Get a Clue

by Tiffany Schmidt

  I pondered this while I edited the video. It wasn’t perfect, but it was magnitudes better than the shaky, under-the-desk horror that had gone viral. And all credit for that improvement went to the guy I kept picking up my phone to call before putting it back down.

  Finally I walked downstairs and handed it to Mom. “Can you hold on to this for me?”

  It was what she’d made me do in middle school: surrender my phone until my homework was done. And now, because I’d done it voluntarily, I got a hug and a squeaky, too-proud comment about “my Pucky being so grown-up and mature.”

  Yeah—she was preventing me from texting Morris is a liar, liar, pants on fire. So grown-up and mature.

  Despite my wishful thinking, there weren’t any texts from Win waiting when I retrieved my phone the next morning. There was an email from Ms. Gregoire though, agreeing to meet me before school to approve the video.

  She nodded and uh-hmm’d as it played. Then shrugged. “This looks perfectly acceptable.”

  That was lukewarm praise by Gregoirian standards, but I let it go. I had something else to ask before first period. “If I figured out who was behind the iLive page and that knowledge will hurt Win, do I still tell him? Or do I confront the person myself? Report it? I could go to the police. The page is down now.”

  “Who was it?” she asked. “Also, well done.”

  “A friend.”

  She sucked a breath through her teeth. “Yikes. So you weren’t exaggerating that the truth would hurt.” She was quiet for a moment. “I think Winston has had a lot of choices taken away from him lately. The things that have been done in his name have made him feel disenfranchised. This is his friend, his hurt. It should be his choice about if or how to confront them and what the consequences should be.”

  “But isn’t that worse? If I could figure out how to take care of it, then he won’t have to.” I couldn’t control what Morris might say to Win. Couldn’t stop him from spewing venom that would only add to the emotional baggage Win insisted on carrying.

  Ms. Gregoire gave me a look soft with pity. “Sherlock only solves the cases; he doesn’t serve as judge or jury.”

  The door opened and seniors were filing in, so I spoke faster. “So, I tell the twins . . . then what do I do?”

  “Well, you have a video to finish. Go get your big win.”

  But it was finished. And did she mean that in the victory sense, or was she talking about the person? Capital-W Win, or the lowercase antonym of lose? Because I’d lost Win. But could I win him back with the video?

  “Did you mean—” The bell rang, cutting off my words.

  “Absolutely!” She nodded and handed me my laptop. “You’ve got this. Convocation tomorrow is going to be unforgettable.”

  I spent hours that night staring at the video. Something was missing, but I couldn’t identify what. I had alumni and hopefuls. Outsiders and those currently enrolled. I had Win’s gorgeous photographs and even his gorgeous—albeit bruised—face among the interviews. But Ms. Gregoire was right: it was currently “acceptable,” and she’d set the bar at “unforgettable.”

  I kept my cell phone next to me while I waited for inspiration. Not because it was any less of a distraction tonight, but because I was hoping Win would respond to the text I’d sent: Hey. We need to talk.

  The texts I was getting were all from Rory.

  We need to talk?

  Seriously, you sent him “We need to talk”?

  AKA, the worst words in the history of communication.

  Did you want to make him LESS likely to respond? Because, good job.

  I laughed and groaned and scowled at the bottom of my coffee mug. I’d been so good about sticking to my three-cup limit, but tonight might need to be an exception. I pushed the mug out of sight and replied to Rory: As always, your unwavering support is noted and appreciated.

  I looked at the bruised face frozen on my computer screen. I’d promised him “unwavering support” too.

  I put down my phone and picked up my pen.

  33

  “Huck!”

  I’d spent hours listening to that voice in the past couple of weeks. Hearing it sound jovial and sarcastic, vulnerable and reserved. And in our last encounter, angry and anguished. So even above all the student voices in the Convocation Hall, I could pick out Win’s.

  “You decided to come.” I didn’t know what to do with my hands. I wanted to reach for him, but for what purpose? And how would he react? My fingers drummed against my pants until I shoved them into my pockets. “I’m glad. You’ll get to see my video too.”

  “Are you nervous?” His hair was wet, like he’d just gotten out of the shower—like the evidence this really had been a last-minute decision was still dripping onto his collar. And the realization that he’d almost missed it made my stomach cramp.

  “A little. Did you get my text?” I still needed to tell him about Morris.

  “Yeah, but I only have a minute. My parents and Wink are grabbing seats. I just—” He pulled a tie from his pocket and held it out to me.

  I looked from it to the one I was already wearing. “What’s this for?”

  “Me?” He shrugged and toed the carpet. “I stink at tying them. I figure you do them every day . . . Or I can ask my dad.”

  “No!” I took the tie and a step closer. “I’ve got you. Got this.”

  He was right: I did do this every day, and the muscle memory should’ve made it easy. I stepped behind him, standing close enough to smell the chlorine on his skin and feel his breath on the backs of my hands as I reached out with unsteady fingers to flip up his collar. I looped it around his neck. But how many times did I adjust the length of my own tie before I began crossing and twisting? Because I couldn’t seem to stop sliding it back and forth. The back of my fingers skimming against the white fabric of his shirt as I did, and the lungs beneath hitching in ways that matched my own shredded breath.

  “Is that too tight?” I asked as I pivoted around to face him and slide the knot up. I placed my left hand on his shoulder to hold us both still.

  “No, it feels good.” Win’s voice was husky, his eyes dark. I wanted to ask if I was still past-tense, but I was lying by omission at the same time I was being trusted to tie knots around his neck. Asking for anything from him before I’d come clean about Morris felt like the worst kind of violation.

  The knuckles of my right hand brushed the bare skin above Win’s collar as I made final adjustments to the knot. His throat moved against my fingers as he swallowed. “By the way, you weren’t wrong.”

  I froze, both hands still touching him. “About what?”

  “Everything. You weren’t wrong that Wink didn’t do it. You weren’t wrong when you said I was covering for her.” He reached up and covered my right hand with his. “And you weren’t wrong about me—that I needed to step up. I needed to stop playing the martyr and start driving my own life. And more than that, I needed to decide if I wanted to be here”—he gestured around us, to the nearly full Convocation Hall—“both for Curtis today, and next year as a student. You weren’t wrong, Huck.”

  “I was right about one other thing too.” I shrugged like it was nothing, even though his words meant everything. But the other options were bawling or mauling him, and I didn’t have time for either.

  He laughed and rolled his eyes. “Oh? What’s that?”

  “That you were worth all of that effort.” But I couldn’t prove it now. My parents were standing and waving us over. Dad had his phone out, and I’d bet a week’s worth of coffee he’d taken a picture of me fixing Win’s tie and planned to print and display it next to the one of Miles putting on his prom date’s corsage.

  “C’mon.” Grabbing his hand felt presumptuous, so I looped my fingers around his wrist. “Meet my parents. It looks like they’ve already met yours.” His family was one row up, turned around and chatting over the seats.

  “Do we have to?”

  “Sure do. And I should warn you: Mom’s a
hugger.”

  He paled as we approached, sticking out his hand for a shake—like that would stop her. “Hi, Mr. and Mrs. Baker. I’m Winston.”

  “It’s so nice to finally meet the boy who has my baby Pucky all aflutter.” Mom was five feet nothing but clearly deadly, because I about died of mortification as Win choked on his laughter in her stranglehold hug.

  “Marlene, we talked about this.” Dad shook his head, and for a second I thought he was going to tell her to notch back the humiliation. Instead he added, “Huck may be our baby, but he doesn’t want you calling him—or his boyfriend—a ‘boy.’ ” He held out his arms. “It’s nice to meet you, young man.”

  “Yeah, um, Dad’s also a hugger,” I added when Win glowered at me over his shoulder. “Probably should’ve mentioned that too.”

  It might’ve gotten worse. There really were no limits to the degrees of embarrassment my parents could inflict, but thankfully Headmaster Williams tapped the microphone and began the usual announcements.

  Then Dr. Badawi, Curtis’s biology teacher, was taking the podium to talk about his winning project from the Avery Science Fair and sing his praises. I tuned out and stared at the back of the wet head one row up.

  Did he think that label came from me? That I was casually combining “boy” and “friend” when I talked about him? Not that I did. Talk about him with my parents, that is. At least, not much.

  “Huck,” Dad whispered.

  “I don’t!”

  “Don’t what?” he asked. “Never mind that now. Your teacher—”

  I followed his finger to where Ms. Gregoire was beckoning me from the edge of the row. “Are you ready?” she asked.

  I patted my blazer pocket, then nodded. The video file was saved in my school Dropbox. All I had to do was double-click on it. Whether that was all I did do remained undecided.

  “Good. Headmaster Williams wants a quick word.” She led the way to a tiny anteroom and he looked up from his phone.

  “I wanted to confirm that you’re all set. I don’t want any antics.”

  “Define ‘antics,’ ” I said with a smile, the kind that disarmed people, before I added, “Kidding”—even though this time, I wasn’t.

  Headmaster Williams didn’t seem disarmed. “Might I remind you, you’re on your third strike, Mr. Baker.”

  “I’ve seen and approved the video.” Ms. Gregoire stepped forward with a bright smile. “Huck has been nothing but motivated and cooperative.”

  Headmaster Williams nodded. “I’m glad to hear it. I look forward to seeing your hard work.” He ducked out to join in the applause for Curtis, and I took a deep breath.

  “I need to tell you something.” I’d waited until the last cowardly second to come clean. Not as cowardly as afterward. Not so late she couldn’t stop me. I held on to those truths. “I made some changes to the video. It’s not the version you’ve seen.”

  She smoothed the front of her skirt. “I know.”

  “You do?” I glanced over my shoulder at the stage. Curtis was at the podium, and hopefully he’d be his usual charming and chatty self, because I had questions. “How?”

  “Just because I’m telling you to be less like Sherlock doesn’t mean I don’t have a little sleuth in me as well. The day I don’t know my students well enough by March to tell when they’re lying to me is the day I should quit teaching.”

  “Do you think it’s a mistake?”

  “I don’t know.” I didn’t like her answer, but I appreciated its honesty. Well, ten percent of me did. The other ninety was worried about sweating through my shirt. “Like those last students whose admission status will be decided at today’s meeting, your ending isn’t written yet. But I’m not going to talk you out of it.”

  “I’m nervous,” I told her.

  She squeezed my shoulder. “And I’m here. Well, out there, rather. Because it’s time to go on.”

  34

  The Convocation Hall looked bigger from the podium than it did from the seats. I cleared my throat awkwardly by the mic. “Hi, I’m Huck Baker.” “Wahoo! Go Huck!”

  The audience laughed, and I wasn’t sure if that was Merri or my mom, so to be safe, both were dead to me now.

  “I, uh, made a video a month ago that accidentally went viral, so here’s one I made on purpose. Thanks.”

  My hand wobbled on the laptop remote, but there was a guy in the second row giving me a look of raised-eyebrow challenge paired with a small nod of encouragement. And if nothing else, I wanted him to hear what I had to say.

  I pressed Play.

  I slid the remote into my blazer pocket. It nestled beside note cards I had memorized. I could still pretend they didn’t exist—exit stage left and let the file play uninterrupted. There were two minutes and thirty-eight seconds until I had to make that decision.

  Headmaster Williams joined me by the podium. He’d been clapping politely with the audience, but he reached out and put a hand on my shoulder. “Stay here and watch it with me. You should be proud of your hard work.”

  I gave him a nervous smile and pivoted so I could see the video screen in my periphery—but more importantly, see Win’s reaction to it.

  The opening shot looked like it could be straight from any admissions brochure. It was the view of campus coming down the avenue and into the lane where the stone buildings became visible. It was one of Win’s pictures, and my voice from a prerecorded narrative track joined it.

  “This is Hero High. Founded in 1889 by the famous tile maker Reginald R. Hero as a coeducational school that supports the academic, artistic, and athletic endeavors of all students. Hero High is a special place. If you ask the parents, they might rave about achievements or college acceptances, but if you ask the students—”

  I felt the tension drain from Headmaster Williams’s grip. He patted me on the back and then clasped his hands in front of his stomach as my narration continued. “Well, I’ll let them speak for themselves . . .”

  A question flashed on the screen: Describe Hero High in one word. I’d only included the responses of current students, and I’d made quick jump cuts between the videos of their answers.

  Merri: “Magic”

  Fielding: “Tradition”

  Lance: “Teammates”

  Rory: “Inspiration”

  Eliza: “Family”

  Bancroft: “Friends”

  Curtis: “Intellectually-stimulating”

  There were giggles at his disclaimer: “It’s one word. I’m using a hyphen.”

  I’d split the screen to show Shiloh and Sera both say, “Acceptance.”

  Then subdivided again for Mira, Elijah, Hannah, Wren, and Dantes’s “Community.”

  The video zoomed in on a single face for the last answer: Clara’s.

  “Home,” she said. “It feels like home.”

  The narration picked back up with more of Win’s glory shots of campus: The sunset off the greenhouse, the light through the Convocation Hall’s stained glass windows. A close-up of a book left on a bench, a row of lockers, student posters, the famous sidewalk tiles. “It’s easy to see why people want to come to Hero High.”

  In the past two weeks I’d conducted dozens of interviews, had a hundred answers to my three questions. I let myself glance at Win, let myself drink in his attentive gaze, knowing he was probably making mental notes on how I’d done with the filming and editing. I caught his surprise, then his smirk as he realized that the first interview I’d included was of a boy sitting on a bed, starring at the camera through a black eye with his heart on his face and in his words.

  “It feels like Hero High is a safe space. I’ve seen what it does for my brother—for other people I care about. It’s a place where you become a better version of yourself. Where you’re heard and supported and given a chance to grow from your mistakes.”

  I turned from the screen as other answers played, text overlays affirming or correcting the words of current and former and hopeful students as well as people who had no
affiliation with the school. I saved Clara for last again, zooming in on her smile as a choral version of the school song played in the background.

  “I’ve wanted to be a Hero High Crimson Knight for as long as I can remember. It’s possible I was the youngest person to submit an application—I was seven. They said they’d hold on to it for me. I have my acceptance letter, which came six years later, framed.”

  The audience laughed, and I searched for Clara, finding her in the third row. Her head was high, her shoulders back. Mira’s leg pressed firmly against hers. I’d gotten her permission to use one of the gifs, and she met my eyes as it flashed on the screen, then she held up her phone and typed something with glitter-painted nails. I felt mine buzz in my pocket and knew what she’d sent: a date, a time, a TV station. I grinned.

  The audience had stirred in surprised discomfort at the sight of her gif, but they leaned in when her interview came back on the screen. “But Hero High is more than an idea that can be hung on the wall. It’s a community that challenges and changes you. And being accepted into this school doesn’t mean accepting the status quo. They let me in because they valued my voice, and I’m so lucky to be surrounded by people who remind me to use it—even when it’s hard. Even when it’s easier to stay quiet.”

  I could’ve edited out the pause after this, but I left the three seconds where she looked down and regrouped. The potent silence in the Convocation Hall told me it’d been the right choice.

  “When the video went viral, Headmaster Williams came to check on me. He sat at my kitchen table and told me, ‘Our school doesn’t graduate students—it produces heroes. These next couple of weeks are going to be hard for you, Clara, but know you’re already one of mine.’ I hope he knows the feeling is mutual.”

  The tall, bald man beside me tried to be subtle as he sniffled.

  My video cut from Clara to Ms. Gregoire, smiling across the expanse of her desk. “Anything can happen in these classrooms. My job isn’t to fill my students’ heads with facts; it’s to provide questions and guidance and get out of the way. Then it’s my privilege to watch them become the people they’re meant to be.”