“So either one person hates me an extreme amount, or two people hate me slightly less extremely.” He scrubbed his hands across his face. “And I have no idea who. I feel like I’m walking into school with a target on my back.”
“Fess up,” I said, waggling my eyebrows. “My undercover plan is sounding better. I could be your stealth bodyguard.”
He gave an unexpected bark of laughter. It was like poorly brewed espresso: short-lived and slightly bitter—but right now, I’d take it.
While Win carried the crate into the house and resituated Hudson, I consulted the chore list. “Only one task left,” I said as he reentered the kitchen.
He stiffened. “You do not have to help me clean the bathroom.”
“It’s just a bigger guinea pig cage, minus the shavings,” I joked as I followed him down the hall. Except, when I slid into the room beside him, I realized how small it was. We were practically jeans-to-jeans, eye-to-eye. My mind mapped all the ways we’d fit better—if one of us sat on the toilet lid or edge of the tub, stood in the shower, or shuffled onto the bath mat. Instead we were both crowded between the wall and the sink. I kicked the door shut, which opened up some room to my right, but neither of us stepped into it.
My wide eyes and flushed cheeks were reflected in the mirror behind him. I ignored them and fixated on the guy leaning against the sink in front of me. Win was watching me assess the scene like a fly caught in the sweetest trap. His foot was separated from mine by just a line of tile grout.
I swallowed, forced myself to mirror his posture and lean back, which meant taking a towel bar to the kidneys and knocking the towels to the floor. There wasn’t room to bend and pick them up, so they now lived in a puddle around my feet.
“Have you got more questions for me?” Win uncrossed his feet. “Or have I earned a break?”
Right. Questions. Case. I sucked in a huge breath, hoping the oxygen would clear my head, find some of the objectivity and focus that had scattered within this room.
Last time he’d been this close, I’d run—literally. And right now my heart was pounding like my feet had already obeyed that muscle memory to flee. “I—uh. A break. That sounds good.”
“You okay?” His eyes roamed my face with dizzying intensity.
“Just a little light-headed from the smell of the cleaner. We should turn the fan on; bathroom solvents are especially toxic.”
There. That sounded logical. Not at all like there should be a cloud of heart-eyed emojis circling my head. We both reached for the fan switch at the same time. I shivered when our fingers touched. Win grinned.
“I’m going to get . . .” I floundered. “A drink. Water.”
“Sure.” He nodded. “There’s really not room in here for both of us. But while you’re getting your drink, could you get something for me too?”
I nodded, maybe a little too enthusiastically. “Cranberry juice?”
“No, the bathroom spray. It’s under the kitchen sink. I forgot to grab it.” He smirked, and my face turned the same color as his juice. Juice I would not be fetching. He could get his own cleaner too. He hummed and raised an eyebrow.
I laughed and told him, “Shut up.”
He continued smirking. “I didn’t say anything. It must be all those fumes—they’re really getting to you.”
I returned his grin and leaned forward, bringing one hand up to flick the center of his forehead before ducking out of the room.
I was fully aware, fully willing to admit that flirting was Win’s domain. One where I clearly and frequently failed. But analysis was mine. As long as I kept a minimum of eighteen inches between us and didn’t look directly at him when he was doing that smolder-grin or that thing where he tugged his lower lip, then I could be focused. Logical. This hydration break was just what I needed.
I situated myself on the couch with Wink’s laptop and notes, then jumped when the door opened. Wink set down a bag and pointed to the pages. “Hey. Have those been helpful?”
“Very.” It was an exaggeration, not a lie. “Do you need your laptop?”
“No. I’m only home to grab a book on coding. I’m headed to record Eliza’s podcast.”
“Coding.” I raised an eyebrow. “Like the club that’s starting at Chester? It was up on your screen, I couldn’t help but see it.”
She shrugged. “Morris means well, but . . .” Her eyes panned the room and I said, “Cleaning the bathroom,” before she dropped her voice and finished. “I won’t be at Chester next year.”
“You’ll go to Hero High without Win?”
She flinched but nodded. “Does that make me evil? I haven’t told him yet, so—”
The bathroom door opened, and she shot me a pleading look. I nodded, because I’d keep her secret. But between this and Curtis’s “Win can’t know I approve of you two,” I wondered if anyone in this family ever communicated.
“Hey,” Win called. “When’d you get home? Did you say hi to Zig for me?”
“Of course.” She pulled a huge book from her backpack. “But I’m not staying. I’m a guest on Science Party.”
“Cool. Tell Eliza I’m in to talk photography when I’m ungrounded.”
I frowned, slightly offended I’d never been asked to be on her podcast.
“Will do. She said to ask if you guys had any science questions for future episodes.” Wink had her hand on the door, so she wasn’t expecting an immediate response, but Win had one.
“Huck’s not clear on how many planets are in our solar system. Could she have a first-grader come on and explain it for him?” His eyes shot sideways to me, tight in the corners until I laughed, then relaxing as he joined in.
Wink muttered, “Ugh, inside jokes,” then left while we were still laughing.
“You’ve been busy out here.” He nodded at the laptop and notes, which I’d strategically arranged on the couch to ensure we’d get that buffer zone between us.
“Tell me about this guy.” I pointed to a recent post and thanked the gods of all things social media and sabotage that whoever was behind this vengeance spree had started slow. The first posts were a month apart, then it was less than one a week. They’d only recently become more frequent.
Wink’s notes about it said, While Win can absolutely make a gif, there’s no way he went to a baseball game.
Because that’s what the post was—a gif of a guy dropping a ball then staring at his empty glove in extreme disbelief. It was the sort of thing that could’ve gone viral. For Win and the outfielder’s sake, I was glad it hadn’t.
“Erick? He went to Mayfield and now Chester. He plays baseball.” Win flopped onto the couch and scrubbed his hands over his eyes, then frowned. “My fingers still smell.”
He’d replaced the bandages on his knuckles with fresh ones while in the bathroom. The sight sliced at me and I clenched a fist. When I figured out who was behind this, I’d hold them accountable for every bit of his pain—both physical and mental. “Anything else?”
“We don’t have any classes together this year.” He chewed his lip. “Honestly, the only thing that stands out was in sixth grade he went around pantsing everyone and we had to have a whole assembly on ‘no-no zones’ and ‘bubble space.’ ”
“Did he pants you?”
“I dunno. Probably?” Win tucked a throw pillow behind his head and propped a foot on the coffee table. “It only lasted, like, two days before they shut it down, but it became this big thing because one of the guys was going commando.”
“Not you?” I silenced the part of my mind that wanted to register I was asking Win about his underwear preferences. This was case pertinent.
Or not, actually, because he shook his head. “I’m trying to think of anything else about Erick. He plays drums?” Win shrugged. “Sorry, the dude just hasn’t been on my radar.”
But he was on Win’s fake iLive page—so either someone wanted Erick to have a grudge against Win, or someone wanted to target Erick. I frowned. “I’ll see what else I can di
g up from his profile before I talk to him.”
“Wait.” Win’s foot dropped to the ground, and the pillow slid sideways as he sat up. “You’re going to talk to people on the page? About me?”
“Not directly about you—I can’t say the page is fake or reveal you know it exists.” And I couldn’t tell him my plan until I got it approved. I didn’t want to be another person who disappointed him.
He sighed and tilted his head toward the ceiling. It was a vulnerable posture, one that’d vanish in an instant if Curtis walked out of their bedroom. His trust was an almost painful ache in my chest.
I looked away. “There’s only two weeks until Hero High letters go out—and I want to . . .” I wanted to get him in, but I didn’t have the power to do that. I didn’t have a full two weeks either, since decisions were probably made sooner. Hopefully I could at least prove he hadn’t rejected them by sending those emails. “I need all the clues I can get.”
The noise he made was closer to a cough than an acknowledgment. Like he was literally and metaphorically choking under the pressure. Maybe Wink’s drained laptop wasn’t the only thing that needed to be shut down. We needed a break from scrutiny and some balance—a time where he got to do the asking and I offered up answers. “What’s your favorite pizza topping?”
His mouth turned up instantly, and my chest warmed with the knowledge I’d read the situation correctly. Read him correctly. “Who says I like pizza?”
“Um, you did?” He blinked, and I pretended to stagger back against the couch. “ ‘Pizza, bowling, gelato’—did you forget your plans for our first date?”
He snorted. “Can’t we fast-forward to that part? But I like it boring: cheese and sauce.”
“Not boring; classic.” He raised an eyebrow, like he was measuring the sincerity of my response. “It’s my favorite too.”
“Yeah?” Was it wrong that I leaned forward to read the microwave clock? Not to see how long until his parents came home—seventeen minutes—but because I wanted to note the moment he’d started smiling.
I sat back, smug satisfaction changing to something else entirely when my hand brushed his as I moved Wink’s notes. His smile flickered as his eyes dropped to my mouth and lingered. Then his brows pulled inward as he deliberately leaned out of my personal space.
“My question,” he said. “Favorite sport?”
I blinked like a toddler waking from a nap. I hadn’t misread Win’s thoughts a moment before—he’d wanted to kiss me. But he was playing nice, respecting the boundaries I’d set, which only made him all the more attractive. I cleared my throat and still sounded hoarse when I answered. “Um, lacrosse to play. Hockey to watch, which is good since I pretty much grew up rinkside at Miles’s games.”
“Same. Only with Curtis and lacrosse and I don’t like watching it.”
“Ouch.”
He shrugged. “Mine’s swimming.”
I snapped my fingers as neural pathways finally started cooperating. All day I’d been trying to figure out what was familiar about the scent of these cleaners. Chlorine. Like in pools. The sharp smell I’d sniffed on him during our first walk home but hadn’t detected since. Also, the shirtless dimpled eye candy. “So, Lochte, huh? I saw the poster on the floor by your closet.”
“Ha. I forgot about that.” He chuckled and shrugged. “He was hotter before I heard him interviewed.”
I wondered if I was more appealing before I’d turned all our interactions into interviews. Question: Do I ask too many questions?
The clock was getting uncomfortably close to when I’d calculated I’d have to leave. “Are you on your school team?” If so, maybe I could go to a meet. See how he interacted with his teammates. See him in a swimsuit.
He raised an eyebrow. “Do I look like a team player?” I refused to take the bait. If I waited, he’d elaborate. The eyebrow dropped. “I couldn’t be even if I wanted to. They practice before school, before the busses are running. I don’t have a way to get there. But sometimes—when I’m not grounded—Coach lets me swim after school if he’s hanging around.”
“So you’re good?” That wasn’t the sort of favor a coach would grant without recruitment hopes.
He crossed his ankles. “Yeah.”
I liked that he was unapologetic about his talent, but I hated everything else about this scenario. “Have you asked your parents if they can work something out for practice? Or can you carpool?”
He shrugged. “What’s the point? It’d be a hassle for everyone, and I’d probably end up kicked off for, like, academic probation, and then everyone would be pissed.”
“The point would be you love it.” He hadn’t stated that explicitly, but he didn’t deny it. “You know, Hero High’s walkable. If you transfer, you can do their team.”
I immediately wanted to suck the words back in, because that “if” hinged on answers I was the only one pursuing. And his acceptance hadn’t been a sure thing before the faux-email drama.
“I know.” His voice was quiet, but not angry or wistful. Resigned. “If there was any possibility I’d get in, that’d be the second best thing about the school.”
“What’s the fir—” I trailed off as he gave me a pointed look. “Oh.” But our silence wasn’t heated; it was bleak. I couldn’t offer him reassurances, so I changed the subject—volunteering some of my vulnerabilities to counterbalance his. “I can’t swim. The last time I took lessons, they were still telling me to think of my hands like ice cream scoops.”
Win sucked a breath between his teeth. “Yeah, we’re going to have to change that.”
I laughed nervously. “Oh, you think so? I don’t.” Because the idea of doggy paddling while Win watched made me feel . . . likely the way he did every time I asked about enemies. Overexposed and dangerously defenseless. “Sorry, I’m no Lochte. But, you’re, uh, picturing me in a speedo right now, aren’t you?”
I’d meant it as a joke, but he nodded. “Sure am.”
“Oh.” I dropped my chin as my face burned.
Win tilted his head. “On a scale of one to fake fumes, how embarrassed are you right now? Because I like making you blush, but I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable.”
My face was sunburn hot. This was why no one should ever have believed that was Winston’s page. He didn’t hide behind jokes; he faced things head on. Called me out on vaulting over couches, fleeing imaginary fumes. Baldly told me he liked me. Respected and checked my boundaries. “I’m . . . okay. But I have to go.”
Win cupped the back of his neck and sighed. “Sorry. I didn’t mean—”
“No.” I pointed to the clock. “I really have to go. I’m a minute past my must-leave time.”
“Oh.” Win stood as I shoved my feet into my shoes and snagged my coat from the hook. I rolled Wink’s notes into a messy cylinder and shoved it into my pocket. “I have one more question.”
We didn’t have time for him to ask or me to answer, but I nodded anyway.
“Why do you think no one reported the page? Not to iLive, but, like, no one told on ‘me’?”
My hand slid off the door as I considered. “Tattletale or person-who-can’t-take-a-joke isn’t a good look on anyone. Plus, when the first posts went up, no one was following the page. It’s still set to private—my friend request hasn’t been accepted. I’m not sure how many of the people in the posts even know. And those that do—well, people in new posts probably feel pressure not to make a fuss since no one else has. And people in the old posts probably felt like it was too late to do anything.”
It sounded clinical and probably wasn’t what he wanted to hear, but it was honest. It was also foolish, because while I stood there trying to find words to make the truth less caustic, the garage door went up.
We locked panicked eyes as Curtis came sliding down the hall in his socks. “Huckleberry, what are you still doing here? Come on, back door.” He grabbed me by the sleeve, tugging so hard my arm came out. The slider squeaked as he shoved it open, and he was still sh
utting it as his parents entered. “Hey, boys.”
I ducked under the kitchen window as his dad asked, “Letting all the heat out?”
“Some of it,” said Curtis. “Along with cleaner fumes. Can’t you smell how hard my main man Winston’s been working?”
I pressed my back against the bricks and waited for the rest—the part where Curtis undermined his support with some joke that cut a little too close to a nerve, or Win lashed out preemptively, or his parents expressed skepticism.
Mr. Cavendish said, “It looks great, Win.”
I did a celebratory fist clench. Curtis and Win’s interactions almost always defaulted to antagonism, but Win had no choice but to be vulnerable with his iLive secret, and Curtis would jump all over that opportunity to force his brother to let him in. I had no clue what would happen with Hero High or iLive—but if this reset their dynamic from rivals to partners, that’d be its own victory.
I exhaled and began a slow creep toward the gate. Winston Cavendish had had enough losses. It was time for him to win.
15
Rory called to fill me in on goat yoga during a dead shift at Haute Dog on Sunday night. I still didn’t understand. “So, it’s just a regular yoga class . . . only there are tiny goats roaming around? Why goats? Why not cats or dogs or scorpions? Why any animal at all?”
“Just because I was there—and I have hoof prints on my shirt to prove it—doesn’t mean I get it. But I’ll gladly volunteer you to take my spot if Lilly goes back. Then you can see for yourself.”
“Hard pass.” I drummed my fingers on the covers of Sherlock and Wink’s seventh-grade yearbook. Since I’d left the Cavendishes’ house yesterday, I’d been alternating between reading and taking notes for my Ms. Gregoire meeting and reading and taking notes about Win’s case. “Hey, do you think my nose is hawk-like?” It was how Holmes’s was described, and I’d spent a stupid-long time trying to decide if it matched mine.
Get a Clue Page 12
