Get a Clue

by Tiffany Schmidt

  “Careful,” I teased, then swallowed the rest of my sentence. I’d been about to say, “or I’ll ask your favorite sonata,” but I knew how that’d play out: him feeling ignorant. My unfinished warning hovered in the air. It was all too appropriate. We were both being so careful. We had to be.

  “Mine’s Pluto too,” he said. “I always identify with underdogs.” He shifted, and vulnerability peeked through the cracks in his snark. “You really think we can figure out who sent them?”

  I was saved from answering by Wink bustling in with a handful of yearbooks. “Here’s sixth, seventh, and eighth. This year’s won’t be out for months—which is a problem since last year we were at Mayfield Middle Academy and there’s not much overlap between there and Chester High.”

  Mayfield was where Curtis and Toby and Clara and most of Hero High had gone. And at some point I was going to need to ask about the elephant in the room—the why of Win’s rejection last year. But not right now, when his posture was coiled and Wink looked like any question would spook her.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  She nodded. “I’m going in my room and shutting the door. If you get caught, I’m saying I didn’t know Huck was here and have no clue how you got my yearbooks.”

  “That’s one option,” said Win. “Or . . . you could help? I’m not calling you a gossip, but you know everything about everyone. Besides, Mom and Dad won’t be home for hours.”

  “Unless they leave work early to check on you.” She reluctantly sat down on the bed. “What do you need to know?”

  I flipped the yearbook open to the first page of student photos. “Anything. Even if it’s small and doesn’t seem relevant.”

  Sherlock Holmes said, “The little things are infinitely the most important,” and I was starting from scratch—well, not quite from scratch. The first person pictured was Bancroft Adams.

  “How is Banny?” Win asked. “Miss that guy. We haven’t stayed in touch since Mayfield.”

  I thought about Susie and Phil and everyone in Ohio. “Yeah, I know how that is.”

  “Um.” Wink raised a hand. “Except you used to tell him his name was backwards.”

  “It is.” Win reached over and ruffled the pages, his hand an inch from mine. “Adam Bancroft sounds better. But it was just a joke. He didn’t care.”

  “Yeah, I feel like maybe people can’t always tell when you’re joking?” Wink said slowly. “Or you don’t know what other people find funny.”

  Win pulled back and frowned. “You’re always saying that—but people laugh.”

  She tilted a hand back and forth. “Not always.” They’d both adopted defensive postures, but I couldn’t tell which of them was overreacting.

  I pointed to the book. “Moving on. Colleen Allen?”

  “She’s at Aspen Crest,” said Wink. “Though, did you see her iLive post about wanting to transfer?” She was looking at Win for a response, but he was studying me.

  And I was making a mental note: Competition as motive? How many transfer spots were there? “Thoughts on Colleen?”

  “She’s not my favorite person, but I honestly don’t think we ever had a conversation.” Win was rubbing his bottom lip with his thumb and pointer finger, and I wondered if he knew how much that gesture distracted me.

  “But . . .” Wink trailed off when he shot her a look.

  “What?” I prompted.

  “Um.” Wink’s eyes kept flicking to her brother’s stony face. “She was in the science class where Win released a tank full of crickets. And I heard she hates bugs.”

  There was more here, but pressing might trigger a twin throwdown. I moved on. “Kiara Amar.”

  “She’s at Chester High with us. We’re cool,” said Win.

  He glanced at Wink, waiting for her confirmation, but she shook her head. “Not since that thing you said about her hair.”

  “Her hair?” Win squinted. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Yes, you do! About the dye? Do you want me to look it up and show you? This is what I mean about the unfunny jokes.”

  He leaned forward. “Still no clue what you’re talking about. Look it up? Why would I say anything about her hair? I don’t even know what it looks like.”

  I tapped loudly on the yearbook. “Franklin Arnold?”

  He glared at his sister. “I don’t know—ask Wink.”

  If he thought she was enjoying this, then he missed the way her fingers were knotted or how she braced herself each time she spoke. At some point I’d need to get her alone, because her need to be helpful was at war with her conflict avoidance. “Frank’s fine. At least, as far as I know? I’d have to check iLive.”

  Win flipped the yearbook closed. “You know what, clearly this is hopeless and everyone hates me.”

  “I didn’t say that.” Wink stood. “I’m not helping, so I’m going to—” She exited the room before finishing.

  We hadn’t even made it off the first page.

  Win looked like he was being stuck by a million misplaced acupuncture needles. I wanted to put an arm around his bowed shoulders, but any touch would probably feel like pity and drive the pain in deeper.

  “Two days ago, you and I were going on a date. I had a chance at Hero High—maybe a slim one, but a chance. Everything seemed okay.” Win lowered his head into his hands. “Now, it turns out I’ve got all these secret enemies, my parents have given up on me, Hero High is long gone, and you’ve decided to play Inspector Gadget.”

  I cleared the yearbook out of the way and sat down. I had no clue what to say, but looming over him couldn’t be helpful.

  “I don’t know what’s happening and I don’t know why.” He lowered one hand and looked at me sideways. “I just—I need a chance to catch up.”

  I didn’t do quiet. I was pretty much allergic to sitting still. But I remained silently beside him until he lifted his head. “Okay, let’s—let’s keep going.”

  But I didn’t pick up a yearbook, because maybe quiet contemplation wasn’t the worst thing ever. While I’d waited, I’d had a thought. “What about your iLive page? That’s probably easier.”

  “It might be,” he said. “If I had one.”

  My chin shot up as shivers gathered at the base of my spine. “What do you mean you don’t have one? I friend requested you.”

  He shrugged. “Must be another Winston Cavendish. I hope that dude’s luck is better than mine.”

  I was cataloging his posture, his expression; every cell on him seemed nonchalant, which was the opposite of how I was feeling. “It—it has your picture.”

  “What? Show me.” He whirled toward his desk, then growled under his breath. “My parents took my laptop and phone.”

  “I can pull it up on mine.” Hopefully he wouldn’t notice it was already up, because clearly I hadn’t learned that lesson.

  Win’s knee grazed my hip, and his hand landed on my blazer as he leaned in to look at the screen. “That’s my school picture from this year.” His grip tightened on my shoulder. “But I didn’t make this page.”

  12

  “Click on my profile,” Win said.

  “We’re not friends.” The pressure from his hand lightened, like he was about to pull away from my shoulder. I covered it with mine and clarified. “On iLive. I sent a friend request, but it hasn’t been accepted.”

  This had gotten a whole lot more complicated—and seeing what was on that page more important. “We need a real computer—or at least a tablet with a bigger screen so we can both look.”

  “Right.” I followed him across the hall to Wink’s door. He knocked.

  “You done?” she asked. “Is Huck leaving?”

  “No, we’re looking at iLive.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “Oh, I should’ve thought of that first. You have no filter on there.”

  I couldn’t look at Win and watch that comment land, because if I’d felt it like a gut punch, how would he react? But there was a plus side here as well. I stepped into
her bedroom. “You’re iLive friends? I need your computer.”

  She jumped at my brusque tone but pointed at her desk. Her walls were pale purple, the bedroom furniture white. Everything about the room coordinated, and she’d clearly inherited the organizational and tidiness genes that’d skipped her brother, because her desk was neat and dust-free. Even her pens and pencils were sorted into cups that looked like the pipes from Mario Brothers.

  I stepped out of the way so she could sit down and log in, but Win was still standing in the doorway. It wasn’t until she pulled up his profile that he came over. The bio below his picture contained his age, his school, and one line: If you can’t take a joke, leave.

  “Like I keep telling you: you’re really not funny.” Wink began to scroll. “Like, not even a little bit.”

  I cringed. I’d said those same things to Miles, but it was all about context—and once Wink knew, she’d feel as wrecked as she was currently making him. Also, Miles really wasn’t funny—so it was my duty to tell him.

  The top post was a familiar gif with a caption I hadn’t seen yet. But one I realized Headmaster Williams and Dante had: Who can name the worst private school in PA? As Clara’s hand shot up, glowing arrows circled the Hero High badge on her blazer.

  “You . . .” Win opened and closed his mouth several times. His throat bobbed, and the muscles of his jaw tightened. Wink wasn’t watching him; her eyes were on the screen. I moved mine there too, because I doubted he wanted either of us to know how close he was to crying.

  “This is what you meant about Kiara?” He pointed to a photo captioned Most likely to think hair dye makes her *edgy*. “She hates me because of this post?”

  “Can you blame her?” Wink’s shoulders crept up. “This whole series of fake superlatives you’re doing is—” She mimed a finger across her throat. “Except for the one about Ty being ‘most likely to win a Darwin award’—the rest are a hot mess.”

  “That’s why you keep telling me to join yearbook?” he asked. “I thought it was because they needed a photographer.”

  “Yeah.” She squinted up at him. “I mean, I doubt they’ll say no to your photographic brilliance, but also, clearly you need a better outlet for superlatives.”

  “And this is why you keep telling me I’m not funny?”

  “I mean, obviously.”

  “Not obviously!” He seethed. “This isn’t mine! None of it. I’ve never seen this post or this page before. I didn’t even know it existed. And you believed it?”

  I reached out, then pulled back. Maybe my holding his hand would be comforting, but maybe it’d be confusing. He didn’t need mixed signals.

  Wink spun her chair around to face him. “What?”

  He took advantage of her shock to seize control of the mouse. “I didn’t write any of this.” Win winced as he scrolled to another post. I couldn’t read it, but whatever it said made him pinch the bridge of his nose.

  “But we’ve talked about it,” she said, blinking rapidly.

  “No, we haven’t.”

  “We have! Beyond stuff about your jokes and joining yearbook, we had that whole conversation about how iLive is where people go to forget their manners and let out their inner jerks. You agreed.”

  “I agreed the site sucks—because it does. Which is why I don’t have one.”

  “Oh.” She chewed her bottom lip. “How was I supposed to know?”

  “Because you’re supposed to know me!” His voice was explosive. The guinea pig in the other room squealed and scurried. “And you never thought—like, to just tell me directly about any of this? Like, there was no point in calling me a jerk after any of these posts and telling me why, because that’s just who you think I am?”

  “I . . . I . . .” Wink’s eyes were glassy, but Win was oblivious. He’d turned his back and was studying the collage of smiling classmates on her wall.

  “How many of them are on this page?” he asked.

  Subtext: How many of them hate me?

  “Can you go one day without yelling? Hudson is freaking out and getting wood chips all over the floor,” Curtis called from the doorway. “Whoa, are you making Lincoln cry?” There was so much condemnation in his voice, but he dropped it as he asked, “You okay, Wink? Do I need to preheat the oven?”

  She sniffled. “I don’t deserve baked goods.”

  “Don’t be dramatic,” snapped Win. “It’s fine. Go make cookies. But I’m borrowing your laptop to look at this.”

  “It’s not fine,” I said as Curtis stepped into the room.

  His eyebrows shot up. “Huck can’t be here. What part of ‘grounded’ don’t you get? How do you always find a way to make things worse?”

  “Talent,” Win said flatly.

  “They’re not here flirting.” Wink sniffled and crossed her arms, squaring up beside her twin. “And I mean that in the real way, not the oh-we’re-not-dating nonsense you and Eliza pulled. If you tell Mom and Dad, I’ll . . . set up the router to block your IP address.”

  “Harsh and unnecessary.” Curtis raised his hands. “Why are you defending him? What’s going on?”

  “Nothing for you to worry about,” said Win.

  Was he protecting them or himself? Maybe he didn’t want to know if Curtis had seen the page, had believed it was his too. Even if that meant taking the blame for upsetting Wink and being the bad guy.

  It was the role they’d cast him in, one he always played—sometimes by choice, sometimes by force, sometimes for necessity.

  I pried the laptop from beneath Win’s white knuckles and shut it. “Let’s take a walk. That’s not going anywhere.”

  “Yeah, but you need to. Within the next hour, before my parents get home,” said Curtis.

  Win nodded and stormed out of the bedroom, out of the house. I grabbed our coats and followed. Everything about him was tight. His posture, his footsteps, the way he shoved his arms into his jacket. He stomped to the corner, then stopped. Whirled on me with eyes that blazed.

  “I live in this constant state of just wanting to scream.” His voice was so low, I had to step closer to hear him. “I don’t expect you to understand, but it’s not in my head. All year I’ve been saying . . . But I didn’t make it up or imagine it. People really are pissed at me. And I had no idea why. And my parents, Wink, and Curtis, they’ve all—they’ve all made me feel like I must’ve done something to deserve it. And I’m not perfect, but I didn’t do . . . that. But Wink thought . . .” He shook his head. “I’m angry. I’m so . . .” He broke off to search my face. “Do you get it?”

  I nodded. “It’s gaslighting. And it’s not the same—not nearly the same magnitude—but I spent the whole drive from Ohio to Pennsylvania trying not to lose it each time my parents told me moving was ‘no big deal’—that my friends were ‘just a phone screen away.’ That it would be easy to make new ones. Their casual dismissal of my whole life, while I had no say. I get it.”

  Win kicked at a hardened snowbank. “I know who I am. I’m the kid who spoiled the tooth fairy for his kindergarten class. Who switched the caps on the markers in art. Who decided to stick out his tongue in the one photo from his grandma’s birthday party where everyone had their eyes open.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I know who I am in my family—and it doesn’t matter what’s true. It matters what they believe.”

  I took a step toward him, then paused. His posture was closed; my entering his personal space, even to offer comfort, wouldn’t be comforting. He wanted someone to listen. I could do that.

  “What if my parents won’t believe that’s not my page?”

  “Then that’s their fault, not yours.” I clenched my fists. “Just like my parents’ disappointment that I’m not Big Man on Campus at the new school is on them. Their expectations, but my life.”

  “What do we do?” His eyes were searching, like he thought I might have an answer.

  So I gave him one. “We find places it’s safe to scream. We find people who’ll listen.”

 
“You?”

  “Me,” I agreed. “And anyone else I can make hear us.”

  He nodded slowly and turned back toward his house, but I halted his progress with a hand on his sleeve. “I didn’t ask—and I should’ve. But . . . do you want my help?” I held my breath because I’d learned from Clara. If he said no, I’d respect that.

  It’d kill me, but I’d respect it.

  “It’s not like anyone else is lining up to help me.” Win’s words were bitter, but then his expression turned as soft as the hand he grazed across the back of mine. “What I mean is, thanks.”

  “Access is a problem,” I said as we walked back to his house. “I’ve got leads, but no way of tracking them down.” I glanced sideways to catch him doing the same.

  He grinned. “I like it when you talk detective.”

  I made a grumbly old man noise. Flirting was fun, but I had to focus. “Do you think I could go undercover at your school?” Sherlock had successfully done that several times, and I wouldn’t even need a disguise. I could wear pretty much anything in my closet but my Hero High uniform. “I could pose as a transfer student—” Win’s laughter interrupted my planning, and I frowned.

  “Oh wait, were you serious?” he asked. “Then, no. No, I don’t. A new kid can’t show up without paperwork.”

  “Could I fake it?” I was half serious, but vamping it up because he’d laughed. And I think we both needed to hear that sound after this afternoon’s revelations.

  Win bumped his shoulder against mine, and I cursed our coats and layers and the mysteries that kept us apart. “I like the enthusiasm, but let’s put that idea on hold.”

  “For now,” I conceded. “But not forever.”

  He might have been talking about me visiting his school, but I was talking about me and him.

  When we reentered his house, Wink had her laptop on the kitchen island. Curtis hovered behind her, wearing oven mitts and cursing whatever was on the screen. The kitchen timer was counting down from eight minutes. I wasn’t sure if that was for when I needed to leave or for whatever baked good was making the house smell like mint.