Get a Clue

by Tiffany Schmidt

  “I don’t need it.” The words felt like a lie, and I tried not to flinch as I watched the pink cup arc from my teacher’s hand into the trash.

  “Excellent. Also, I highly recommend you get yourselves off to class before the bell rings.”

  “C’mon.” Rory tugged my arm since my eyes were still glued to the trash can. Once I started moving, she asked, “How’d it go at Aspen Crest? Did you learn a lot?”

  Nothing at all about Winston or the case. Nothing but more dead ends. But it hadn’t been a waste. I bumped my shoulder against hers. “I learned I’m so glad I’m here.”

  24

  “Do you have a second, Huck?” Ms. Gregoire popped from a dark alcove at the back of the Convocation Hall, blocking my exit.

  I wanted to say no, to protest “train schedules” and “weekend.” Freedom was just two steps away, but I was too busy trying to pretend my vertical leap was some sort of slick maneuver and that I was straightening my tie, not clutching my chest. I was fully committed to denying that the anemic mouse squeak of a scream had come from me, but I was hopeful—maybe delusional—that it had been covered by the student noise in the echo-y hall. Seriously, though, it was like she’d materialized from the shadows.

  Or . . . like my body was still trying to process all the coffee I’d dumped into it lately. I nodded and followed as she stepped to the side, undamming the student traffic jam her jack-in-the-box appearance had caused. She sat in the last row, calmly waiting until the building was mostly empty. Mostly quiet.

  “You keep making references to Sherlock and ‘a case,’ ” she said. “And you’ve been erratic and exhausted in class lately. I’m not sure if this is related to the Clara video or an entirely different problem, but if there’s something I can help with, please let me know.”

  Could she help? I wasn’t sure. But she was on the admissions committee, and she may or may not be magic. It couldn’t hurt. “Remember that day I was supposed to have a date?”

  “Of course.” Her forehead creased. “With Curtis’s brother—and I met him when you were taking pictures.”

  “Winston.” I didn’t need to clarify, I just liked saying his name. And maybe other people would think it was “uncool” to talk to their teacher about their love life, but those people didn’t have this teacher—and I’d take any help I could get.

  I missed the first train as I filled her in. The Convocation Hall had emptied, and then even the lights went out.

  “Hang on.” She stood and waved her arms. The action should’ve looked unhinged, but somehow even when popping out of alcoves or flapping like a bird, Ms. Gregoire did so with a panache that just . . . worked. Maybe because she didn’t take herself too seriously. I used to be like that too: Good with a quip or dimpled joke. A diffuser of situations, fixer of problems. Man, did I miss that version of Huck. The one who slept and didn’t have to actively not think about stopping for coffee. The lights clicked back on and she sat. “Cost-saving eco-measure. Many a night I’m grading papers and the lights go out. Usually I take that as my signal to go home, but we’re not going anywhere until we finish talking this through. Though, I can’t say this is entirely new to me.”

  “What? How?” I squinted at her.

  “I’ve seen the page—the whole admissions committee has. There was a link to it in the email that withdrew his application. And while I had his application reinstated after talking to you both on campus, I didn’t know this whole rigmarole about the fake page—or the fake email. I thought it was sent in a panicked moment. This changes things.”

  “But the page is set to private,” I protested. I’d been holding on to that fact, hoping it kept him safe.

  “The school profile was given full access,” she answered. “And you can imagine how well that went over with the committee.”

  “So he’s doomed?” I dropped my face into my hands.

  “Not necessarily.” She pressed her lips together, and I gave her space to think. But while she was doing so, my pocket buzzed with an iLive alert.

  “There’s a new post.”

  She didn’t crowd me as I navigated to it. In fact, she was sending her own text message, one I caught from the corner of my eye. Going to be a bit late. Start dinner?

  It was on the tip of my tongue to apologize for keeping her, but then the post finished loading.

  There had been plenty of posts about Hero High, but they’d all been about the school, not the students. Not anymore.

  In the posted picture Lance was wearing his Hero High uniform. And based on the muddy sidewalks, it looked pretty recent. He was turned to the camera but not facing it. Like he’d been talking to someone who’d been cropped out. The shot was poorly framed, poorly lit. Overexposed. Maybe underexposed? Regardless, anyone with even passing knowledge of photography could’ve shot better. Win would’ve made something frame-worthy.

  What’s that word for when a guy hits on his best friend’s little sister? Oh, right: SCUM.

  “It’s not from Win.” I wasn’t sure if I was reminding her or myself, but I was also clicking on the photo making sure Lance hadn’t been tagged. Would someone tell him? Should I? Or at least give Curtis a heads-up so he could? It was only an hour ago that Lance had stopped by my row in this building to tell me the Chester formal was a go. Who even knew about it?

  Ms. Gregoire hit the button on my phone that made the screen turn off. “Let’s go back to the post about you.”

  I lifted my phone. “Do you want me to pull it up?”

  She shook her head. “Every post, by their very nature, risks exposure. Each one is predicated on the assumption that the subject won’t doubt Win wrote it and won’t confront him.”

  “Or, if they do—won’t actually give him context.” I was thinking of Cole and his fists or others’ cold shoulders. Attitudes Win had found inexplicable before.

  “Right.” Ms. Gregoire tapped a finger against her lips. “So it’s clear the person behind this doesn’t know you.”

  I frowned. I’d followed her logic to this point but couldn’t see the steps to this conclusion. “How so?”

  “Your post was much riskier. You’re not reactive—you wouldn’t knee-jerk break up with Winston without explaining why.”

  “I wouldn’t ever believe he wrote it.” Maybe after our meeting on the Campbells’ driveway, but not since our first conversation when he walked me home—no way.

  “Exactly.” Ms. Gregoire nodded. “Whoever wrote it doesn’t know how perspicacious you are.”

  “Also,” I half stood as pieces connected. “We’re not dating. Not yet. But whoever wrote the post doesn’t know that—and they implied we’d already kissed. We haven’t.” A fact that I’d whined about to Rory, and Curtis, and Miles—and I’m sure Win had been likewise complain-y to his circle. Which meant . . . it had to be someone who’d heard about Morris’s Chester-lunchroom proclamation and made assumptions. “Thanks. This helps.”

  It was another filter to funnel suspects through. But first I needed suspects . . .

  Ms. Gregoire mimed dusting off her hands. “Remember, all cases have a ticking clock and a motive. You’ve got a week. A week from right now is the last admissions meeting. When an applicant is polarizing, we put off the decision as long as possible—and Winston’s on that final list of students to debate. I can convince everyone the page is fake, I can win sympathy about how it must feel to be so targeted. But I need something from you—from him, really.”

  “What?” It was a croak. Five days until we took the page down. Seven days until my video was due and the final admissions committee meeting. Eight days until acceptance and rejection letters got mailed. I’d picked a heck of a time to cut back on coffee.

  “Does he actually want to go here? Because even disregarding the fake email and page, the impression he’s given is that he . . . doesn’t.”

  I tamped down the pressure that bloomed in my chest—the urge to shout I want him here—because all it did was emphasize that I didn’t have his ans
wer. I only had everyone else’s.

  Ms. Gregoire patted my shoulder as she stood. “And if he does, it would be great if we could see some evidence of that.”

  25

  I boarded the 4:37 train—my head spinning with motives, ticking clocks, evidence, and caffeine craving—and stumbled out into Penn Station seventy minutes later with them all still crowding my thoughts.

  Miles was waiting at the stairs that lead from the tracks into the pandemonium of people headed to subways and train lines, bathrooms and restaurants. A policewoman with a dog passed as he lifted the duffle bag off my shoulder and slung it onto his own. “Hey, Puck.”

  “Hey, Half-G.”

  Miles was still in a suit, tie loosened, briefcase in hand. He’d come straight from work. Since I was still in my uniform, we more or less matched.

  We emerged from the building into the loud chaos of Seventh Avenue. The sidewalk was crowded with pamphlet-wielding tour-company hawkers, people walking briskly and having to step around others who’d stopped to read a text or pull up a ride-sharing app. A group of tourists in matching neon sweatshirts had accidentally absorbed a stroller-pushing mom—no, nanny—and she was trying to get out without running anyone over.

  New York overwhelmed me. It was sensory bombardment. The smells: traffic and kebabs and a wisp of perfume from the woman who’d bumped into me while digging through her purse. The sounds: beeps and a thousand footsteps, the one-sided conversations of people wearing ear-buds, the two-sided conversations in a half-dozen languages. It was too much to take in. I was blinking in the twilight, making sure I didn’t walk into anyone stopping to take a selfie, and trying to listen to Miles tell me about his day.

  I doubted even Sherlock would find New York to be good detecting ground. But then again, had nineteenth-century London been any easier, with its opium dens and hansom cabs?

  Maybe the problem wasn’t the setting but the detective.

  “How’s my little sister?” Miles asked. He’d met Rory when she’d dragged me to an exhibit at the Met in February. Miles had skipped the museum but taken us out to dinner after. And within five minutes declared, “Rory’s in, you’re out. I only have time for one sibling, and I’ve decided to adopt her.”

  I hadn’t objected. Frankly, I loved him more for recognizing her awesomeness.

  I dug around in my bag for the sketch of Luna she’d slipped me in Convocation. “This is for you. And I’m under strict orders to tell you hi and that she’s hoping to be interning for Andrea Snipes in the city for the second half of July, so don’t plan any trips then.”

  Miles pulled out his phone to add the dates to his calendar. “I assume you’ll be crashing on my couch?”

  “At least part of the time.”

  “Cool. You hungry? Ramen?”

  I nodded, following him down two blocks, around a corner, then inside a dim restaurant whose smell made my mouth water.

  The waitress took our orders, filled our water glasses. She was two steps away and I was only twenty-three minutes into this weekend when Miles asked, “So what’s new with you and this guy?”

  And for the second time today, I told the whole story.

  Our food arrived, but neither of us lifted a spoon—despite two visits from the waitress checking to make sure it was all right.

  “—and the admissions committee meets next Friday for the final time before letters go out.” I slumped back in my seat. My ramen was on the lukewarm side of edible. I still ate it without complaint, repressing the urge to order an espresso to go with it.

  Miles slurped absently, his forehead creased the way it did when he was figuring out a problem. He was analytical too. And calculating—in the mathematical sense, which served him well on Wall Street. It also made him an excellent big brother, even though we’d spent the past five years living in different states. “What do his parents say?”

  “They’re so traumatized by what their lack of belief has put Win through. I’m half convinced I’ll get home on Sunday to find out they’ve gone to the police about the page.”

  “I’m not so sure they shouldn’t,” said Miles, signaling for the check. “Whoever did this is seriously messed up. But I have one question.” He frowned and dabbed at a spot of broth on his sleeve. He wasn’t prioritizing his dry cleaning over me; this pause was him figuring out his wording. “What does Win want? Because at this point his parents and siblings believe him—which seemed to matter most to him. You could shut down the page, use that to clear his name, and call it a day. Maybe whoever is behind it would try something else, but they mostly got away with it because no one was taking his side. That’s not true anymore.”

  I poked my noodles with a chopstick as I considered this. What did he want? Besides, well, me. And the fact that he’d been so clear about that when he wasn’t about much else made my chest warm. I was chipping pieces of yolk out of the tea egg in my bowl, watching them turn the broth unappetizing colors.

  Ms. Gregoire and the admissions committee had wondered this too—had read his attitude about Hero High as ambivalent. Was that right? If so, maybe the police and some cybercrimes unit were the way to go; it was only beating the admissions timetable that made my involvement make sense.

  Miles had gotten the check, paid it, and put on his jacket while I pondered this. “I don’t know if he’s let himself want it,” I said slowly. “I don’t know if anyone’s asked him.”

  Miles clapped a hand on my shoulder. “Then someone probably should. I nominate you.”

  I’d been hoping Miles would have some breakthrough suggestion about the case, but all his advice had been about Win.

  Win and Me.

  Man, it was obnoxious when he was wise. New York had given me distance, and Miles had offered perspective. I might not be able to solve this case. And if I couldn’t, Win and I still remained. What were we?

  Win had asked me way back on the day when I crashed his chores, “Is a puzzle still interesting if it can’t be solved? What if I don’t get into Hero High?”

  My answers, then and now, were the same. But what had changed was that then I’d been too busy chasing clues to speak them.

  Now I realized he needed to hear them. That they weren’t as obvious outside my head.

  My thoughts were crowded with things I didn’t know and hadn’t spoken. With observations sans analysis and analysis sans conclusions. And as I watched suburbia smear past the train windows on Sunday morning’s ride home, I didn’t know what to do with it all.

  Ms. Gregoire didn’t ask me to write response journals for Sherlock, but maybe I was used to it from the other books she’d assigned, or maybe it was just something I needed to get out. Because when I balanced my laptop on my knees and began to type, instead of completing the homework on Walt Whitman, I wrote about Holmes.

  My family used to have this tradition where we guessed presents before we opened them. We’d try to fool each other with our wrappings—strange shapes, oversized boxes, padding material, slipping in a handful of dried beans to change the noise it made when shaken. Used to—and it’s my fault the tradition ended. Because the unwritten rule no one tells you is: People don’t want you to guess correctly. They want to feel clever, like they’ve fooled you or gotten away with something. They want the surprised reaction when the duct tape and bubble wrap and paper towel tubes have been cleared away. They get a sense of accomplishment from hearing, “I had no idea.”

  And I was too good at guessing.

  The last time we played was my parents’ fifteenth anniversary. Dad brought in a long, rectangular box. It was wrapped in newsprint and tied with ribbon—there were fifteen helium balloons attached. But in one corner you could see the packaging underneath—from a florist. Mom shook her head and chuckled. “Is it roses? You know they’re my favorite.”

  My older brother said, “Good one, Dad.”

  I’d shaken my head, interrupted as Mom began untangling balloon strings and tape. “No, wait. He already took the roses out. I bet they’r
e hidden somewhere—” I’d smelled fresh-cut leaves when I walked in the house and the box had come from Dad’s trunk—where he wouldn’t have left roses on an eighty-five degree day. “It’s something else in there. I’m guessing diamond earrings—Mom’s been hinting and Dad has a jewelry store receipt in his wallet.” I’d seen it when he stopped for gas.

  I’d been right. I’d spoiled the surprise. I’d ended the tradition.

  Sherlock Holmes tells Watson of “the curses of a mind with a turn like mine”—how he can’t shut it off, how he sees everything through the lens of his profession. I get that.

  How do you try not to notice things? I can’t. But I’ve trained myself not to share them. Not to give in to that urge to be right. Which is so hard—there’s so many times a day I feel deficient. I crave chances to feel clever.

  And what’s the use of noticing things—noticing everything—if I can’t sort clues that are relevant from those that aren’t? If I just collect more and more facts to weigh on my mind but can’t solve anything?

  I was looking at sneakers online last week. I could filter by color, style, price, size—weed out the ones I didn’t want and create a list that fit my specifications. I can’t help thinking that if I could just figure out how to do that with the contents of my head—that I could make things finally make sense. That for once I wouldn’t be the weirdo for making deductions; I’d be the hero.

  26

  I hadn’t meant to throw a party. But as far as accidents go, this was a good one. I thought I’d have Bancroft and a few others over on Sunday night to do their Hero High interviews. But then Clara had showed up with a back seat full of friends, and her brother, Penn, had decided to stay instead of dropping her off. He’d called his girlfriend, and Lynnie came with her twin, Byron. I’d asked for Wren’s number, and they’d agreed to stop in and lend their voice to an interview. Rory and Toby showed up. Lance dropped by with the rest of his lunch table. Pretty soon my basement was full of classmates.