Get a Clue

by Tiffany Schmidt

  Happy birthday to me!

  “It’s your birthday?” He yawned again, and now I was the one covering my mouth—because apparently I’d said that aloud.

  “Um, I have plans with Curtis.”

  “For your birthday?”

  “No. No birthday. I mean, I have one, obviously. But today isn’t it.”

  “Come in.” He blinked sleepily, and I prayed to the gods of brain fog that he wasn’t awake enough to process what had just happened. “I’m not sure where Curtis is, but you can wait.”

  “Sorry I woke you.” Did I want to come in? Heck, yeah. But he had the look of someone who could be back asleep in three minutes. “You don’t have to entertain me. I’ll text Curtis and—”

  “It’s no problem.” His eyes widened in quick blinks, like he was trying to wake himself up. When I still hesitated, he asked, “What’s your favorite breakfast? I’m not offering to make it, I’m question gaming.”

  I grinned and stepped inside. “Coffee and cereal.”

  “Man, if I’d known it was that easy, I would’ve offered.” He padded barefoot into the kitchen and opened a cabinet of mugs for me. As always, I went for the biggest, but first I pointed to the one with a paint handprint that had been cracked and repaired.

  “Yours?”

  “The handprint or the handiwork?” he asked. “The print is Curtis’s. Wink’s the one who dropped it, but I got caught gluing it. So if you ask my parents, I’m responsible for breaking it too.” I had follow-up questions, but he shut the cabinet and pointed to a press-button coffee machine. “My favorite breakfast is juice and pancakes.”

  “Cranberry?”

  He paused with his hand on the fridge door. “You remembered.”

  I shrugged. “That’s kinda the point. To get to know you.” But my cheeks were hot. I’d always been the kid who remembered too much. It was never clear when that was cool as opposed to creepy. Win looked flattered I knew his juice preference, but how would he feel if he knew all the other personal facts I’d consciously and subconsciously collected and cataloged? In Sherlock Holmes people didn’t react well. At best, they treated it like a parlor trick. At worst, they were offended. Either situation made Sherlock out to be something other, an oddity because of how his mind worked. I knew what that was like. To be queer—or whatever label I picked—and have a brain that never turned off . . . sometimes it felt like a double serving of not-like-everyone-else.

  I turned to the coffee maker and pressed the Brew button, addressing my question over my shoulder. “Where is everyone?”

  “No clue about Curtis. Wink slept over at her friend Reese’s. My parents are at work.”

  Right. They were physical therapists who owned a small practice. Opening on Saturday made sense for patients who couldn’t come during the week. Again, too much information, so I just held my mug and nodded. “My parents are planning their garden. My brother, Miles, lives in Manhattan. He’s probably sleeping off his night.”

  “Did you have big Friday night plans?” Win asked his question while shoulders-deep in the refrigerator. I was usually the avoidant one; he was direct, so his lack of eye contact did the opposite of what he’d intended: it added emphasis to a question he was trying to make casual.

  I wondered when we’d get back to conversation without subtext.

  Where is everyone? = How long are we alone?

  Friday night plans? = Do I have competition?

  At least that’s how I was reading his question, because it was how I wanted him to be asking.

  Win poured his juice then leaned against the kitchen island, a full glass in his hand. The jewel color sparkled in the pendant lights as I watched him bring it to his lips. My body language was mirroring his—lower back against the counter, legs stretched into the space between us. I matched him sip-for-sip. It was a visual signal of my interest, but would he know to read it?

  Win’s forehead furrowed. “You don’t have to tell me.”

  “Oh.” I’d been leaping forward in my mind and forgotten to answer. Right. I did that. And he didn’t know me well enough to call me on it. “Um, it was a weird night.” I explained I’d been catching up on homework when I got a message on iLive.

  My tongue tangled on the site’s name and I shot him a flush-cheeked look. If he noticed, he ignored it as completely as he had my friend request. “Who was it from? I hate that site.”

  “Larken. You know, the singer?”

  “For real? You know her?” He wasn’t starstruck, just amused.

  “No. But I reached out after she used the Clara meme and asked her to delete her post. Some damage is done; it’s been screencapped and included in a dozen articles on body positivity and inclusive fashion, which I’m all for—just not at Clara’s expense. Luckily, she got it. She took down the post and wrote a new one about being more careful with images from the internet.”

  “Wow.” Win’s feet were closer to mine. He’d slumped slightly. If I did the same, my running socks would brush his bare toes. “How’s Clara? We were at Mayfield together but haven’t been in the same classes since they started sorting us into smart kids and not. Guess which of us was honors?”

  It seemed unlikely that he wanted me to respond to his self-deprecation with a pep talk, but I also wasn’t going to encourage it. I decided to ignore it. For now. “I’ve called and emailed. She hasn’t responded.”

  He crossed the three feet of floor to stand next to me. “At least you’re trying to fix things. That’s not nothing.” I could smell the juice on his breath, the pine of his deodorant. I hoped my own was doing its job, because I was testing it. Win opened a cabinet. “Do you want Cheerios, granola, or raisin bran?”

  “Cheerios.” I was positive that in the entire history of the world, that word had never sounded so breathless.

  His arm brushed mine as he set the box on the counter. “They’re plain, not Honey Nut. My parents have this strange rule about keeping foods in the house that’ll kill my brother.”

  I cleared my throat. “Fun fact: Honey Nut Cheerios probably don’t contain nuts.” He stepped away to grab bowls. “Curtis is only allergic to peanuts, right? The ‘nut’ part of the cereal comes from ‘natural almond flavors.’ ” Win pointed to the drawer behind me, so I moved and he got spoons. “ ‘Natural almond flavors,’ however, mostly come from ground-up peach and apricot pits.”

  “Yeah, that’s probably not going to convince my parents.” Win shrugged. “Especially after I almost accidentally killed him recently. But good to know.”

  Was it? Or was it one of those facts I found interesting and other people humored? I couldn’t read him well enough to tell the difference. As for Curtis—the story I’d heard was that he’d eaten an unmarked peanut dessert at the science fair banquet.

  Win was testing me. The realization solidified as I made mental connections between our conversations. The thing about honors classes: Did I judge him for not being in them? No. The comment about “killing” Curtis: Did I condemn him for the mistake? Not even slightly. He was putting his perceived flaws on display to see if I reacted. But if these were tests, had I passed? Diagnosing the situation didn’t mean I knew how to handle it.

  I followed him to the table, but instead of tipping my chair back, I leaned forward, studying him. He scooped his spoon outward, stirred between bites, chewed on the left side of his mouth, and pressed his lips together when he swallowed. None of those things should’ve been hot. And yet they were.

  “Normally I work Friday nights, but . . . I don’t have that job anymore,” Win said. There was more to that story; I made a mental note to follow up. “And Curtis was moping about missing Eliza, so I let him pick a movie. Mistake. I don’t know why he thought a rom-com about a blond scientist would help, but he spent the whole time whining. ‘If Eliza were here, she’d be objecting to the lack of safety goggles in this lab.’ And, ‘I can’t wait to tell Eliza they were handling hydro-something acid with bare hands.’ ” Win shook his head. “He’s pathetic.
When she dumps him, I’m moving in with my grandparents.”

  My cereal turned mushy as I tried to figure out the Cavendish brothers’ strange blend of affection, mockery, and cynicism. Curtis described Win with words like “detonate,” “implode,” and “cactus,” and Win used “pathetic” and was anticipating the breakup of a happy couple. Yet Curtis was low-key matchmaking us and Win endured what sounded like a terrible movie to keep his brother company. I would’ve let Miles mope solo—or at least demanded control of the remote.

  Win was looking at me. Right. My turn to contribute something to the conversation. “So I was supposed to come up with an idea for a reputation-fixing video for Hero High over break. I got nothing. Thoughts?”

  “First, film steadier. I got motion sick watching that video clip on the news.”

  “Hey, I was filming under my desk. You try doing that steadily.”

  Win laughed. “Based on your fallout? I’ll pass.”

  My own laughter sputtered to a stop. Was it okay to joke about this? I doubted Clara was. That I was flirting instead of holed up in my room—was that progress or selfishness?

  “Well, I’m your guy,” Win said, and I jerked my head up. “To help with this project. Video and photography—those are my things. I used to work at Frame Me. You know, the photo studio with the cheesy mug-shot theming on its sign? I can help with any camera questions or editing.”

  “Used to work?” It wasn’t quite a direct pry—he could answer with a simple “Yup” and I’d let the subject drop, but I’d found that if you gave people an ambiguous opening, they’d fill in as much as they were comfortable.

  “Yeah.” He rubbed his lip between two fingers. “I think Mr. Rivera might be slipping—you know, mentally? He kept saying I wasn’t showing up when I was supposed to. But I was? And while I didn’t love the photo shoots with stressed parents and crying babies, I liked everything else about the job.” He shrugged, forcing a smile. “Many people in this town have decent passport photos because of me. That’s not nothing.”

  “No, it’s not.” I laughed because he wanted me to, but I had so many questions for a time when this firing was less raw.

  “At least now I’ve got my weekends back. Wink and Morris are happy about that.”

  “Morris?”

  “Friend. But he and Wink’s best friend, Reese, can’t be left unattended with Wink. Unless I’m there too, they fight nonstop.”

  “Eliza and Toby get like that over Merri. For a minute I couldn’t tell if Eliza loathed or secretly liked him.”

  Win grinned. “For my brother’s sake, I hope loathed? I don’t know Morris and Reese’s deal, but Wink hates when they go at it.”

  The last part was unsurprising. I’d already noticed she was conflict avoidant, practically fleeing whenever her brothers started to bicker. As for Reese and Morris—I’d have to see them together to deduce, so I let the subject drop and followed Win to the couch.

  We sat on opposite ends and somehow didn’t need the question game to keep the conversation going. “Tell me more about your project.”

  One of my favorite things about Win was how he gave me his attention. I didn’t feel like I had to earn it by being charming or witty. He made me feel worthy of it.

  My attention tended to wander. Or at least it splintered. If attention was a river, mine had tributaries. It flowed all over the place, gathering observations. It never asked my permission and didn’t discern between what I should be paying attention to and what I was.

  The problem was, I didn’t know how to separate what I wanted to see from what I actually did. If I wanted proof Win was into me, sure, I could collate that: the way his body was angled toward mine, the fact that he was here instead of sleeping. He’d walked me home, agreed I was a hunk.

  But I had evidence for the opposite too: the way Curtis talked about his brother’s love life, and how Win was so cynical of Curtis’s relationship. If he was interested in me, would he be telling me they were “pathetic” or joking about their breakup? Wouldn’t he have at least answered my friend request?

  Also, what was the why of his attention? Back in Ohio, people liked me, but they didn’t like-like me. Maybe it was being a not-straight kid in a small town, but more likely it was me. I exhausted people. I exhausted myself. Despite my efforts to tone it down, Win couldn’t be more than a few encounters from moving me into the friendzone.

  Maybe that would be for the best? I was so uncomfortable in this place of uncertainty. So distracted by it. And Win made me want to pay attention, to be present and process what was going on in front of me. To stop cataloging his expressions—the way he tilted his head and leaned in—and enjoy the effect of it.

  He played with the fringe on a throw pillow. “So, what do you like, Huck Baker?”

  I mentally applauded myself for not answering “You,” and offered a random truth: “Puzzles.”

  “Like, the ones with five hundred pieces?”

  “Sure, those are good. But really any kind. I like figuring things out.”

  Win laughed and slid his phone out of his pocket. “I should get your number.”

  Since panic had erased those ten digits from my memory, I blurted out the first thought I grasped. “Whoa. Is that the new model? I guess we know who the favorite kid is, because Curtis doesn’t—” I trailed off as his face clouded.

  “I bought it myself.”

  My joke had done worse than bombed; it had hurt him. He covered the phone with his hand, but I could still see the corners of the case. It was the type that looked military grade, like it could be run over by a tank. And even though the phone had to be less than a month old, the case was already scuffed. All this, plus his reaction? Easy conclusions.

  “That isn’t latched correctly,” I told him. “You should fix it before you drop it again.”

  Win’s nostrils flared as he shoved the phone into his pocket. “It’s fine.”

  “Yeah, except it’s not. The sealing gasket is pinched in the upper right corner. And since you don’t have a paycheck anymore, you probably don’t want to have to buy another new one.” One look at his face and I knew I’d said too much. Why did I always do this? I pressed a fist to my mouth. “Sorry. None of my business. I’m sure it’s fine.”

  Win looked down at the hands he’d pressed into his legs. Then he sighed and handed me his phone. “No, it’s probably not. Can you fix it? I really like the camera on this one—it’d be good if I didn’t bust it.”

  Realigning the seal was the work of two seconds, but forgetting I’d screwed up would take me much longer.

  Win slid closer as he took the phone back. He’d been doing that all morning: subtle shifts of half an inch when he thought I wasn’t looking. We’d started on opposite ends of the couch, but now there was only half a cushion between us. And Win’s latest maneuver hadn’t been subtle; he’d wanted me to notice. His grin was toothy—a little bit swagger, a little bit nervous. A lot like he was trying to make us forget the last two minutes. “So, puzzles? Are you figuring me out?”

  “Trying to. You’re harder than most people.” Win’s mouth tightened and so did my stomach. He’d been expecting something flirty, and instead I’d insulted. I hurried to add, “All the best people are.”

  He moved closer. Now there was just a quarter cushion, and my mouth felt dry. Eight. Maybe nine? I could measure my anxiety in couch cushion inches. “So, um. Your turn.”

  Win blinked. “My turn for what?”

  “To answer.” Hadn’t he just started a new round of the question game? “What do you like, Winston Cavendish?”

  “Dimples,” he said, then added. “Yours.” He scooted still closer. “You.”

  Eight inches became five became two became none. And as he leaned in, my thoughts blurred: Do I have coffee breath? Which way do I tilt my chin? What if we hit noses? When do I exhale? Smeared across all these fears: Am I ready for this?

  Clearly the answer was no, because panic and adrenaline had me bailing. Forget base
ball; I should’ve told Curtis I was going out for track, because I climbed over the back of the couch like it was some sort of upholstered hurdle, almost kneeing Win in the face during my escape.

  “I guess Curtis forgot our plans,” I said from a safe distance away. “Tell him I stopped by, and, uh, I’ll see you around.”

  My race out the door set land speed records in the cowardice-yard dash, but I froze on their stoop. What he’d done took courage—and it wasn’t an impulsive decision. When I mentally reviewed the morning, I could see all the hints and groundwork. My reaction? Pure coward. I’ll see you around? Not likely. Embarrassment this acute had to be terminal.

  I smacked my hand against my forehead. “Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.”

  “Well, if you weren’t before, that’s a good way to kill some brain cells.” Curtis whistled as he walked up the driveway. His lips were swollen, so clearly one of us had not run away from a kiss.

  “Eliza’s back?” I asked.

  “Yeah, sorry I stood you up.” He rubbed his mouth, and there was nothing apologetic about his grin. “She was supposed to get in last night but got delayed. Her flight landed this morning. I meant to text, but . . . I’ll make you a batch of apology muffins.”

  I shrugged. It was no big deal, but I’d never turn down muffins. “How is she?” The question was polite but a waste of words. The answer was written on his smile.

  “Exhausted from spending four days in transit and jet-lagged like whoa, but she says she’ll be over for a run tomorrow. Mr. Campbell suggested she sleep in. We’ll see who wins.”

  I knew he was betting on his girlfriend. That he’d always bet on Eliza. But what about Win? Why did no one—not his brother, not his parents, not his twin—bet on him? It was something I knew with certainty—but I couldn’t point to a specific moment of why. It was a collection of subtle statements, unconscious observations. Of “cactus” and being unaccompanied to his Hero High interview. Of Wink running away when her brothers’ bickering grew darker edges.