Get a Clue

by Tiffany Schmidt

  Curtis turned toward us, his face drawn and sober. “Wink told me about the page. I’ve already looked up how we report it. They’ll take it down.”

  Win’s hand clutched my arm as he kicked off a shoe. His balance hadn’t wavered, so it was emotional support, not physical. His shoulders sagged with relief, and it killed me to have to say, “Don’t. You can’t.”

  He let go and stepped back. “Why?”

  “It’s our best lead. That page needs to stay up. No one outside this room can know it’s fake.”

  “You can’t be serious,” said Curtis. “Have you seen all this?”

  “No. And that’s exactly why I’m serious.” Had Sherlock cared when his actions made him hated? Because I wouldn’t make it a full day as a detective if it always felt like this.

  “Every one of those posts is a garbage fire at Win’s expense,” said Wink.

  “They’re also all clues. And we need this person to keep posting. Whoever’s behind this page and the emails, they can’t know we know. It’s better if they think you all agree with your parents—that Win self-sabotaged at Hero High.”

  They stared at me, angry, annoyed, betrayed. The silence was brutal, the timer counting down.

  Curtis nodded first. “This stinks.”

  “I’m going to fill out the reporting form now. As soon as you say go, I’ll have it ready to send,” said Wink.

  Win squinted past her to the laptop. “Is that Reese?”

  “Wink’s friend?” I asked, thinking back over our conversations—the one who either liked or loathed Win’s friend Morris.

  “Yeah. And it’s not like we’re besties, but I like her. We get along. At least we did.” Win groaned. “Her whole family is just . . . cool. Her dad’s middle name is Thor. And, like, when Craig and Shannon go away, they pay Wink and me way too much to watch Zoe and Ziggy.”

  “Is that another set of twins?”

  “No.” They all laughed before Win clarified. “They’re dogs. English bulldogs. Her little brother’s Sam, and that kid is chill. Ugh. What did ‘I’ say about her?”

  Wink read quietly. “People who treat dogs like people are freaking weird. Hashtag: No dogs at the dining table. Hashtag: Unsanitary. Hashtag: Dog hair for dinner.”

  “I didn’t post this,” Win said.

  “I know,” said Curtis. “We believe you.”

  It was the most important thing they’d said all day, but Win didn’t notice. “No, but here’s the thing—I did have this conversation. I said a lot of that.”

  Wink nodded. “I was there—it’s why I thought this was real.”

  “But I wasn’t being mean, I swear.” He turned to me. “I’d sat at their table and Reese made me move because I was in ‘Zoe’s seat.’ I made a joke—they laughed.”

  Wink turned the laptop away. “It was funny—no one was mad . . . then.”

  I was all for Win and Wink working things out, but they could do that later. I had less than three minutes on the timer. “Who else was there for the conversation?”

  “A lot of people.” Win shrugged. “The Kimmels always have people over. That time was a football game.”

  “NFC championship,” Wink added. “I’ll make you a list of who I remember.”

  “Thanks.” I clicked screenshots of the top few posts—there were more anti–Hero High versions of the Clara gif. “Can you email me these?”

  The timer beeped and I looked up from the computer. Win was stoic. His face so wiped of any emotion that I knew he must be feeling them all. Sherlock might not have the detective equivalent of “bedside manner,” but clearly neither did I, since the best I could offer was a solemn nod. Words felt hollow, and the temptation to make grand promises was too strong.

  “You should go,” he said softly.

  I looked back when I reached the corner, saw the Cavendishes’ Honda turn onto the block. I prayed to the gods of current events and office snafus that there was some engrossing topic that would sail them through dinner conversation on a current of oblivious self-absorption.

  And that wish came true—at least in my house, where my parents chattered about midterms and grading. I devoured my spaghetti and escaped to my room before they noticed it was Friday night and I had no plans.

  The only thing waiting for me was an email from Ms. Gregoire.

  Hey Huck,

  Headmaster Williams asked about your video project. I promised him an update next week—so I need one first. Stop by my room before first period on Monday. If you’re still feeling stuck we’ll come up with a plan together.

  Enjoy your weekend.

  Ms. G.

  I flopped back on the bed and put a pillow over my face. I didn’t want to scream into it or smother myself—I just wanted the outside world to go away so I could force my brain to find the answers that must be in there somewhere.

  My parents wanted me to ascend the summit of popularity—or at least expand my social circle beyond Rory and Curtis, who were both currently out on some “triple date” Merri had coerced them into attending with her and Fielding and Toby and Eliza.

  Ms. Gregoire—well, Headmaster Williams—wanted me to somehow repair Hero High’s reputation. Despite the fact that things usually went viral for negative or scandalous reasons. I couldn’t replicate the reach of Clara’s video with a positive puff piece.

  The Cavendish offspring wanted the solution to Win’s mystery, but since he was grounded I lacked access to both him and the iLive page.

  I gripped the pillow tighter and ordered myself to think. Three problems, zero solutions. What I really needed was an espresso, but there’s no way I could turn on the coffee maker without Mom hearing.

  Friends. Video. Access. Friends-video-access. Friendsvideoaccess.

  I threw the pillow aside and sat up. They weren’t three separate problems. I grabbed my phone. Emailed Ms. Gregoire: Sounds good. See you Monday. Then texted Curtis: When will your parents be gone tomorrow? I’m coming over.

  13

  I didn’t know if Win was an early riser. He’d been asleep that time Curtis no-showed for our run, but was that typical? If my parents weren’t the loudest humans on the planet—singing show tunes while weeding the flower bed below my window at eight thirty—I would’ve still been snoring.

  I consulted Rory. She said showing up before ten a.m. on a Saturday was “obscene,” though it’s possible her feelings on the subject were influenced by Lilly dragging her to an eight o’clock goat yoga class.

  Goat.

  Yoga.

  It wasn’t an autocorrect; I’d checked. It was genuine barn animals in class. Clearly I’d need more details after she’d showered off the old McDonald smell.

  Since I was up, I started reading “The Speckled Band” while watching the clock. I turned pages and drank coffee, getting out my contraband French press after I’d finished my first cup. This was the second Holmes story I’d read about dastardly plots to prevent people from getting married. I refilled my mug. I knew there weren’t direct parallels between the stories and Win and me, but that didn’t make it any easier to accept that someone was toying with his life, manipulating and sabotaging his relationships.

  I shut the book’s cover—9:41 was late enough—and headed down the sidewalk while my parents serenaded me with “So Long, Farewell” from The Sound of Music.

  In a lot of Sherlock’s stories, the motivation was money. Was that relevant here? Hero High tuition wasn’t cheap. Curtis was on a decent scholarship, but would that be tripled for the twins? And since the financial aid pool was limited and competitive, was that a motive? Should I focus on other applicants? The school financial officer? Neither seemed likely, but I lacked Sherlock’s ability to differentiate between dead ends, red herrings, and leads.

  Self-doubt was burning through my caffeine buzz as I knocked on the Cavendishes’ door. Win answered, freshly showered, hair still wet. The collar of his plain gray T-shirt damp where it’d dripped. “Hi? Did you figure out who’s behind this?”
/>
  His faith was a blow, and it hurt to answer. “No, but I’ve got a plan. Well, a plan for a plan if I can get Ms. Gregoire to sign off. I think she will.”

  “A plan for a plan?” His shoulders slumped as he shoved a hand into the pocket of his jeans. “Gee, I feel so much better.”

  “You’re being sarcastic,” I stated. “You’re angry.”

  “What gave me away? The glare, or that I punched a wall last night when my sister headed out with a group of our classmates while I stayed home and wondered how many of them had been insulted on my page?” He held up his left hand, bandages across the knuckles. “Is that a demo of your super-sleuthing?”

  I didn’t even have to be above-average observant to see he was shoving me away as hard as he could—and that it was hurting him to do so. But there was an easy solution: I wouldn’t let myself be shoved.

  Though physically, I shoved him. Well, not really a shove, but I maneuvered around him and into the house. “We’ve only got until one before your parents get back. Let’s get started.”

  “Started with what? I’ve got stuff to do.” He pointed at a magnetic whiteboard on the fridge. I couldn’t read the subscript from here, but the heading was clear: Winston’s Chores. “My parents will be pissed if they get home and those aren’t done. And you don’t have to watch me change Hudson’s cage or fold laundry or clean the inside of the kitchen cabinets.”

  “Watch? No.” I shrugged off my jacket. “I’m going to help.”

  “I’m not making you do my chores.” His face and voice were aimed at the floor, his shoulders drawn in.

  “You’re not making me, I volunteered.” I crossed the kitchen to read the list. “Better chores here with you than at home. My parents are singing Sound of Music. They’ll make me play all the von Trapp kids.”

  One corner of his mouth lifted. “Can you sing?”

  “Not even a little. And my mom is determined to train me. Seriously, save me from lectures on ‘breathing from my diaphragm’ while weeding.”

  “You don’t have to be here.”

  I exhaled. There wasn’t anything inviting in his voice or body language, but at least he was no longer aggressively pushing me away. “I want to be.” I said the words firmly, waiting for him to meet my eyes. “Though I have no clue how to change a guinea pig cage, so you’ll have to tell me what to do.”

  “I can do that. But Curtis is still sleeping, so we should start out here.”

  “Sounds good.” First I fetched Wink’s laptop. She’d told Curtis we were free to use it and had put a sticky note with her password on the lid. I’m trusting you, Win scrawled underneath. I crumpled it and tossed it into her trash. She’d also left a few pages of notes about the posts. These, I pocketed.

  iLive messenger was open on her screen. I skimmed the conversations as I closed their windows.

  Reese Kimmel: When will you get here?

  Lincoln Cavendish: Not soon enough. It’s been A DAY

  Reese Kimmel: Isn’t it always in your house?

  Lincoln Cavendish: Truth

  I frowned. It was a truth, but not all of it. Granted, she couldn’t share all of it, but she’d slanted her words to become the victim.

  Morris Henderson: Win grounded? He’s not answering my texts.

  Lincoln Cavendish: Yup. Want me to give him a message?

  Morris Henderson: No point. Was asking about plans. What are you doing?

  Lincoln Cavendish: Sleeping over Reese’s

  Morris Henderson: :( Morris Henderson: Heads-up, I talked to Nunes about starting a coding club next year.

  Lincoln Cavendish: ?? You don’t code

  Morris Henderson: You can teach me.

  Morris Henderson: Won’t you?

  There could be a hundred reasons why Wink hadn’t responded: She’d been called to dinner; she’d left for Reese’s; Morris had BO and the thought of sitting near him made her gag. Sherlock could probably figure out how to get that answer without revealing he’d snooped, but like Morris, I felt left hanging.

  I placed the laptop on the kitchen island like it was some strange centerpiece we stacked dishes around while spraying and wiping down the cabinets. Win was flustered, apologetic, wincing when the cuts on his hand stung. “Your fingers are going to smell like vinegar.”

  I shrugged. “So will yours. So will Wink’s computer.” As we worked I scrolled to the bottom of the page, figuring I’d start when it did. “This is only five months old. Can you think of anything major happening in your life around Halloween?”

  He was stacking mugs in a precarious tower of mismatched bases and rims. Before they crashed, I reached over and moved the handprint one and the mug below it. For a second I was adrift, imagining one of my mugs among his; how I’d shape and glaze and—

  “Halloween was the opposite of interesting,” he said. “I was studying and retaking the SSATs that weekend.”

  I frowned. The first post was of a girl dressed as a witch, captioned: I thought the point was to wear costumes. I clicked on it and sighed, because the photo’s source wasn’t a clue. The caption was new, but the picture linked back to the girl’s—Ava’s—own feed. Turning away from the digital dead end, I grumbled and glared at the stacks of plates blocking the coffee maker.

  “Sorry,” said Win. “I’m trying to be helpful.”

  “No, you are. I’m just thinking.” And it was hard to do that here. Because of him. Because I knew I came across as annoyed or angry or distracted when I got lost in analysis. Rory laughed about it. My parents tolerated it. Other people didn’t notice when I checked out, or didn’t care enough to care. If I wanted Win to, I should prepare him.

  Especially since I knew he’d interpret my behavior as personal rejections. And the only way we’d make any progress with this case or us was if I laid things out in the open—explained what was going on in my head and gave him clues and context to decode me.

  I rapped a knuckle against the counter and waited until he turned around. “Something you should know about me: I’m going to space out. I’ll sigh and huff and likely start pacing. I’ll miss things you tell me, or think aloud without giving context.” I spoke slower than normal, watching to make sure he was hearing me, monitoring the way each statement landed. “People tell me it’s annoying, but it’s how I think. And it’s not—I’m not mad at you, or ignoring you or anything. Even if it seems like it.”

  Win nodded and rubbed his bottom lip between bandaged fingers. It was still hot, but I now recognized it as a gesture he made when he felt vulnerable. “I hate this—I feel like all my screwups are on display. And lots I didn’t do. You’re cleaning my kitchen, writing lists of my enemies—how could this possibly not make you run away?”

  The room stank of vinegar. I still couldn’t make coffee, and if all his past failures were on display, so was my inability to pay attention to the realities outside my head or connect the distracting facts inside it into something useful. Despite all this, my answer was honest. “I’m where I want to be.”

  “Because I’m your latest puzzle and you like figuring things out? What happens when you do? Is a puzzle still interesting once it’s solved? Or if it can’t be? What if I don’t get into Hero High?”

  Hero High. I frowned and held up a finger. Moving a stack of bowls, I pulled the laptop closer, clicking to the admissions page of the school website. “There has to be a connection between this iLive profile and Hero High. You said you took the SSATs that weekend? Talk me through the timeline of your application.”

  “Um, sure.” Win’s back was to me as he dried a shelf. He was more comfortable answering while facing away, and I wasn’t about to tell him that his body language and tone of voice were as transparent as his expressions.

  But—I’d hurt him somehow. I lifted my fingers from the keys and realized I’d skipped over his questions to chase my own answers. “Wait. You’re not a puzzle and—”

  “It’s fine,” he said. It wasn’t, but I let him continue because facts were more co
mfortable than feelings. “Anyway, it was last October when Wink and my parents talked me into reapplying. I had to start from scratch: new essays, letters of recommendation, SSATs—’cause there are so many adults waiting to say great things about me and the test was super fun to take twice.”

  “And SSATs. You took them the week of Halloween? You’re sure?”

  “Yeah, Mom and Dad dropped me at Mayfield on their way to work.”

  The testing company’s website confirmed there’d been a test that Saturday morning at Mayfield Middle Academy. I clicked back to iLive—the Halloween picture had been posted at 10:17 a.m. I highly doubted Win’s proctor had provided social media breaks. “Hmm.”

  “Got something?” Win put down a paper towel, his voice rising hopefully.

  “Not yet,” I told him. “But I’m working on it.”

  14

  “Can I ask you something?” Win said.

  Curtis had woken up and was in the kitchen making muffins, so we were tackling Hudson’s cage in the garage. Not that we would’ve cleaned it in the kitchen—hello, salmonella—but picking a garage chore gave us privacy.

  I grinned. “That seems fair, since I’ve done nothing but question you.” And it was getting easier. Win talked more while working, like tasks distracted him from what he was saying. I was distracted too—case in point, my shoes were covered in a layer of wood shavings because I was watching him, not where I was scooping.

  He passed me the broom. “At least they’re the clean shavings.”

  “True. What’s your question?”

  “You think whoever made the page wrote the emails, right? So why do the people in the posts matter? I mean, I know they matter, but why ask me about them?”

  “There’s two possibilities.” I hung the broom back on its hook. “Either there’s one person with a vendetta who made the iLive page and sent the emails. Or it’s two separate puzzles: some jerk made the page and someone insulted on it sent the letters as revenge.

  “If it’s the first scenario, I’m looking for patterns or motives or connections to whoever is behind it. If it’s the second, I need to know who would be so upset by iLive that they’d lash out at your application.”