Curtis bowed at us. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to make the shower Win just cleaned super dirty.”
I gave zero cares if he was being supportive because he felt bad about the iLive page or because Win was finally letting him. All that mattered was that Win was looking at his brother’s retreating back like he’d saved the day.
When he turned to me, I pivoted my plans. “Want to go for a walk?”
“Where to?” But he was already grabbing his sneakers. “I have to be back before six.”
“Hero High.” His hands paused on his laces, and he looked up at me for more answers. “I need still photos of campus for my video. I was hoping you’d help.”
“Oh.” He nodded slowly. “Okay, let me grab my camera.”
The shower was already running, so I asked, “Should we let Wink and Morris know we’re leaving? Would it be weird to interrupt them?”
Win snorted. “The only thing we’d interrupt would be him not helping with math. She’s better than he is.”
I wasn’t sure Morris would agree, but I didn’t have enough data points to be certain. And I hadn’t seen Wink interact with him, so I had zero idea if there was anything reciprocal. Either way, this seemed enough like Miles’s complaining about me and movie spoilers that I opted to keep my fledgling prediction to myself, pending further evidence.
I did need photos, but I also knew Win felt more comfortable with a task. So I let him hide behind lenses, waiting until we’d reached the end of the avenue leading to the campus before I tackled today’s topic. “I should’ve asked this earlier when we were first talking suspects, but . . . exes—do you have any?”
The steady clicking of his camera paused, but he didn’t lower it. “Isn’t talking about exes a dating taboo?” He turned away to focus on the school sign. “Good thing we’re not, huh?”
Yeah, there was absolutely zero chance I was answering that. “So, no ex-boyfriends?”
“No, of course there are.”
My cheeks flushed, and I started down the sidewalk, knowing he’d catch up after he finished his shot. He was “of course” and I was “none.” The closest I’d come to a relationship was pretending to date Rory to make Toby jealous. In my defense, it had worked.
His camera was lowered when he came up beside me, his voice calmer. “The only one I was serious about—well, eighth-grade serious—was Mackenzie Smith.”
“How long were you guys together?” My chest tightened, and it loosened only as I watched him have to think about that answer. But if he’d had it ready would that mean something different, or just mean he was someone different? Not everyone’s life was a catalog of data.
“Six? Seven—no, eight. Maybe eightish months.”
I swallowed. Clearly all my fears about the difference in our experience were valid. He might not have an exact number, but it was long. I looked around the campus, which I’d watched change from a sweaty September to a picturesque-foliage fall, through a snow-capped winter, to now, when the lawn was coming up green, the trees were budding, and tulips were starting to emerge. He’d been with Mackenzie longer than I’d been at Hero High.
“Huh.” Win tilted his head. Snapped a picture of whatever my expression looked like. “I’m just realizing that you’re somebody’s Mac. You’re somebody’s guy-who-moved-away.”
I tried to keep my voice from sounding as gruff as I felt. “Mac moved?”
“Yeah. Last summer. I thought he’d be at Chester with me, but then his parents separated and his mom moved back to Chicago to live with her sister. He went with her.”
“Do you guys still talk and stuff?” I turned away from his lens, wanting to sound casual, but I didn’t remember what casual sounded like.
“Not really. We broke up before he left. We texted a little in the fall. By December it was just ‘Merry Christmas’ and stuff. You know how it is.”
I didn’t.
“You don’t think . . .” He straightened from where he’d been crouched, taking wide-angle shots of the stone buildings across the quad. “Is there a way to look at the friend list? I don’t want him to—”
“We’ll check.” I was making mental comparisons to his tone from earlier. Did he care more about Mac seeing “his” page than he had other people? I reassured myself that if there were residual feelings, he’d be awkward talking to me about his ex. Right?
“So . . .” He fussed with his camera. “Who’s Mac for you? Or whose Mac are you?”
Boomerangs’ original use were as hunting weapons, not as Nerf backyard toys or Australian souvenirs. And that question was definitely the OG type of boomerang, because it came back around and clobbered me. I picked my way around the circle drive toward the administration building, wondering if I could offer Win these facts instead of an answer. Because even if he thought they were off topic and weird, at least he wouldn’t find me so.
I licked my lips and put my hands in my pockets, too aware of his camera and that he could be capturing all my hesitance and insecurity. “I don’t have one.”
He lowered the camera so it rested on its worn strap around his neck. “Get real.”
“I am.”
The line appeared above one eyebrow. “But—look at you. You’re like corn-fed cover-model dimpled all-American poster boy. How is it possible—”
“Small town, big personality.” And a tendency toward unrequited or celebrity crushes.
“No exes?”
Maybe I would’ve lied, but his voice wasn’t judgmental. I shook my head. “Do you have others?”
We circled the library, caught the first glow of sunset on the science building’s greenhouse as he answered. He’d had one: Shiloh—who was now at Hero High. “It was end of seventh grade. He lives a town over—and then summer vacation happened. It was one of those things where we could never get our parents to drive us, so it was like a month between the time we did mini-golf and then the next time we saw each other at Morris’s pool party.” He shrugged and sat on the low stone wall outside the science building. “When Mac and I got together in the fall, things ended with Shi—not badly. But I doubt it was the greatest. I mean, I had no idea what I was doing. He was my first boyfriend. My first kiss. We didn’t talk for a few weeks until we ended up getting partnered for something in social studies. And then it was . . . whatever. Normal?”
Back in Ohio no one seemed to care who I liked—maybe because I never dated. And maybe that gave them permission to forget I wasn’t straight, or maybe they felt progressive for being my friend. Or maybe they truly liked me as a person and would’ve been happy for me if I found someone. But, Win had two exes. If someone wanted an outlet for their bigotry, he was an easy, brown-skinned target. I sat beside him. “Can you think of anyone who was upset that you were dating guys?”
He flicked a button on his camera and began to scroll through the images he’d taken. They were gorgeous. I knew he wasn’t ignoring my question; he was processing it, giving it the serious focus it deserved. “What do you think of this one?” He leaned closer so I could see a photo of the Convocation Hall that seemed to glow.
“Wow.”
“Yeah, they don’t call this the ‘golden hour’ for nothing. This light is amazing.” He lowered the camera and tugged his bottom lip. “It’s not like I didn’t consider homophobia, because how could I not? But I don’t think so. The posts you and Wink have shown me have nothing to do with me being gay. Do others?”
“None of them.” I’d searched the first time I had control of her laptop. But maybe the things the idiot behind the keyboard hadn’t mentioned were more significant. “What about race?”
“I mean, it could be?” Win spun some setting on his camera, then took another few shots of the statue of Reginald R. Hero. “It could be anything, but . . . I don’t know. Why pick me? My school’s pretty diverse. Both Mayfield and Chester have lots of Brown kids. And it comes up, sure, but it’s less ‘go back to where you came from’ and more people asking if I have family that’d be i
mpacted by travel bans. Or elementary school family tree/heritage projects.”
“I hate to ask . . .” Because here I was again, making him relive his past traumas. “But are there any awful experiences that stick out?”
He tugged at his hair. “The one that hurt most isn’t even that bad. I think I was just young and surprised.”
I pulled my knee up on the wall and turned to face him. I didn’t need to do either of those things to follow every nuance of his body language or the story, but it was a perception thing, a respect thing—I wanted to emphasize my giving him my full attention. “What happened?”
He was still clutching his camera, but his fingers were stiff, and his eyes looked unfocused as he gazed at the campus, so I knew he wasn’t scouting more shots. “I was, like, ten. Nine? We were all on the playground. Not just my grade, because Curtis was there too. Maybe it was a fire drill? And this girl asked if I rode a camel to school. She said, ‘That’s what your people do, right?’ and made some crack about dung beetles. Everyone laughed.”
I could picture it too well. The scrawny boy from the family photos in their hall standing in a line by a swing set while some girl showed off her best Egyptian stereotypes. What I couldn’t picture was his reaction. “What did you do?”
“Nothing,” he admitted. “I froze. But Curtis said, ‘Nope. But do you ride a broom? That’s what your people do, right?’ ”
I snorted. “Of course he did.”
Win shook his head, rolling his neck back to look at the sky. “I was so mad at Curtis. Like, why couldn’t I come up with that comeback? Why did I need my big brother to defend me?”
“Wait—” Something pinged in my memory. This might be a stretch, but I fumbled in my pocket for my phone. “The girl—the camel girl—was it Ava Jones?”
Win’s eyebrows shot up. “Okay, I know you’re good—but how’d you know?”
I found the screenshots I’d taken of the iLive page and scrolled to the one of the first post from Halloween: the girl in a witch costume. “Check out this caption. Who else was on the playground that day?”
His lips moved as he silently read the words: I thought the point was to wear costumes. It wasn’t exactly the same as Curtis’s retort, but it traded on the same theme. Win’s eyes were wide. “Everyone was on the playground. The whole school. I don’t have a clue who would’ve heard or remembered—I hadn’t thought of that in years.”
But clearly someone had. I stared at him, trying to find answers in his stunned expression. While he didn’t think his race or sexuality were motives, they couldn’t be ruled out either.
“Huck Baker? What are you still doing here?”
I spun around to see my favorite teacher headed toward us. She was carrying a bag and had a green coat buttoned over her serpent dress.
“Hey, Ms. Gregoire. I was just—or rather, he was just—taking pictures for the video.”
“Ah, very good.” She smiled and shifted her gaze to the boy who’d stood up beside me and was straightening his coat. “May I see?”
“This is Winston Cavendish,” I said. “Win, this is Ms. Gregoire. I’m working with her on the video and Sherlock . . .” I trailed off, just in case the magic theory was right. I didn’t know if there was a jinx in acknowledging it.
“Hi.” He awkwardly held out his hand, then offered her his camera. “Curtis talks about you a lot. So does Lance. And Eliza. Everyone, really.”
She’d taken the camera but kept her focus on him. “I’m going to assume they’re saying only delightful things. But coincidentally, I’m coming from a meeting where we were just talking about you.”
I watched Win’s throat as he swallowed. “Oh.”
“There’s been some confusion on the admissions committee about the status of your application.” Her eyes dipped to the camera to give him a moment, then widened as she scrolled. “These are stunning. I always say the campus is the ugliest in March—mud everywhere and nothing’s blooming—but you’ve filled these shots with such care and beauty. It’s possible they’ve answered my question.”
“What is it?” I asked, because I’d rather she save the dramatic pauses for the classroom, not afternoons when I’d already put Win through an emotional gauntlet.
“Has your application been rescinded?” she asked. “Or would you still like to be considered for admission next year?”
“He would. He definitely would.” But she didn’t acknowledge me and instead looked from the photos to Winston.
He was shifting his weight, looking overexposed without his camera. “Yeah,” he said slowly. “Yes, I would.”
“Good. I’m glad to hear it. There are still two meetings left and a few roster slots we’re dithering over. I’ll make sure your interest is noted next time the committee meets.”
It took a beat before Win accepted either thing she offered: the camera she was holding out, or the hope. He clutched the first to his chest and sat on the wall, sounding breathless when he said, “Thank you.”
She nodded and pulled her car keys out of her bag. “Good night boys. I hope you both find whatever you’re looking for.”
Win’s half smile had faded before her footsteps. It was gone entirely before her car had pulled out of the lot. “Let’s not tell my parents. There’s no reason to get their hopes up.”
More Cavendish secrets.
I held out a hand to help him up. “We can wait if you want, but I don’t know that I’d ever bet against Ms. Gregoire.”
17
While Ms. Gregoire had happily coordinated the visits I needed for my video project, she’d warned me that the heads of the other schools had all been various degrees of smug when they’d agreed. It wasn’t one of their students who’d cause a viral scandal.
I was keeping this in mind as Mom pulled up in front of Chester High. “This feels a little like a first day of school, doesn’t it?” she asked when I hesitated with my fingers on the door handle.
I nodded, not taking my eyes from the brick front of the massive school.
“Well, you’ll do great. Knock ’em dead, and I’ll pick you up at noon.” She patted my knee, and I took a deep breath and pushed the door open.
I hadn’t realized how dependent I’d become on my uniform. Hadn’t realized how much it felt like armor. Or how uncomfortable I’d feel without it. Walking into this school in jeans and a Henley was like changing out of pajamas for the first time after being home sick. Maybe I shouldn’t have worn my blue oxfords? It’s one thing to have shoes with presence when they’re your only piece of flair in a sea of dark blazers and school ties, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to stand out at Chester.
Officially I was here to talk to a few classes about the perils of social media. That was my entrance fee for getting access to ask students about Hero High for my project. I’d already emailed the video permissions waiver Ms. Gregoire and I created, and hopefully there’d be overlap between the students who’d gotten theirs signed and the group I wanted to talk to. If not, I’d have to get creative. Because unofficially, I had a list of the eleven Chester High students mentioned on the iLive page. If I had to talk off-record, that should be fine. The upside of a memory like mine was that while video would be proof for others, I didn’t typically need it. Except, nothing about this was typical.
I mentally reviewed my three official questions while waiting in line at the main office.
What do you think of Hero High?
If you had to describe it in one word, what would you say?
How did you form your opinion, or what influenced it?
Principal Nunes stepped out of his office as I signed in with the harried woman at the front desk who was trying to juggle late passes and phone calls and a badge printer that kept jamming.
He grinned, and Ms. Gregoire’s warning proved instantly apt when he said, “It’s Hero High’s own Michael Moore.”
I kept my face neutral. “My name is Huck Baker, sir.”
“No, I know.” His smile faded. “You know
, Michael Moore? The documentary filmmaker?”
I did know, but I continued to stare blankly. I’d figured out long ago that nothing deflated criticism faster than feigned confusion. It was hard to make a joke at someone’s expense if you had to explain the critique. Or maybe it was that giving someone a moment to reflect on their words or asking them to explain an insult to your face flipped the script so they had to take ownership of their meanness, and it suddenly didn’t seem so funny.
“Anyway. Mrs. Evans is expecting you. Second period starts in three minutes.” He gave me directions and a stern “I hope you’ve learned your lesson and are making better choices.” Then I was turned loose in Win’s school. Left to wonder if he was behind any of the classroom doors I passed, or which of the lockers held his belongings.
I knocked on room 205. Mrs. Evans had a loud voice but timid eyes. Her makeup was too pale for her skin tone—making me wonder if the tan was new or if her bathroom lighting was too dim. I tried not to stare at the abrupt color change at her neck as she introduced me to her class. “Huck’s going to talk about his experiences with social media. Then those of you who returned your waivers can speak to him on camera. I’ll let him explain.”
“Thanks.” I stepped forward wearing a smile much brighter than the students’ tepid applause warranted. But Erick of the dropped-ball gif was in here, so I aimed to charm. “A couple weeks ago, I got bored in science class . . .”
I’m pretty sure second period’s takeaway from my talk was that a viral video made me famous. That I still got almost-daily calls and invitations from news media. It wasn’t the message I’d been aiming for, but since the half of the class who hadn’t already returned their waivers were texting their parents so they could be in my next video, I wasn’t complaining. And maybe I should’ve felt worse, but I hadn’t said anything they couldn’t get from watching any of a hundred iLive VidChannels where the hosts confused cruelty and comedy in their desperate race to get followers and clicks. Anyone who thought my experiences were aspirational was missing an empathy gene.
Get a Clue Page 14
