Get a Clue

by Tiffany Schmidt

“Huck-like? Who else would it be like?”

  There was a barking noise in the background, which I guess was to be expected at a dog store. I raised my voice to be heard over it. “No, hawk-like.”

  “Huck-light?”

  “Hawk. Hawk. Like the bird. You know, beaky?” I had no clue how a hawk sounded, but my impression consisted of a caw-squawk.

  She laughed. “Oh, I heard you the first time. I just wanted to see what you’d do. And, no. Are you about to go all Amy March on me?”

  “I don’t know what that means.” Though I knew it had to do with her favorite character from Little Women. Rory had been obsessed with the book since Ms. Gregoire assigned it to her, and based on my current nasal fixation, I had zero grounds for mocking that.

  “She was always worried about her nose, but it was fine and so is yours.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “By the way, do you know anything about Ava Jones? She’s a grade above us.” Thanks to Wink’s yearbook, I’d ID’d the girl in the witch costume post.

  “Dark hair? If she’s who I’m thinking of, Merri says she’s full of herself and mentions how her dad’s on the Hero High board in every conversation. I think there’s more to it than that—something about Monroe and Fielding, but I don’t know the whole story. Eliza’s not a fan either.”

  “Hmm.” The part about Merri’s ex probably wasn’t relevant, but the other part definitely was. It connected the first post on Win’s iLive page to Hero High.

  “What are you up to?” Rory asked, but the barking had escalated. I predicted her next words before she said them. “Actually, I have to hang up. I’ve got to go do Botox.”

  Okay. I didn’t predict all those words. “Um, what?” I could hear her sister calling her name, and while Merri was mostly awesome, she wasn’t exactly a paragon of common sense—so I was searching for my shoes to go intercede between my best friend and botulism.

  “Pug! Botox is a pug,” she clarified, before calling out, “Be right there.” She dropped her voice and added, “A super-spoiled one that Merri’s currently getting all sorts of rowdy. So if I don’t start this drawing soon, it’s pretty much going to be a pug-shaped blur.”

  “Oh.” I laughed. “Right.” Her side hustle of doing pet drawings at the store had become incredibly popular, which was good because she was saving to spend part of her summer in New York shadowing her favorite artist. Which meant I’d spend those weeks begging to live on Miles’s couch, because if things didn’t go right with Win and she was away, I had very little anchoring me to this town.

  While Rory wrangled a hyper pup, I called my brother. It was more phone time than I typically logged in a week, but Miles was a Generation Z with Generation X tendencies. This meant he liked to talk on the phone instead of texting and got a newspaper delivered instead of reading the Times app on the subway; he was twenty-three going on sixty.

  “Hey Puck, what’s up?”

  “Not much, Half-G.” His nickname came from an eighties song by the Proclaimers about being willing to walk five hundred miles to get to a person. I knew Curtis had a reputation for bad nicknames, but he could get in line—my parents were the OG cheeseballs.

  I heard Miles mute a podcast. “I need a date update. Did you reschedule for post-pinkeye?”

  “Something like that,” I mumbled. Mom and Dad were at the grocery store, and my bedroom was starting to feel like an impossible escape room, full of puzzles I couldn’t solve. So I headed downstairs, turned on the coffee maker, then leaned against the counter while it did it’s warming-up thing. On the other end of the line I could hear Miles moving around, a door opening, and then a steady stream of liquid. “Are you peeing?”

  “No, getting water from the fridge.” He laughed. “I thought we had a no-bathroom-breaks-on-the-phone rule? Or at least an agreement to mute.” Right. That was his cabinet, not a door. I should’ve known. And he would’ve had to be holding the phone much lower to get that sort of acoustics while—

  “I gotta say—” He slurped water too close to the receiver. “I’m glad you’re putting yourself out there. I was getting sick of Mom and Dad’s panicked phone calls. They kept worrying they’d turned you into a—I need you to visualize the air quotes I’m about to make—‘latchkey kid.’ I’ve been telling them they moved one state east, not time-traveled back to the nineties or whenever that was a thing.”

  “Yeah. Dad’s practically volunteering to cold-call classmates’ parents and arrange play dates—because that would make me so popular.”

  “I’m also relieved your first date won’t be a movie.”

  “Why?” The warm-up light on the coffee maker had stopped blinking, but now I was. “Dad said it was a good one.”

  “Yeahhh. For starters, why are you going to Dad for dating advice when you have me?”

  “Good point. Who wouldn’t want tips from a twenty-something geezer? Please tell me all your secrets for finding shuffleboard and bingo nights.” I opened a cabinet and grabbed the biggest mug.

  “Cute. But Dead Poets Society is a sobfest and you snot-cry. Also, you are the most obnoxious person to watch a movie with. Let’s save that for people you don’t want to want a second date.”

  “What?” But even as I asked, I anticipated his answer, and my “Because I figure them out?” jumbled with his “You make predictions the whole time!”

  Miles laughed. “You point out every clue and red herring. And worse, you’re right ninety-five percent of the time. The few times I’ve seen you stumped, you deconstruct the whole movie to explain why the twist ending defied logic or had plot holes.”

  I made a noncommittal noise and hit the Brew button. While it percolated, I mentally reviewed the last few movies I’d seen with Rory. Had I done this? There was that time she’d whacked me with a pillow and told me we were playing “the quiet game.” So, maybe?

  If only I could apply the same logic to life—if only all side plots were filtered out and simplified, the important details highlighted with mood lighting or musical cues. “Noted.”

  “Are you sulking?” Miles asked. “You sound like you are.”

  I was mid-sigh when he said this, and I scowled into my coffee. “Am not.”

  “Maybe stick to movies you’ve already seen? You don’t feel the need to spoil them on your second watch.” I could hear him banging around his kitchen, which was his nighttime charade: pretending he was going to cook before he gave up and had something delivered. “Anyway, there’s nothing in my fridge, so I got to get dinner. But keep me posted on the date stuff. And let me know when you’re coming to visit.”

  “A little late for the early-bird buffet,” I joked. “You missed first crack at the Jell-O.”

  “Hardy, har, har,” he said. But he was actually laughing when he hung up.

  I dumped my half-full mug down the drain. Maybe tonight I’d sleep instead of bang my head against the same facts. Maybe tomorrow things would be clearer.

  16

  From the door of her classroom Ms. Gregoire’s dress looked red striped with beige, but as I approached her desk before school on Monday, it became clear it was a beige dress, encircled by a print of red snakes. It made me think of “The Speckled Band.” It made me smile.

  Or maybe it was hope that pried out my dimples, because standing in this room with our matching Cool Beans cups and the promise of her help on my project, I felt the buoyancy of possibility. I just needed to sell her on my idea.

  “Good morning.” She lifted her pink cardboard cup in salute. “Pull up a chair and let’s come up with some ideas to get Headmaster Williams off your back.”

  “Actually, I have one.” I dragged a desk over and sat. “I know he expects me to just film people saying good things about the school. But what if instead of Hero High propaganda, I did something deeper about the school’s reputation internally and externally?”

  She leaned forward. “What would that look like?”

  “I’d ask people a list of questions. ‘What’s the first thing you t
hink of when you hear “Hero High”?’ That sort of thing. And then I’d do an overlay with the facts versus perception.” I was assuming a certain guy with mad photo skills would be willing to teach me how to do that. “For example, if someone says it’s a school for rich kids, that would be countered by a caption listing the percent of students receiving financial aid.”

  “Who are you asking?”

  I put on a poker face. “A variety of people: current students, alumni, teachers. Kids from other schools: Aspen Crest, Mayfield, Chester High . . .”

  “I like it.” She clinked her coffee against mine, and I almost dropped the cup in relief. Luckily I held on to it. I wasn’t sure if breaking the “only water” rule was bad enough to be Headmaster Williams’s third strike, but I had no desire to find out. Also, it would’ve been a tragic waste of caffeine.

  I drained the rest of my coffee as Ms. Gregoire asked, “What do you need from me?”

  I grinned. “First, a phone call.”

  “Hey, Bancroft! Banny!” He was ahead of me in the hall, and there were still a few minutes before first period. It was “Banny” that made him turn, eyebrows raised in amusement.

  “Hey Huck.” He held up his hand for a high five, then proceeded to make it all sorts of complicated by adding a press of the back of our hands, a fist tap, and a tug into a one-armed bro hug. I would’ve felt awkward not knowing the parts, but all I’d had to do was raise my hand; he did the rest of the work. And when he finished, I felt like I’d been initiated into some sort of club. Maybe this was all it took; maybe the only thing holding me back from making friends at Hero High had been me. My lack of engagement or initiative. He grinned. “I thought I left that nickname back at Mayfield—who spilled?”

  “The Cavendish twins.” I was keeping careful watch on his body language, but he just nodded.

  “Man, Wink and Win.” He shook his head. “How are those guys? I need to stop by and see Win. It’s been too long.”

  There wasn’t any malice in his nostalgia, so I pushed ahead. “They might transfer here.”

  “Get out. That’d be cool. More of the old gang back together. Is Wink still a complete monster at games? Like, that girl takes competition to a whole new level. We used to fight over whose team she’d be on whenever we played anything with remotes or gameboards. She was a card shark on field trip busses too.”

  “I’ve never played with her.” But I was filing that information away for future use. “I’m closer with Win.”

  “Oh. Oh. I got you.” Bancroft grinned—and fine, he might still be a suck-up in class, but he was cool with me and seemed to be cool with Win too. He looked so pleased by the idea of us together that I didn’t correct him.

  I tried to sound casual. “He said he might’ve annoyed you by joking about your name?”

  “What? Nah, it’s all good. Middle school stuff.” Bancroft shrugged. “I got to get to class, but tell him I say hi. And no more of that ‘Banny’ business, ’kay?”

  “’Kay.” I mirrored his speech to create a sense of inclusiveness and was the one to initiate the handshake sequence.

  “You’re a cool guy, Huck,” said Bancroft as he walked away backward. “We should hang more. Bring Win.”

  Was this a sign that I really hadn’t given this school a chance to let me in? Regardless, Win would be relieved that Banny had shown zero signs of resentment. I nodded. “Let’s do it.”

  The Cavendishes’ front door was cracked open when I walked over after orchestra practice. And clearly I was reading too much Sherlock, because my first stomach-clenching thought wasn’t “carelessness,” but “crime scene.” Like an idiot, I’d gotten out a pen and nudged the door open without touching—like I was a character in a police drama, avoiding contaminating a scene with fingerprints. Instead of blood or bodies, I got boys. Two. Seated on the couch. For an irrational half second, that seemed worse. One was Win, but the other person holding a controller wasn’t Curtis. I frowned. So much for being grounded. And if Win wasn’t grounded, why hadn’t he texted to let me know? At least when he broke the rules with me, he did so for a purpose. We didn’t sit around and play video games.

  A white guy who was medium tall with a medium build and medium brown hair hit Pause. He leaned over the back of the couch and held out his hand. “Hey, I’m Morris. You’ve got to be Huck.”

  The nod and thumbs-up he gave Win weren’t nearly as subtle as he thought. I grinned. “Yup. Hi. You’re the friend, right?”

  Morris playfully puffed out his chest. “The friend? I like the sound of that.”

  “Dude, who says that?” But Win was pleased. Ducking his chin into the collar of his gray pullover to hide a smile. “You want a friendship bracelet? Ask Wink.”

  “Hey now.” Mad hot or not, I wasn’t letting Win’s casual sexism slide. Also, I hadn’t spent hours learning fancy knots to skip a chance to brag about it. “I make a pretty mean friendship bracelet. Ask my BFF, Rory, to show you sometime.”

  Morris laughed. “Oh, I like this one. I hope you stick around.”

  Win raised a hand to his face, and I was glad he was down to one small bandage on his knuckles, plus a few mostly healed scrapes. “You two are not allowed to team up against me.”

  “No promises,” I told him as I slid my shoes off. “You ungrounded?”

  “Nope. If my parents catch him, we’ll say he’s here to see Wink. Super easy lie.”

  “It’s not untrue,” said Morris quickly.

  “Sure.” Win held up his remote. “Morris’s parents have confiscated all his games until next report card—but technically these aren’t his games.”

  “Nice loophole,” I said.

  “And technically I’m only playing for Wink while she finishes something.”

  “What’s she finishing?” If Wink was as competitive as Bancroft said, it was hard to believe she’d let anyone sub in.

  “Her homework.” Win unpaused the game. But instead of resuming play, he fired at the other avatar. The words “Game Over” showed up amid the bullet holes dotting the screen.

  “You just shot me!” exclaimed Morris.

  “Whoops.” Win held up his hands—remote included—in an exaggerated shrug.

  “Jerk,” Morris teased. There were all sorts of good-humored implications in his eyebrows. “Was that a not-so-subtle hint to go bug Wink and leave you two alone?”

  Win patted his shoulder. “You’re a good friend, Morris. I’ll have Huck start your bracelet right now.”

  “Yeah,” he said with a snort as he got up. “I’m sure that’s exactly what you’ll be doing.”

  I waited until Morris was in Wink’s room, then asked, “Rough day?”

  It hadn’t been in his words or his expression, but in his posture. He softened in the space of blinks; it was like watching a stop-motion movie of him lowering his guard. “I kept looking around my classroom, the halls, the lunchroom—and wondering how many people there hate me. And who hates me enough to do this? Who’s going to hate me next based on whatever twisted post goes up? Who’s going to be hurt next?”

  I thought of his last question on Saturday—when he’d been wishing for a tattletale, because he feared punishment less than causing pain. And when I said, “I’m sorry,” I meant it, but I knew he was looking for permission to take the page down, or asking me to—and I couldn’t give him that. Without a villain to point to, he didn’t get to stop playing that role and exonerate himself.

  Win sighed. “Fine. Let today’s questioning begin.”

  But the door opened first—and I watched Win go pale, so clearly he wasn’t as blasé about his grounding as he pretended. It was Curtis, mud-caked and whistling. “You’re here again?”

  Instead of answering, I asked, “How was practice?”

  “Slippery.” He must’ve removed his shoes outside, but now he peeled off his sweatshirt as well as whatever layers he had underneath. “Are your visits going to become a daily thing?”

  I let Win be the one to field that
question. He shrugged. “Get used to it. And put some clothes on.”

  “Jealous?” Curtis patted his chest—he was taller than Win, but thinner. Lean, with runner’s muscles, while Win had the broad shoulders of a swimmer. He threw me a wink before schooling his expression into a very fake scowl and turning to his brother. “Personally, I don’t care if you’re playing doctor or detective—I just don’t want to walk in on my Knight Light adoptee making out with my brother.”

  Win was glaring, but I was biting back a laugh. Curtis was a horrible actor. He was barely containing his own grin—how could Win not know this was all fake disapproval? And what could I do to make it so their relationship functioned in a way where Curtis’s approval wouldn’t make Win like me less?

  “Good thing you’re so busy overachieving that you’re never here.” I doubted Win meant for his retort to be so telling, but I filed away those echoes of resentment and envy and loneliness. I could work with that.

  But maybe I didn’t need to—because the glance Curtis threw my way as he bent to strip off his socks looked a lot like we were on the same page. “All I can say is, Huckleberry better fix this, or—”

  Win braced himself for the threat to come, his toes turning in and his jaw hardening as he prepared his counterattack.

  Curtis made a fake whip out of a wet sock and lashed the air in front of him. “Or he should find himself a new Knight Light.”

  Win waited for me to laugh first—and his was soft and hesitant, like he was worried he’d misread his brother’s joke and was double-checking it wasn’t the setup for him being the punchline.

  “Just saying,” added Curtis as he bundled up his clothes. “And if you need another incentive, you get him in Hero High, Huckleberry, and the two of you can spend all your time together—even when he’s grounded—without having to duck out back doors.”

  “Working on it,” I said, and he answered, “Good.”

  Win blinked back his surprise. While Curtis teasing him about Hero High wasn’t new, I wondered if he’d ever explicitly stated that he wanted Win there—or had Win spent the time since Curtis’s enrollment feeling not good enough and not welcome?