Get a Clue

by Tiffany Schmidt

  By the time it got dark, Wink’s foam was long gone, Morris’s cookie was crumbs, and Win had recycled his bottle. Those of us who were smart enough to order the mega still had coffee left.

  “We should get going,” Wink said, pulling out her phone. “It’s pizza night. Mom and Dad want to do family dinner.”

  “Oh. Right.” Win frowned. “Do I have time to walk Huck home?”

  She shook her head. “Their ETA is five minutes—they’re already going to beat us.”

  “It’s okay,” I told him. “I might stay awhile.”

  “Do not get a refill,” he said with a finger point as we all stood and he started bussing our table.

  I raised my half-full cup. “I’m still good.”

  “Wink.” I pulled her aside while Morris was in the bathroom and Win was packing up the cards. “I had a thought about your formal. What about Lance? He can’t already have a date to it because he doesn’t go to your school, and he was saying the other day that he’s the only single person at his lunch table.”

  Her mouth opened. “Do you think he’d go for it?”

  “I don’t see why not.” It’d be platonic, because I knew he still was pining over someone, even if I didn’t know who it was. “And you’d have great photos—he’s hot.”

  “He’s definitely that.” Wink tapped her lip. “Do you have his number, or should I get it from Curtis?”

  “I’ve got it from lacrosse. I’ll send it to you. And give him a heads-up.”

  “Thanks,” she said. “And thanks for this. I needed it. I’m sorry we were all such crab apples earlier.”

  “Understandable,” I said, giving the word all the sincerity it deserved.

  “Wink.” Win tilted his head toward the door, where Morris was already waiting. “Stop monopolizing Huck. We’ve got to go.”

  I wanted a big goodbye. Or at least a private one since I wouldn’t see him until Monday. But it ended up being a handslap with Morris, a hug from Wink, and an awkward “Have a good trip. And, hey, at least I’ve got my phone back” from Win.

  I watched them exit, then pulled out my cell to text Lance about Wink’s request. He responded immediately. She’s thinking friends, right? If so, it’s totally cool.

  Part of me wanted to dig deeper, find out who Lance’s secret crush was, but I let that go. For now, not forever. Because this felt good, having the solution to Wink’s problem. I felt like me.

  And maybe the reason I’d failed so much before was that I’d had no knowledge, I’d had no connections. I was finally starting to put down roots, to find my place in this town. My people.

  I left Cool Beans but stopped in front of a store a few doors down. The sign looked like a mug shot. The window had stylized prison bars. FRAME ME. The name was so apt it hurt.

  The bell over the door jangled when I entered, and a white-haired man looked up from a counter halfway down the narrow store. The front was racks of frames and albums. There were locked glass cases of fancy cameras behind the checkout, and the last third of the room was a photo studio. Backdrops and lights and bins of props. It was currently staged to look like a meadow. A pink parasol open beside a picnic basket.

  “Can I help you?” The man pushed his glasses up his nose.

  “I saw your sign in the window—Help Wanted?”

  He brightened. “Ah! I’m Mr. Rivera. Do you know cameras?”

  “Nope. Not at all,” I said cheerfully. “I couldn’t tell you the difference between aperture and exposure. I only know those are things because of my camera-savvy friend.”

  “Well, does your friend want a job?”

  “He might. Because he talks really fondly about when he used to work here.”

  The man let out a breath. “Your friend—is he Winston Cavendish?”

  I nodded.

  “He was one of the best photographers I’ve ever worked with—not just teens—any age.”

  “Can I ask why you fired him?” This was a qualitatively different question than “Why’d you fire him?” The first allowed the answerer to feel like they were in control. It didn’t demand information, so they were more likely to give it. If I’d posed the question directly, I’d probably be met with “Why are you asking?” or “It’s none of your business.”

  “Winston used to be so dependable. For the first three months he worked here, he never took a single sick day. He was always on time or early. And then that changed.”

  “How?”

  “He started emailing constantly, asking me to switch up the schedule. Then he wouldn’t show up for the time he asked for. He was showing up for times he shouldn’t. It was the darnedest thing. And what’s the point in having an employee if you have no idea when they’re coming?”

  “Can I see these emails? Did you save any?”

  “That’s on odd request.” Mr. Rivera studied me with eyes that were used to seeing things through lenses and viewfinders—practiced in screening out all sorts of busyness and capturing the heart of a shot. “You say you’re Winston’s friend? Why are you here?”

  “Someone’s been trying to make him look bad. They’ve sent other emails impersonating him. Win’s told me how much he loved this job—and how confused he was when he was fired. I’m pretty sure the fake emailer was the one asking for the schedule changes.”

  Mr. Rivera gaped as he banged on the keyboard in angry hunt-and-peck typing. “Why? Why would anyone do that to our boy?”

  Our boy. If I accomplished nothing else today, at least I could get Win’s job back.

  “I’ve got half a mind to reply to one of these emails and tell that cretin what I think—”

  “Actually, could you?” A plan was forming as I skimmed the email he’d pulled up. A curt demand to switch shifts from Saturday to Thursday night.

  “Give him a piece of my mind?” Mr. Rivera looked delighted by the idea.

  “No. I’m thinking offer his job back. Say you’ll call and let him know the details—but don’t do it.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  “We’re looking to see if they respond. Or if anyone says anything to Win about the job. If they think you’ve called, they might let something slip or ask a leading question.”

  “You’re making this all sound mighty mysterious.” He tipped his head back in a look that was speculative. “I’ve always liked those double-oh-seven movies, but never thought I’d be in one.”

  “If you get a response, forward it to me.” I grabbed one of the business cards on his counter and wrote my email on the back. He stuck the card in his shirt pocket and patted it. I slung my backpack on my shoulder and thanked him.

  “Wait!” I was halfway to the door but turned to see Mr. Rivera following me. “How will Winston know he really does have his job back?”

  I clamped down on my grin. “If no one spoils it before then, call him at the end of next week and offer it to him.”

  The bell rang again when I exited, and either my coffee had kicked in or the buzz in my veins was from a different source—the knowledge of yet another member of the Winston Cavendish fan club. Maybe if I recruited enough of us, he’d have to face the reality of how awesome he was.

  23

  My visit to Aspen Crest was short and focused. I’d submitted a list of students I wanted to talk to; the ones who’d returned their permission slips met me in a small room off the library during homeroom and first period. The list included the two Aspen Crest students who’d appeared on the iLive page, another four who’d gone to Mayfield, and two randoms. When asked how I made the list, I gave a vague, “They came highly recommended.”

  People often scrutinized criticism, but they rarely questioned flattery.

  Of the eight students I’d requested, six returned their waivers. Most importantly, one of those six was Colleen Allen.

  I interviewed her first, and she was quick to gush about Hero High. “I’m actually hoping to transfer. I had my interview two weeks ago. It went so well.”

  “Good.” I tried to make
the word sound sincere, but I was already crossing my fingers she wouldn’t get in. Sorry, Sherlock—I wasn’t unbiased here, and it was hard to smile and ask, “When you think of Hero High, what word comes to mind?”

  “It’s the best,” she said. “And Aspen Crest is—”

  “Sorry to interrupt.” I wasn’t sorry. “But I’m not making a hit piece on any other school. Can you focus on Hero High?”

  “Oh. Sure.” She drummed her fingers. “Hero High has a reputation for being an Ivy League feeder. I’ve been tracking its stats at placing graduating seniors in top-tier colleges, and they’re—” She bit her lip as she tried to come up with a noncomparative way to phrase it. “I like what I see.”

  “Good to know,” I told her, already going off-script because who cared about the stupid video? “I know someone else who’s applying to transfer. Do you know the Cavendish twins?”

  Her nose wrinkled and her upper lip curled. “We were at Mayfield together. Is Lincoln transferring?”

  “She’s already in. It’s Winston who’s applying. Too bad you guys didn’t have interviews on the same day.”

  “Yeah, too bad.” She almost managed to say it without sarcasm, but since she hadn’t, I pounced.

  “Not a fan?”

  “Well, if Hero High wants a cyberbully, they should definitely admit Win. That’s all I’ll say.” She crossed her arms. “It’s just that—I don’t know how he surrounds himself with so many nice people. Like, Lincoln is a sweetheart. And Mac and Morris and Reese—their whole group are good people. What do they see in him? Oh, is the camera still on?”

  I made a show of turning it off and putting my phone down. “You want to go off-record?”

  “Only to say this: I’m not worried. I highly doubt Winston Cavendish is getting in.” She waved an airy hand before leaning in like we were best friends.

  “Oh?” I arched an eyebrow, dimpled conspiratorially. “What do you know? Tell me.”

  “Well.” She flipped her hair over her shoulder. “I caught him cheating last year, and that’s got to be on his record.”

  Yeah, so she hated him . . . but she wasn’t actively working against him. She was too busy being smugly superior.

  I stood and held out a hand to shake, signaling that we were done. “I wish you luck.” Bad luck.

  “Thanks.” She beamed. “I’ll probably be seeing you on campus next year.”

  I prayed to the gods of petty grudges and fresh starts that we never crossed paths again. And then I double-checked for backlighting, adjusted Win’s tripod, and sped through the rest of my interviews. Getting the sound bites I needed and getting out of there.

  “Aspen Crest?” Mrs. York peered at me over the top of her glasses as she read my excuse note.

  “Just for a project. No worries, I’m not transferring.” I dimpled; she smiled.

  “Pity,” Mira said, then fake coughed. She was sitting by the office door with her backpack at her feet.

  I turned to face her. “You’re supposed to cough while saying the word.” I demonstrated: “Coughpitycough.”

  Her cheeks turned pink, but she didn’t lower her chin or look away. “I didn’t want there to be any chance you misunderstood.”

  I laughed. If she didn’t hate me, I really think we might be friends.

  “Okay, that’s enough.” Mira and I swung toward the office door. Clara stood there with a look of down-the-nose disapproval that rivaled any teacher’s. “If I’m not mad, you’re not allowed to be.”

  Mira stood. “You’re too forgiving.”

  Clara gave a short laugh. “You absolutely know that’s not true. I’m still holding a grudge toward that stylist who gave my hair a relaxer treatment in seventh grade. I love you for being all momma bear, but Huck does not deserve your holy wrath.”

  I was doing my best impersonation of the wallpaper as I tried to inch by them and out the office door. Mira cut side-eyes at me and grumbled an exaggerated, “Coughsorrycough.”

  I laughed and nodded, not wanting to endanger our fragile peace by trying to one-up her joke.

  Clara caught up with me in the hall. “Don’t take it personally. Mira doesn’t like new people.”

  “It’s March. I don’t think it qualifies as ‘stranger danger’ when we’re three-quarters of the way through the school year.” I shrugged to make it clear I wasn’t upset or blaming her. “And you really don’t have to stick up for me.”

  “Oh, shut it.” She shoved me gently. “Don’t be ridiculous. Besides, I need to ask you something. I hear you’re making a video.”

  The warmth in my chest turned sour and my pulse kicked up. “It’s literally the opposite of what yours was.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “So it’s about a teacher who only calls on girls?”

  I flushed. “Okay, not literally.”

  “I got that.” There were zero signs of panic on her face—I should’ve noticed that. She was joking; that was a good sign.

  And her hair was curly again. These felt like baby steps back toward the Clara of before, and they made me hope I’d only dinged her, not caused any lasting damage.

  “Are you doing okay?” I asked. “You don’t have to answer, but I do care.”

  “It’s getting better,” she said. “Mostly because I’ve decided strangers don’t get to change how I feel about myself.”

  “I will never stop being sorry about what I did.”

  “And I’m sure someday I’ll take advantage of that.” She twirled a curl and tucked it behind her ear. “But right now I just want to be in the video.”

  I stumbled over my own shock, then hurried to catch up with her. Clara walked fast. “You do?”

  “To talk about Hero High? Of course. I could practically be the school mascot. I’m third-generation. I had Crimson Knight onesies. If I’d been a boy, I would’ve been named ‘Reginald.’ You need me in your video.”

  I grinned and held out a hand. “Sounds like I do.”

  She shook it. “I have your number. I’ll call you to schedule.”

  Leave it to Clara to make it sound so formal. I had plans to interview Bancroft, Shi, Elijah, Rory, and Merri when I got back from New York. Maybe Clara and—dare I hope—Mira could come over and I’d get them too?

  Then with Win’s help, I’d edit it into something cohesive and be done. Just the thought of crossing one thing off my to-do list felt like relief. But that was a week away. In the meantime, I needed coffee.

  Luckily, I’d left a cup from Cool Beans in my locker while signing in at the office. I fetched it, planning to chug it between the bells for second and third period.

  And since I’m such an excellent friend, I swung by the humanities building to wait for Rory outside of English. “Hey, Campbear. How was class?”

  “Fine.”

  I narrowed my gaze. “What are you getting away with?”

  “What do you mean?” Her eyes darted up and to the left; they always did that when she was hiding something.

  “It’s got to do with English. And I know you’re not that happy about poetry.” I tapped my thumb against my lip. “What alternative assignment did you talk her into?”

  She sighed in exasperation. “How do you always do that?”

  It was simple. She’d charged out the door like she was ready to take on the world. And while Rory’s being the first one out of class wasn’t new, her doing it with a smile on her face was highly unusual. I took a sip of my coffee. We hadn’t turned in an assignment recently, so there wasn’t one she could’ve gotten back. Plus, Rory didn’t grin for grades. This had to be art related. Art and English? I took another sip.

  “Huck!” I didn’t realize how fast I’d been walking until I noticed Rory jogging to keep up. I paused and drummed my thumb against my leg as she wove her way through the students.

  “What are you drawing?”

  “Fine. I’m doing a series where I create visual interpretations of poems we read.” She stretched toward me, and I was trying to figure out why
when she plucked the cup from my hand. “But, hello, Captain Caffeine. What number is this?”

  I reached for the coffee, but she held it behind her back. “It’s only . . .” My frown deepened as I tried to count. Cup one at three a.m. when I’d given up on sleep. Two at four thirty while studying my bulletin board, worried it was starting to resemble one of those red-string serial killer walls. At least my string was blue? Dad poured me a mug with breakfast. I’d smuggled a travel mug with another two cups to Aspen Creek. Then Mom had been drive-through amenable on the way here.

  I rubbed my eyes. “More than one, less than ten.”

  Rory sniffed. “You know I love you like the brother I never wanted—but you need to cut back on the coffee. Do you even realize you’re jittering?”

  I hadn’t. But I looked down at the hand Rory had placed on my arm—the muscles beneath her fingers were trembling. I dropped my arm, no longer trying to steal back the cup. If they hooked me to a seismograph right now, I’d register an eight point two. Not the Richter scale. I’d heard Eliza tell Curtis that scientists didn’t use that anymore. I’d be an eight point two on the “moment magnitude scale”—and, son of a monkey, Rory was right. My thoughts were as jumpy as my feet—which felt like they could tap-dance but knew they didn’t have the skills to pull that off. “Coffee is my cocaine.”

  “Excuse me?” She gaped. “You want to run that by me again? Only this time listen to the words you’re saying.”

  “Sherlock injected drugs. I caffeinate.”

  “I’m pretty sure Sherlock Holmes is not the best role model.” She tilted her head. “Or real.”

  Ms. Gregoire had been gliding past but paused. “Welcome back, Huck. I trust you had a productive morning?” She said “Good” in response to my nod and took the Cool Beans cup from Rory. “Did you want this back? Personally, I think Aurora’s giving you good advice.”