I turned toward my locker, stealing a second to compose my face.
“Also, Win won’t accept our friend requests on iLive and I’m annoyed,” said Mira. “How am I supposed to tell him I approve?”
“Frankly, I’m surprised he has one.” Clara twirled a curl as she mused. Her glittery sneakers matched her glittery nails, and these were both good things—signs of the old Clara coming back. But I was too emotionally drained to care. “He and Mac used to jokey-argue about it. Win always said, ‘You either have a life or you iLive.’ He’s not wrong.”
“You’re not missing much,” I told them, then realized there was no reason not to say more. Wink was supposed to be taking the page down, and I’d been the one who’d insisted on secrecy, back when I’d thought I could solve this. Back before Win had lied to my face to cover—again—for his twin. This time for something she didn’t even do. “Actually, the page isn’t his. I know it’s his name and picture, but—”
I gave them the barest of stories, staring at a Model UN poster behind them so I didn’t have to watch Clara brainstorming or Mira’s fierce protectiveness expanding to include us.
“What can we do?” Clara asked. “Besides obviously making sure everyone hears this.”
“I’m already on it.” Mira waved her phone. “Wait here. I’ll go get you pretzels.”
“Pretzels?” I asked Clara after she’d stormed off.
“Aren’t they your favorite?” She tilted her head. “We figured they must be since you had so many kinds at the party.”
I laughed so hard my eyes welled—then I was balancing on a knife-edge, trying not to tip over to real tears.
Clara squeezed my arm. “Need a topic change?”
I nodded. And actually, I had one. “I got another call from Charles last night. I sent his phone number to your Hero High email, but there’s no pressure for you to use it.”
She raised a shoulder in a casual shrug before pivoting on the toe of one sparkly sneaker to greet Mira, who was rushing back with four mini-bags of pretzels that she’d scavenged from who knows where.
“Oh, no worries,” Clara said. “I already did.”
“How’d it go last night?”
I stared blankly at my English teacher. It probably wasn’t that different from the blank expression I’d given her all class, or the one I’d worn while watching my clay spin aimlessly on the wheel in art. But there must have been some subtle giveaway because she grabbed a pen. “Oh dear. I’m going to need to write you a pass to your next class, aren’t I?”
“No.” I rubbed the base of my neck and reached into my backpack for the bag of chocolate-covered coffee beans Rory had given me as a weaning-down present. It took twenty beans to equal the amount of caffeine in one cup. This conversation would require at least five. “But only because I’m headed to Mayfield. My mom should be here in ten minutes to sign me out.”
She put down her pen and sat back in her chair. “The night off didn’t go well? Are you okay?”
“It had moments of promise . . .” Lucky me, I now knew what I was missing. “But it didn’t end up being a good night.” I traded beans for pretzels and used my foot to push my backpack away. “You know, sometimes Sherlock scares me.”
She raised an eyebrow. “How so? The way a scary movie scares you? Or causes you personal fear?”
“I want to be as good at fixing things as him. But he’s good because he’s objective and unemotional.” I stared down at salt on my thumb. “I don’t know how to do that. To not care. I make people feel like projects and I have emotional blind spots.” I lifted my chin. “I’m failing from both sides.”
“Oh, Huck.” Ms. Gregoire pressed a hand to her chest. “You’re not failing at all. Don’t stop caring—your big heart is one of the best parts about you. You want to fix the whole world—and maybe that doesn’t happen at once, but you are making it a better place.”
“But—” I thought of the times I’d asked questions that hurt Win because they felt like the right detective move. I thought about the answers I’d never found. “Sherlock’s not—it’s not a love story. Holmes cares for Watson more than any other human, but it isn’t romance. And it’s not a balanced relationship; he’s always a bit patronizing when he tells Watson to make observations, then points out all the things he got wrong or missed. What must that feel like for Watson?”
And what must it feel like for Winston when we focused only on his mistakes, his past, his flaws?
Ms. Gregoire cleared her throat, waiting for me to meet her eyes. “Then it’s a good thing you’re not Sherlock.”
“But you wanted me to read these stories?” And wasn’t that what she did? Paired people via literary parallels?
“The lessons we learn from literature aren’t prescriptive. There’s not always a direct correlation; their endings aren’t ours.” The bell for third period rang, but she didn’t blink or look away. “I appreciate that you admire aspects of Sherlock Holmes, but I also strongly discourage you from faking your own death or running around with a pistol.”
I laughed. “Obviously.”
Ms. Gregoire tapped her lip theatrically. “Hmm. So if that is obvious to you, why isn’t this: you write your own ending. It’s every bit as malleable as those of the people you make into projects.”
“True, but . . .” But there was no but. If I expected to be able to change things for Rory or Clara or Win, why did I think I couldn’t do the same for myself? I swallowed. “True.”
She smiled at me. “And speaking of projects, you need to get to Mayfield to work on yours.”
Ms. Gregoire was wrong about one thing. Did I need to go to Mayfield Middle Academy? Not really. But I already had the appointment, and a lack of interviews from Hero High’s feeder school might look conspicuous.
But I didn’t get anything usable. Every single student I interviewed had applied to Hero High. Which meant every one of them was a stress mess waiting to see if they’d get an acceptance or rejection letter mailed this weekend.
None of the frantic, sycophantic footage made me eager to sit down and edit. Especially since the last time I’d done so had been with Win.
When I got back to campus after a coffee-free drive-through lunch with Mom, Headmaster Williams stopped me as I was signing in. “Huck, let Mr. Welch know if you need any special setup for Friday’s Convocation.”
I blinked at him. “You want me to show my video at Convocation?”
“Well, make sure you show the final cut to Ms. Gregoire for approval first.”
A slow grin spread across my face: Friday was when Curtis’s family was supposed to come see him be honored. It was right before the admissions committee’s last meeting. I didn’t know how I’d put all these pieces together yet, but I’d come up with something.
31
Maybe there was something to Mom and Dad’s Huck’s-a-lonely-latchkey theory—because moping around my room Tuesday afternoon had been torture. Wednesday after school I tagged along with Toby and Rory. Tomorrow, maybe I’d go home with Bancroft, or ask Clara what clubs were meeting. Anything to fill the cavernous Cavendish hole in my days.
“Did you forget where you live? Or is Campbear too lazy to walk across the fifteen feet of grass between your driveways?” I asked when Toby pulled into hers.
He laughed. “Neither. I’m just dropping you guys off. I’ve got piano.”
I got out of the car as he kissed her goodbye. In the past I would’ve been abstractly jealous, but now that I knew what it was like to kiss someone you cared about, I was glaring envious holes in the lawn.
Rory emerged from the car, bright-eyed and smiley, then dragged me to her kitchen and demanded, “Catch me up on all things Win and Sherlock and life in general.”
She sketched lazily on a barstool as I sat at the Campbells’ kitchen table and ate my way through most of their fruit bowl while explaining and complaining. “Between the school visits I’ve talked to a lot of the people who’ve been insulted on the page.” I ban
ged my head gently against the table. “Some of them don’t like him—but none of them don’t like him that much.”
In “The Adventure of the Copper Beeches” Holmes tells Watson, “I have devised seven separate explanations, each of which would cover the facts as far as we know them.” And I hated him for that line. Seven explanations. I had zero.
“Poor Huck.” Rory reached down and patted my shoulder, probably leaving charcoal smudges on my blazer, then she resumed whatever she was shading. “If you don’t think it’s any of them, do you think . . . Could he have done it?”
I groaned against a poodle placemat. “No.”
Her pencil stopped moving. “If it was me and Toby, I couldn’t be open-minded. Are you sure you just don’t want him to be innocent?”
I lifted my head and met her eyes, making sure she saw I was serious. “Yes. It’s not him. Drop it, Campbear.”
“If it’s not someone who’s on the page, then who’s conspicuously not?” I turned to see Eliza standing in the kitchen doorway. She was holding the storage container I’d once moved to wipe down a cabinet. It was full of cupcakes. I knew their stress-baker. “Who else stands to benefit from Win being isolated or not getting into Hero High?”
While Rory picked out a cupcake for Toby from Curtis’s baked goods, I mentally scanned the list of people insulted against the people in Win’s life. Eliza was right—there was someone conspicuously absent. As Holmes had said, “Eliminate all other factors, and the one which remains must be the truth.”
“Eliza, you’re a genius!”
“I know.” She frowned. “But that’s the second least interesting thing about me. Did you figure it out?”
I stood and grabbed my bag. “I think—I think I did.”
I called Lincoln Cavendish as I walked toward Cool Beans. By foot, it was thirty minutes from the Campbells’, but I needed that time to gather the final pieces of information and get my head on straight.
“Hey, Huck.” Wink’s voice was hushed. “Curtis has gone through five pounds of flour, and Win appears to be doing a photo series of only broken things. Please tell me you’re calling with good news.”
“Close. I’m calling with questions. You know that kid Erick?”
“Yeah?” She sounded wary. “Is it him? I knew he was sneaky.”
“Nope. But the kid he pantsed, the one who was commando—who was it?”
Win hadn’t remembered, but Wink was an encyclopedia of social currency. I should’ve asked this sooner—not that I really needed her answer. Still, I sucked in a vindicated breath when she gave it.
“Another question: That fight Win and Curtis had about the science fair—did you talk to anyone about it?”
“Well, Reese was here, but after she left, I called—”
I could’ve completed that sentence for her too. And like a row of dominos, all the pieces were falling into place. It made sense why the only kind post on the page was about Wink.
Because Morris liked Wink. Because the page was Morris’s.
I gritted my teeth, remembering how I’d glibly asked him, “How has Win wronged you?” and he’d had no answers. At the very least he could’ve cited the cheating thing and having to miss the class trip. Morris wore a Phillies cap; he was a fan. Hence the retaliation post about tattling Colleen.
And baseball! Bancroft told me that he, Elijah, and Morris were cut from the Mayfield team. The same team Erick had made. Erick who’d pantsed him. Erick of the dropped-ball revenge gif.
Shiloh had told me dating Win had “alienated friends” and that “middle school jealousy is real.” Reese was Wink’s BFF, and she’d asked Morris out, rendering him at least temporarily off-limits. Ergo the petty posts about both of them.
Frame Me had occupied Win’s weekends, meaning Morris lost access to both Cavendish twins. The job had to go.
Lance became a target when he’d agreed to go to Wink’s formal. It was a favor, not a date. Morris wouldn’t care. Especially after Win had blocked him from taking her.
Hero High—that was obvious: an acceptance would take Wink and Win away from him.
Me? I’d monopolized Win’s afternoons. But Ms. Gregoire was right: the person posting hadn’t known me; he’d thought we’d break up. That I’d give his words that power. No chance.
No, it had been Win’s words—Win’s lie that had accomplished that.
But none of this was proof. It was all connections and coincidences. There was no smoking gun.
“Are you and Win fighting?”
I almost dropped the phone. I’d forgotten I was holding it and that Wink was still on the line.
“Yes.” The truth was simple and strategic. “Actually, I could use some advice about him. Could you give me Morris’s number?”
“Oh. I could—if you want, I—” I pretended not to hear her half offers, waiting her out until she rattled off his digits.
If Wink weren’t so distracted by her brothers’ bad moods, she definitely could’ve followed the pattern of my questions and drawn her own conclusions. But she didn’t, and I further diluted the conversation by asking for Cole Martin’s number too. There was no way I was letting him return from suspension still thinking Win had deserved that punch.
“If you haven’t already, submit the takedown form to iLive,” I told her. “Ask them to tell you the email address associated with the account.”
I already knew how that would turn out—it would connect to the fake email used to retract Win’s application and change his work schedule. One more clue that was also a dead end.
Except now I knew the culprit. I just needed to figure out how to get him to admit it.
I glanced up from my phone when the chair across the café table from mine scraped backward. “Morris. Hi. Thanks for meeting me.”
“I wasn’t surprised you called.” He set down one of Cool Beans oversized in-house mugs. They were coated with chalkboard paint, orders and names scrawled on the side. His read “green tea,” which was as disgusting as him, and “Mortis”—Latin for “of death,” which felt so fitting.
He nodded at my cup. “No mega today?”
I kept my face neutral but internally seethed that he’d brought up the last time we’d been here, sat at this same table while he’d played cards, played at being friends with the people he was betraying.
“Nope.” I set down my cup. “Hunk” was written over “decaf pour-over,” and I turned it to face away so I wouldn’t be bombarded with the memory of when Win first walked me home. My drink was half finished, so it wobbled but didn’t spill when Morris banged the table as he sat. He winced as tea splashed into his lap. “Let me guess: Win screwed up.”
I shifted in my chair—not because I was uncomfortable or surprised by his words, but because I was supposed to be. “Yeah. How did you know?”
“Listen. I love the guy, but it’s what he does. He’ll do it again if you let him. It’s good you’re recognizing this and cutting your losses now.”
Wow, that was a leap. And not at all subtle. I couldn’t have disagreed more. So, of course I nodded emphatically.
“And what I do is pick up the pieces.” He spread his hands and gave me a smarmy grin, along with a hint of his motive. Once I was eliminated, Win would need him. “People always call me when he screws up.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, you did.” He frowned at my “confusion,” annoyed I was asking questions instead of complaining about Win. “And Wink has me practically on speed dial.”
“Wink has you on speed dial?” If you repeated the end of a person’s statement back at them, changing the inflection to make it a question, they elaborated. It was simple and effective.
And infuriating.
Morris’s ears turned red. “She’s sensitive. And every time Win messes up or gets yelled at, she needs someone to vent to. She can’t complain to him, because she’s worried about making it worse.”
I set down my cup with a clink. “So then you get to step in and pl
ay hero?” In my head it was sarcastic, but I’d kept my tone neutral.
“I don’t know that I would’ve phrased it like that.” Morris chuckled nervously, flattered by the words but not sure if they were complimentary. “But, basically. Yeah.”
“Breaking things off with Win . . .” I bit the inside of my cheek until I could breathe steadily and speak calmly. If my façade was cracking, hopefully he attributed it to my being heartbroken—not that I thought he was the human equivalent of phlegm. “It’s probably for the best.” I took a slow sip of coffee to get Morris’s full attention. “I mean, soon he won’t have time for me anyway.”
“Why?” His puzzled expression cleared. “Oh, right. Because of the job. I’m shocked the old guy rehired him. It won’t last.”
I pinched my leg to keep the gotcha off my face.
Win hadn’t been offered the job yet. The only people who knew about it were me, Mr. Rivera, and the owner of that email.
Gotcha.
32
In Sherlock’s stories, once he had solved the case, the villains, the victims, or a bystander all said some version of “I will soon make everything clear to you” and produced a convenient explanation or confession, often with details about their motives and methods.
I wasn’t going to get anything like that from Morris. He wasn’t going to admit anything he’d done or tell me the why. And while Sherlock said deduction needed to be devoid of emotion, crime was wholly motivated by it. If I stayed across from this monster who said things like “I love the guy” while working to destroy Win’s life, I’d make the leap to the wrong side of the paradigm. Lash out with fists and accusations that weren’t mine to inflict.
And once I realized that, there was no reason to stay at Cool Beans.
I didn’t bother with bussing my mug, or goodbye, or acknowledging his surprised “Huck? Where are you going?”
I just stood and walked out the door.
But having an answer didn’t give me a direction. It didn’t get me a confession.
I had all new questions, though: Did I tell Win, or Wink, or Curtis? Did I tell anyone?
Get a Clue Page 23