Get a Clue

by Tiffany Schmidt

  My question thawed his parents, but instead of answering me, they pivoted toward Win.

  “Did you send this?” his father asked. “Is it some kind of joke? Because I don’t get it.”

  “Win, buddy, I know you’re anxious about getting in, but this is not funny.” His mom shook her head. “Poor Lincoln was really upset. We all were.”

  Win’s shoulders hiked to his ears. “Did I miss the part where I was laughing or acting like any of this was amusing?”

  “We’ve talked about this—the difference between being nervous and self-sabotaging.” His dad’s voice gentled. “I thought you were starting to learn that.”

  “I didn’t send it.” Win’s words were desperate, but his posture was already defeated.

  He rested a hip against the island and slumped so he was the same height as his mom, who was patting his back and saying, “Come on, bud, talk to us.”

  Curtis backed me up a step and dropped his voice. “Huck, go. This is classic Win. Eventually he’s going to confess. You don’t need to be here for that. He wouldn’t want you to.”

  I disagreed with so much of what was happening, but Curtis wasn’t wrong; Win wouldn’t want me witnessing this. And I was right—but I wasn’t helping.

  I wanted to hug him again, but there was no way through the wall of his parents’ shoulders. “Win, call me later if you want.”

  “Not tonight,” said Mrs. Cavendish.

  It was obvious to me that his reaction to the email had been genuine, that he’d been devastated by the rejection. That he was equally devastated by his parents’ reaction to it. Somehow that wasn’t clear to everyone else in the room.

  “I don’t know who sent that or why, but I’ll figure it out. I promise.” It was a stupid thing to say. Even Sherlock Holmes didn’t make promises. He made statements about likelihoods and possibilities, but not promises. And what was I even basing mine on? I had zero evidence or leads.

  But I also didn’t care about that, because amid his parents’ disapproval, Wink’s sniffles, and Curtis’s conflicted expression, Win’s red eyes were raised to mine. It was the first time since I walked in the door that he’d looked directly at me, the first time he’d looked relieved. I hoped my eyes said everything my lips couldn’t: Even if they don’t, I believe you.

  9

  Curtis tried to walk me out, but I waved him off. I hadn’t come to see him, and I wasn’t leaving with him—not in front of the brother I had come for. Win would feel that like a slap; he’d worry about what was said behind his back. I wanted no part of it.

  The mist from earlier had given way to a stupidly gorgeous mid-March night. Instead of walking home alone, I wanted to be enjoying the weather while strolling the sidewalk with Win—waiting for the theater to open so we could pick seats in the back corner. Not because we’d be the clichéd couple making out, but because I liked watching the audience as much as the movie. But maybe—hopefully—we would’ve kissed too. Actually, no. I didn’t want our first kiss to be in a dark theater. When we kissed, I wanted there to be enough light to see every facet of his expression. I wanted every detail to sear in my memory. I wanted.

  And I wanted to know who sent that email to Win. And why.

  I unlocked my front door with a sigh. There was an unrelenting restlessness that came from facing a problem I couldn’t fix. It was a feeling I’d become familiar with since the Clara debacle, but leaving the Cavendishes’ house with their not believing Win had doubled the sensation.

  No one was home at mine. My parents had taken my date night as an excuse to plan one of their own. If I called, they’d abandon appetizers and candlelit cocktails and be home as soon as the speed limit allowed—but for what purpose? To watch me pace?

  I had the stupid punishment project and a thousand-page book to keep me company. Given those choices, I picked Sherlock, because maybe Ms. Gregoire was onto something and there’d be a clue among those pages. Or at least a distraction.

  But it’s hard to read while checking your phone every ninety seconds. There were so many questions I wanted to ask Win: Do your parents believe you yet? Did I make things worse? Can you forward me the email? Let’s talk enemies . . .

  I squeaked like one of the dog toys at Haute Dog, the Campbells’ pet boutique, when my phone finally buzzed.

  FYI—I’m expecting a date report the second you walk in the door.

  I rolled my head back and groaned at the ceiling. I couldn’t tell Rory the why without Win’s permission, so I typed up what I hoped was the truth: Something came up. Had to take a rain check.

  Her response was immediate: You okay?

  The two words encompassed more than just Win; she was checking on my general well-being, and I wouldn’t lie. But the truth was muzzy. I hesitated, then answered: Hanging in.

  Want to come over?

  The invitation was tempting for the wrong reasons. I wanted to go over in case Eliza was home. In case Eliza had talked to Curtis and had more news. But that wasn’t fair to Rory or Win. I’m good. Thanks.

  The email was fake, and I’d convinced Mr. and Mrs. Cavendish as much. But until I could offer them an alternative explanation, it seemed unlikely they’d believe Win wasn’t the sender.

  I didn’t have answers—yet—but I’d start finding them tomorrow.

  Technically students weren’t allowed anything but water inside Hero High classrooms. In the lunchroom, sure. Juice, smoothies, soda, cold brew, and even Rory’s favorite—gag, kombucha—flowed freely. Pink cardboard Cool Beans cups were a common accessory in car cupholders and in the halls, but they were recycled before bridging classroom doors.

  I was completely disregarding this rule. While Mom was in the shower, I’d brewed a covert second pot and filled two metal water bottles with coffee. One was in my backpack for later, the other in my hand as I paced in front of the administration building, waiting for the door to be unlocked. Unless someone was close enough to smell my coffee, they’d think I was super concerned with hydration. And maybe someday in the future, I would be. Today I was focused on staying alert.

  The doorknob jiggled as it was unlocked from the inside. I hastily twisted the cap on my bottle and shoved it into my bag.

  “Oh,” said Mrs. York as she opened the door. “Good morning, Mr. Baker. Do you have an appointment?

  “Good morning!” I went full dimple—pulling on the smile that’s been known to elicit parental comparisons to “cherubs.” This was pretty easy to pull off with all the caffeine thrumming in my bloodstream.

  I may have also had two cups at home. Dad okaying the second out of pity, patting my back as he refilled my mug. “Okay, Puck, what do we do with disappointment? We actionize it. So your first date with Win won’t be at that movie—not a big deal. I’ve already started coming up with options for when you guys reschedule. I looked up pinkeye, and it’s usually contagious for—”

  Yeah, I’d lied. I figured Win already had enough parents doubting him. I wanted mine to be firmly Team . . . Hunston? Wick? Bakerdish? Whatever. I wanted them on his side. Our side. And boy were they ever.

  Despite Win’s not having seen the shirt Mom bought for our canceled date, she’d gone online-shopping for “next time.” Dad offered to make Win soup. Even Miles had vid-called to tell me about a time his date should’ve rescheduled and instead had stuck him with a cleaning bill after she’d thrown up in a cab.

  My family: they were a lot, but they were mine. And in a different scenario, maybe I would’ve gotten snarky or pushed for privacy, but after seeing the Cavendishes with Win, I’d hugged Dad and listened when Mom spent the drive to school explaining the colors she thought best suited me.

  “Let me just boot up my computer,” Mrs. York said after I followed her into the office. She paused to sip from her travel mug, and I gave my backpack a wistful pat that made the two coffee canteens clank. “But I don’t remember an early meeting on the headmaster’s schedule, and he isn’t here yet.”

  “I had a question for you, a
ctually,” I said, helpfully taking the trash can off a chair, where it must’ve been placed so the janitorial crew could vacuum. “It’s about transfer students.”

  She frowned and pulled off her reading glasses. “I can’t comment on students’ applications.”

  “Oh, of course not.” I upped the dimples and busied myself with straightening stacks of flyers on the table beside her desk. “I mean, yes, I am interested because of a certain student . . .” I glanced at her with exaggerated sheepishness. “But I don’t need specifics. I just want to make sure I’m ready. Have any acceptance or rejection letters gone out yet? I’ll be buying ice cream either way—I’ll have to wait to see if I’m pairing it with a bow or tissues.”

  “You young people and your crushes. The timeline is on our admissions page, so I guess it can’t hurt to answer.” She smiled as she confirmed what I already knew. “All letters get mailed on March thirtieth.”

  Not for sixteen days. I now had it from three sources: Headmaster Williams, Ms. Gregoire, and Mrs. York. Would that be enough to convince Win’s parents? “So there’s no way a student would hear sooner? Not even if they’re the sibling of a current student? There’s no exceptions or accelerated process for students reapplying? Or when one’s twin’s already in?”

  Her eyes widened with recognition at my hints. “Well, no. Not from us.” Mrs. York glanced around the empty office and leaned forward before dropping her voice. “But if a student decided to withdraw their application, he could do that at any time. And there was no need for such theatrics. It’s a shame.”

  That—that was definitely information she wasn’t supposed to give out. It made my stomach clench as I said goodbye, ignoring the tissues she’d nudged my way, like I was now the one in need of consoling. I had my phone in my hand before I was down the building’s stone steps. You need to call Hero High. Ask about your application.

  I watched the screen until my fingers got cold and stiff from holding it so tight. When other students began to arrive, I stormed to the sophomore wing and paced, dodging hallway traffic and chugging my coffee.

  Curtis strolled in with his arm curved around Eliza. A less observant person might see a breathtakingly beautiful girl and a blatantly smitten guy. But anyone who spent five minutes in their orbit knew they were a pair of brainy opposites: Him dark, her fair. Him comedic, her serious. He was sentimental; she was skeptical. Their flirtation was one part argument and four parts science. They were perfectly matched and perfectly content in their nerd bubble.

  Which I was about to pop.

  “Hey, Eliza.” Was I happy for them? Sure. But their conversation on “quark–gluon plasma” could wait. Curtis had been a brother for fifteen years and a boyfriend for four weeks. Win came first. Literally. “Curtis, we need to talk.”

  Their attention didn’t snap to me but lingered in a gaze that made the corners of her mouth tilt and him grin. They didn’t touch, but it felt like a PDA. Eliza’s eyes were still soft when she turned to me. “Huck, make sure he doesn’t google ‘heavy ions.’ ” She touched his arm before leaving. “See you in bio, Cupcake.”

  He called after her. “Remind me, Firebug: Which of us has the fancy science medal?” His grin faded as he faced me. “I don’t know anything new. And even if I did, I don’t think I should talk about Win’s business when he’s not here.”

  “Fine, then you can listen. I already texted him—”

  He spun his lock. “Not going to work. My parents took his phone.”

  The loud clang of my bottle against his locker made everyone jump. Curtis put down his backpack and met my eyes. “Then you need to call them. They need to call the school. Mrs. York told me something was up with his application.”

  He frowned. “Really? She said, ‘Something’s fishy about Winston Cavendish’s application’?”

  “Not in so many words, but—”

  “Stop. I know you like my brother and you’re trying to help, but Win sent the stupid email. He panicked and sent a fake rejection because he didn’t want to wait until the school sends a real one.”

  “He said that?”

  Curtis shoved his coat on a hook. “He hasn’t exactly confessed yet, but what else could it be? At least it’s fake so no real harm done.”

  I shook my head. “There’s something more going on. Tell your parents to call the school and check his application.”

  While I hoped it went deeper, my and Curtis’s was a friendship based on banter. During September heatwave practices, when the inside of our lacrosse helmets had been sweat swamps, we had made joking bets about the first person who’d puke. I felt like vomiting now, but there was no humor on our faces as we stared each other down.

  Curtis looked away first, reaching into his pocket to pull out his phone. “I hope you’re wrong.”

  I wanted to answer “Me too,” but my parting words were more honest: “I’m not.”

  For the rest of the day, my focus splintered like Dad’s windshield that time it got hit by a rock—only I had dual points of impact: Winston and Clara, who in science class whirled on the two girls fighting over accompanying her to the bathroom.

  “Enough,” she snapped. “Seriously.”

  Mrs. Vogelsang had been chatting with Dante about last night’s homework, but she stood up. “Is everything okay, girls?”

  “No,” said Clara. “I need you all to give me some space. This meme isn’t going to break me. I’m fine. So everyone can just back off and treat me like they used to.”

  I hoped everyone heard her, respected her request. And I hoped no one else noticed her words were false bravado, that her knees were turned in and she was hiding bare, bitten nails in her pockets. Regardless of what she wanted people to believe, this was impacting her deeply.

  “Do you want to talk about it, Clara?” asked Mrs. V. “We could have a class meeting—”

  “No. I just want to go to the bathroom. By myself.” Her eyes were starting to gloss.

  I felt slightly guilty when I tipped my chair back on two legs because Mrs. V had stopped me after class the other day and told me it gave her a heart attack when I did that. What I felt extra guilty about was pushing off my toes while saying a prayer to the gods of gravity and classroom floors that this impulse didn’t end in a concussion.

  There’s a myth that drunk drivers are more likely to survive accidents because they keep their muscles loose. It’s false. Drivers—sober or otherwise—sit in the most protected seat of the car. When you know an impact is coming, it’s better to brace for it. Anyone watching me could’ve noticed my tensed muscles and known this was intentional. But all eyes were still on Clara—until I hit the floor.

  “Huck!” Mrs. Vogelsang and Rory’s voices blended in my ringing head. “Are you okay?”

  “Atticus, go get Nurse Peter!” Mrs. V hovered over me, but I glanced at the door. Clara had slipped out. Solo bathroom break achieved. “Huck, what hurts? Don’t move.”

  “I’m okay.” I rotated my shoulders and checked my neck to make sure this was true. I’d have a heck of a bruise behind my knees from the chair, but no worse than a hard hit in lacrosse.

  Getting myself, my chair, and my desk back in place was a noisy, clumsy production. But whatever. People could laugh and stare at me all they wanted.

  Gemma smirked. “Too bad no one got that on camera. Maybe we could’ve made a new meme.”

  If only.

  Mrs. V insisted I talk to Nurse Peter, but I reassured him I hadn’t hit my head, I wasn’t dizzy, and nothing was broken. I turned down his offers of ice or Advil and ducked back into class with a bow. “For my next trick, I will—”

  “Sit in your seat with all four legs on the floor and complete your outline of chapter eleven?” suggested Mrs. V.

  “That sounds about right.”

  Rory’s eyes were shrewd. The problem with best friends knowing you is that they know you. She didn’t bother making an accusation, but she did mouth, “You okay?” at least twice an hour for the rest of the da
y.

  And while I regretted rejecting Nurse Peter’s offer of Advil, I wasn’t lying when I told her I was fine. A little sore, but totally worth it.

  Though I winced when someone grabbed my arm at dismissal while I carefully crouched at my locker. I turned with my whole body—because that was a thing I’d be doing until I got a heating pad and maybe a hot bath—to see Curtis standing there.

  His omnipresent smile was absent. “I just talked to my parents.” He reached past me and grabbed my backpack. “I need you to come with me.”

  10

  Curtis didn’t say where or why he wanted me to follow him, but Sherlock was always ready to hop on a train and investigate—I could let my curiosity lead me down a sidewalk or two. Especially if it also meant a chance to see Win.

  I figured we were headed to their house, but instead he circled toward the woodsy back side of campus and the visitors’ parking lot. Mr. and Mrs. Cavendish were standing on the driver’s side of their car, leaning down to talk to—no, argue with—whoever was seated in the back.

  I assumed it was Win and was proven right when, in response to Curtis’s loud “Hey, I found Huck,” he slid across the back seat and opened the passenger side door.

  His dad muttered, “Oh, now he gets out,” but I stayed focused on my side of the car where Win was emerging with reddened eyes. He kept the open door between us like a shield as we traded soft “Heys” and softer looks. Mine searching for answers to if he was okay, his trying to fake it.

  Mr. Cavendish shut the back door on his side. “How did you know?”

  “Know what?” I asked. “I don’t know what’s going on. Curtis hasn’t filled me in.”

  “But you told him to have us call Hero High about Winston’s application,” said Mrs. Cavendish.

  I shifted my bag on my shoulder. “Did you?”

  “They called us. To make sure we were aware Win emailed last night asking to rescind his application.”