t offended. Ms. Gregoire’s connection with the student body bordered on supernatural. It was the sort of thing I would’ve laughed at, until I realized how seriously those involved took it. And I hadn’t really understood the whispers around campus about Ms. Gregoire being magic until Rory explained. Like she had told me, it was all about books. Rory, Merri, even do-you-have-a-citation-for-that Eliza all attributed their relationships to novels our teacher had assigned them.
Which had made me nervous about Sherlock Holmes—except now that I was a few hundred pages into the collection, it was clearly not romantic. And hopefully her meddling was unnecessary, since I’d already bumbled into a date.
But just in case there was any truth to the rumors, I said, “Winston Cavendish.” Superstitious or super-stupid, it couldn’t hurt to get her endorsement.
“Winston Cavendish? Why do I know that name?” She tapped her lip. “Oh, wait! From admissions committee. He’s on the list of transfer applicants we’ll discuss at next week’s meeting.”
“Next week?” She was on the admissions committee?
“Yes, but no decisions are final or official until the end of the month.”
Logically I knew his fate wasn’t up to her, that she was just one person on the committee. But I wished I could unlearn this. If I stayed in this classroom another thirty seconds, I was going to start begging for “unofficial” decisions or ask if she took bribes.
I pulled out my phone to check the time and make my excuse. Then stared at the screen. The text message had been sent hours ago. It’d been waiting like a land mine for me to click so it could detonate. I sank into a chair. “I guess I have time to work on the project after all.”
“Oh?” She sat at the desk next to mine. “Everything okay?”
“He canceled.” I was no stranger to oversharing, but normally I did it with a smile and carefully curated truths slipped into jokes. Now I was serving up rejection on a bare plate, too disappointed to add any garnish.
I’d thought Win liked me. No. I knew he did.
I had a mental list of proof. We’d texted and talked, and tonight we were going to do more: dinner, take a walk, see a movie. Flirt, talk. Maybe coffee. Maybe a kiss. Who was I kidding? Definitely coffee. And I’d been equally hopeful for my first kiss.
Five
words had ruined it all: Can’t make it tonight. Sorry.
No mention of rescheduling. No rain check. No hint of why or what or how. I’d already read twenty-one Sherlock Holmes stories, but there was nothing here—no clues for me to figure out.
“Hmm.” Ms. Gregoire mused. I’d expected more sympathy. I mean, wasn’t that request clear in my self-pitying statement? The only reason for disclosing my pain was so she could do her love-guru-magic thing and make me feel better about it. This was a social construct established back when toddlers held up boo-boos for healing kisses. I was even wearing my best pathetic expression.
“Cavendish? Is he related to Curtis?” She tilted her head. “I wonder if this is connected to why he ran out of class early. I hope everything’s okay.”
Curtis had left early? I did a mental rewind of Convocation. Rory and Toby had sat in the back with me. Eight rows up had been Hannah-Sera-Fielding-Merri-Eliza-Lance. No Curtis.
Half my things fell from my unzipped backpack as I scooped it up. “I’ve got to go.”
“You’ll want to hang on to this.” Ms. Gregoire passed me a book I hadn’t realized was even in my bag—I thought I’d left it at home on my dresser. Sherlock Holmes’s black cover felt cold beneath my fingers, or maybe it was my hands that had gone icy.
I tucked it under my arm and shoved notebooks back into my bag. “You don’t know what happened?”
She shook her head. “Sometimes life is a lot like one of Sherlock’s mysteries—you get the problem at the beginning but don’t find out the answer until the last page.”
I froze. How often in the past three days had I mentally compared Win and me to a story? We’re in our prologue. This date’s our first chapter. She couldn’t know that.
“Think back to those elementary school book reports where everyone uses the same closing. It might be trite, but it’s actually good advice.” She tilted her head in an encouraging smile and singsonged, “If you want to know what happens, you have to read the book.”
8
It was a ten-minute walk to the Cavendishes’ house. I spent them second-guessing. Was Ms. Gregoire saying I should go home and read Sherlock or show up for a date that’d been canceled? Both? Neither?
The afternoon was gray. Not rainy, but something more than cloudy. It made the spires of the fence posts I was dragging my fingers over damp. This wasn’t the fence where Win had hung up the toddler mitten, but that memory made me close my fist and shove my hand into my pocket.
Can’t make it tonight.
It could be nothing. Homework. A migraine. A family commitment he forgot. Or maybe something good had happened—a surprise vacation or concert. He’d had to rush off and would fill me in later.
I wanted answers, and they were close—just up the walk and behind his front door. His parents’ car was in the driveway. The hood was still warm, so they’d come home early, not been here all day. Their presence escalated things—they would’ve had to cancel appointments and leave work—and that had me hesitating on their welcome mat.
I could hear voices through the door—raised, emotional, but not loud enough for me to learn anything. So, I knocked.
All noise hushed. The knob rotated and the door opened wide enough for Curtis to lean out. “Huckleberry, hey.” His smile was flat. “It’s not a good time, man. Let’s talk tomorrow.”
“I’m not here to see you.” I stuck my foot in the gap before he could close the door. I was tall, but he was taller—and not above bobbing and weaving to block my view as I tried to peer past him. “Is Win home?”
“Hi.” The voice that came from beyond Curtis was muted and stuffy. So there was my answer: Win was sick. I exhaled. No big deal. Not the drama I’d imagined. Who wants to go on a date when they’re snotty and congested? Good on him, keeping his germs to himself. We’d reschedule once he was feeling better. You probably needed to be able to breathe through your nose to kiss. “Curtis, let him in.”
After hesitating like he expected his brother to be overruled, Curtis stepped aside. Win was standing by the back of the couch with his chin tilted down, his head angled away. He shoved a crumpled tissue into his pocket. And sniffed. Both of which supported my cold theory. As did the reddened skin around his nose.
But it wasn’t germs or allergies. His eyes were red too, his lashes clumped, the skin around them splotchy.
“I sent you a text.” His voice was choked and his head still averted. My chest tightened. If he thought I hadn’t figured out he’d been crying—or that I’d judge him for it—then he didn’t know me that well.
I stepped past Curtis, not bothering to remove my boots—even though this was definitely a shoes-off house—and crossed to where he was studying the rug. I was standing so close to him. Too close for people who weren’t yet dating. But it still felt like canyons of distance to cross with hushed words and a soft hand to his upper arm. “Hey, what happened? Are you okay?”
Win inhaled sharply at my touch, his muscles rigid beneath my hand. Then they trembled and he melted toward me, like the last of his resolve was gone. He closed the half step between us and rested his forehead on my shoulder. My fingers tightened around his bicep, my other hand automatically coming up in a fierce grip on the back of his neck. My fear of being unwelcome dissolved in the shuttered breath he took against my skin, but in its place was gutting dread.
I tucked my chin against his shoulder, registering for the first time that there were other people in the room. Not just Curtis, but Wink—whose face was even splotchier than her twin’s—and Mr. and Mrs. Cavendish, who stood together by the kitchen island, their postures and expressions tight.
I’d abandoned any hint of a plan the second he’d reached for me. I didn’t know what was going on, but I knew no one else here was comforting Win. That was enough for me to narrow my eyes and brush aside any bashfulness at this embrace being so public.
Win took another steadying breath before pulling back. “I didn’t get in.”
“Get in?” I kept my eyes on his family, my hand on his arm, watching him from my periphery and trying to offer him as much privacy as I could while still being present.
“To Hero High.” Curtis looked guilty. Maybe he was remembering all his jokes about our school’s superiority? They’d just gotten a whole lot less funny. But I’d have to come back to that because Win’s dad was clearing his throat.
“We appreciate you stopping by, but another day would be better. We need some time to process this news as a family.”
I frowned, facts connecting in my mind. “That can’t be true.”
“And yet, it is.” His mom had to stretch to put an arm around Win’s shoulder. And maybe there was supposed to be support in the gesture, but she was also drawing him away from me.
I shook my head. “Acceptance and rejection letters aren’t being mailed until the end of the month.”
“Clearly some went out early.” His dad sounded less patient now.
I doubted it. Otherwise Ms. Gregoire was a liar and Headmaster Williams’s video deadline made no sense. “Even if some did, Win’s wouldn’t have.” I turned to him. “Yours wouldn’t. You’re on the agenda for next week’s committee meeting.”
Curtis’s smile was weak as he stepped between his brother and me. “Huckleberry, dude, I see what you’re trying to do, and if I thought it would cheer up Win, I’d help—”
I swallowed a frustrated growl. “Please, listen to me. I know I’m right. Can I see the letter?”
“It’s an email,” said Wink. Her parents were both shaking their heads. Win’s chin was still down, his left hand shredding the tissue in his pocket, but his eyebrows were up. He was listening.
Curtis pressed his palms together like he was praying, then pointed the tips of his fingers at me. “I know after the whole Clara thing, you’re trying to atone, but—”
I flinched but didn’t back down. “I’m telling you, Headmaster Williams said letters were being mailed on March thirtieth.” Since they didn’t believe me,
I needed more. “Did Wink’s come too? Was hers an email? Because I got a physical letter when I applied last year. Doesn’t any of this strike you as odd?”
“Lincoln’s already in. She got in last year and deferred,” said Mrs. Cavendish.
“Please let me see the email.” But why would they? No one had invited me here or asked for my opinion. No one believed it. I could see their answers forming on four sets of frowns.
Win ducked out of his mom’s grasp and pulled his phone from his pocket. An email was still up on the screen, and his voice was gravelly. “Here. Here’s where they say I’m not good enough.”
I wanted to read it slowly so I could methodically collect all its clues, but even from a skim I’d gleaned enough to know I was right. Now I just needed to convince them.
“This is fake.”
“Huck!” Both Curtis and his dad said my name in barely cloaked exasperation. They were seconds from bodily removing me, so I hastily explained.
“One: there’s a typo in the first sentence and another in the third. Headmaster Williams wouldn’t confuse ‘peak’ and ‘peek,’ and he knows when to use a colon. Two: rejections are normally supportive and sensitive; this is condescending in a way that’s inappropriate. Three: the letterhead is missing the school motto. They throw that Latin nonsense anywhere they can. Four—and this is the big one: look at the sender’s email. Whoever sent this doesn’t think of the school as ‘Reginald R. Hero Preparatory School,’ or isn’t very observant—because all Hero High addresses end in RRHPS dot edu, and they’ve set up their email to come from ‘Admin at Hero High dot com.’ ”
I curbed the urge to forward it to myself for analysis. There had to be more clues in the final paragraph: We recognize this is Winston’s second attempt at applying to Hero High and would not recommend doing so again. Our answer won’t change. It’s our belief that Winston would not benefit from or contribute to the school—
Whoever sent this wanted him not only rejected but crushed. They also didn’t know the difference between “or” and “nor.”
I held out the phone for someone to take, but they were all frozen, mouths agape. Maybe I’d gone too fast? I dropped my hand. “Uh, do you need me to explain it again?”
Get a Clue Page 7