Get a Clue

by Tiffany Schmidt

  “ Really?” Suspicion or caffeine withdrawal sharpened the word. This was almost too convenient, and nothing had been easy lately.

  “Sure.” He shrugged and held up his hand for the handshake routine as the first bell rang. “I’m sick of laser tag anyway. Sounds like this could be cool.”

  I didn’t know about cool, but my thanks was sincere. And only slightly tinged by the regret that I’d run out of time to gulp down my pilfered coffee before art.

  My other school visits weren’t scheduled until Friday (Aspen Crest) and next week (Mayfield Middle), but I spent my morning classes thinking about yesterday. About last night. About the iLive page.

  What did it mean that my friend request had suddenly been accepted? No way was it random. Had I met the person behind the page yesterday—or had they simply seen me from afar? Was it one of the people sitting within earshot when Morris announced I was “Win’s new boyfriend”? Based on the latest posts, probably.

  Because someone must have been watching me closely. Must’ve seen whom I’d talked to in the cafeteria. Must not have been happy about my conversation with Seamus; I’d learned his name from a post that deemed him Most likely to be shocked EVERY DANG TIME he gets a sunburn. #PSYoureARedhead.

  I was on there too. The latest punch line in this twisted vengeance game. I scrubbed my hands over my eyes and groaned.

  “Something the matter, Huck?”

  Ms. Gregoire’s question made Gemma and Mira giggle, but when I dropped my hands, the rest of my classmates looked concerned.

  “Headache.” It wasn’t a lie. Mine was pounding. Lack of sleep and lack of caffeine was a killer combination. I still had ninety-eight minutes until I could chug the bottle of cold brew in my locker.

  “You can go to Nurse Peter if you’d like,” Ms. Gregoire began. “But most headaches are caused by dehydration. Why don’t you grab the pass and go get a drink.” She turned toward the electronic whiteboard where she’d been writing a list of poetry terms then pivoted back. “Of water. The fountain’s that way.”

  I sighed. I’d been trying to figure out the shortest route from this room to my lunch bag, which was the opposite direction than the one she’d pointed in. I kept my head down during the walk, rubbing the pressure points at the base of my neck, only looking up when I heard the splash of the fountain already in use.

  My throat went dry. “Shiloh?”

  He turned, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. I tried not to stare at it—at the lips that had been Win’s first kiss. We looked nothing alike. Shiloh was short and muscular, built like the wrestler he was. He had freckles, brown hair, darker skin. And the type of sincere smile that probably made strangers feel like friends. “Hey,” he said. “I’m done if you want a drink.”

  I shook my head, trying to ignore the throb at my temples. Was he a lead, or a suspect? I hadn’t had time to prepare, and maybe there was a more subtle way to approach this, but I blurted out, “Did you see the post on iLive?”

  “On Win’s page?” He nodded and palmed his phone, holding it out to me.

  I didn’t need to look; I’d spent enough time staring at it last night. It’d been posted an hour after Seamus’s, ten minutes after a picture of the Convocation Hall (Not sure which is more toxic, Hero High culture, or the lead paint on their walls), and immediately before my friend request was granted.

  It was a photo of Shiloh from the Mayfield yearbook, captioned The moment when you come across a picture of your 1st ex-boyfriend and wonder if he’s gotten any better at kissing. Then look at your future ex-boyfriend and realize he only seems better in comparison. #BarWasSetLow

  “I responded,” he said.

  “Oh.” I grabbed the phone I’d previously rejected and scrolled to see what he’d written. You can stop wondering. I have. He’d paired it with a pucker-up emoji. I let out a shaky laugh.

  “Wait. Are you the ‘future ex’?” He smiled. “Sometimes Win has a strange sense of humor.”

  “You’re not—you’re not mad?”

  Shiloh snorted. “No. We were in seventh grade. I was bad at kissing. One time I bit him; I’d read online it was hot. It wasn’t. We had no idea what we were doing. We’re lucky we escaped without, like, stitches to the tongue or totally alienating our friends—that middle school jealousy stuff is no joke.”

  I narrowed my eyes, scrutinizing him with an intensity that infuriated my headache. But I didn’t see any hints of inauthenticity or bravado. He truly didn’t care. “Jealousy stuff?”

  He shrugged. “Wink wasn’t cool with him beating her to ‘first boyfriend.’ Then suddenly everyone wanted one: Reese asked out Morris and he said no, and they started feuding. Seamus announced some big crush on me and felt all betrayed because he thought Win knew. Banny was annoyed I was texting Win all the time. Stupid, dramatic seventh-grade stuff.”

  “Huh.” I made all sorts of mental notes for when I was caffeinated.

  “Just to be clear,” Shiloh added, “Win wasn’t any better at kissing. I hope he’s improved since then too.”

  “Me too,” I said woodenly, realizing too late I’d revealed that we hadn’t kissed and the post was a lie. I crossed my fingers he wasn’t paying too close attention—and also hoped that if and when the chance for kissing arose, I wasn’t horrible. I made another mental note: no biting. “I’m Huck, by the way.”

  It was a weird thing to say because Hero High was too small not to know the names of pretty much everyone. But we’d made it to late March without having a real conversation, and it felt like introductions usually occurred before discussions of kissing prowess.

  “Shi.” He stuck out a hand, maybe to shake, but I handed back his phone instead. “Bancroft was just saying you’re doing some sort of video project and need help?”

  I blinked. Bancroft worked fast. “It’s this punishment for Headmaster Williams. I need people to say good things about the school.”

  “Count me in if you want. And tell Win I say hi.” My eyes narrowed again. I was no longer worried about the case, but if Shiloh seemed too interested in his ex. My expression must not have been subtle, because he added, “And if Win’s really super curious, tell him to call up Elijah. My boyfriend will definitely vouch for me.”

  I exhaled. Shiloh was in a relationship. With Bancroft’s best friend, Elijah. I hadn’t known he was queer or whom he was dating—but now I got how Shi had heard about the video. And if he had his own boyfriend, I doubt he wanted mine.

  Not that Win was mine. Yet. Despite what whoever wrote the post believed. I extended my arm for the handshake I’d brushed off before, adding, “I’m glad our paths crossed.” And based on the Hero High Pride pin on his blazer, they would’ve much sooner if I’d ever followed Clara’s suggestions to attend the meetings. I’d make the next one.

  “Me too,” said Shiloh. “But I gotta get back to class.”

  It took all my effort to keep my face neutral until he was out of sight, then I leaned over the cool metal of the water fountain and laughed. Okay. Fine. I was officially on Team Magic Teacher, because I never would’ve come here if Ms. Gregoire hadn’t suggested it, and the timing was too impeccable to be coincidental. Sherlock, of course, would disagree. Would find some statistical probability or rational explanation.

  All I knew was I headed back to class with a new connection, new clues, and a headache that had suddenly disappeared.

  19

  If Seamus hadn’t appeared in an iLive post, I probably wouldn’t have given him a second thought. But then Shiloh mentioned him too, and now he’d entered my mind like an invasive species, chasing me down rabbit holes—like whether he still held a grudge about Win “stealing” Shiloh, or if he was over the seventh-grade drama. The post about him had been unusually tame: clue or red herring? I added him to my list of questions without answers as I opened Win’s door.

  “Hey,” I said with a grin. How long would it take for the thrill of Win to wear off? Just the fact that I could see him, just the shape of the back
of his head—all these things that Sherlock would forbid me to feel but that for the first few seconds after I entered his house I couldn’t stop feeling.

  “Hi.” Win turned toward me, and my stomach dropped faster than the book bag that fell from my fingers.

  “What happened?” I pointed at his eye where red was bleeding into blue and purple.

  “A fist,” he answered. “Cole Martin’s.”

  I’d heard that name for the first time a few hours ago, when I’d cornered Curtis before Convocation and shown him the latest iLive post.

  He’d whistled. “Cole’s got a temper.” And if Curtis had known that immediately, had the person behind the page? Had they posted a picture of him with his finger knuckle-deep in his nose, captioned Future archaeologist, knowing he’d come out swinging?

  “Not that I even knew about the post Cole thinks I wrote until after he hit me.” Win shook his head, wincing a little. “But don’t worry, even after the pummeling, I didn’t tell him the truth.”

  I flinched. I’d told Reese. Had told her to keep it from him and her best friend. What gave me the right to play god with his safety, while telling him to keep his mouth shut? “Do you need some ice? Tylenol?”

  “No. Morris took off for the nurse as soon as it happened. I’ve had ice on it for hours. And hours to think about how much more pissed Cole’s going to be when he gets back to school after his five-day suspension.”

  “Then that’s our new deadline. We’ll either solve this by next Wednesday”—I tried to inject my voice with confidence as I shaved forty-eight hours off our timeline, tried not to absorb the lack of it on his face—“or if we can’t, we expose the page as fake and take it down.”

  The relief that unknotted his shoulders was unmistakable, though he attempted to make his voice gruff when he said, “Good. That’ll save me the suspension from when someone tells Principal Nunes why Cole punched me.”

  I hadn’t considered the personal cost Win would pay from that page staying active. I’d focused on the posts as clues, not threats. I thought it would be easier for him knowing the reason for people’s misplaced anger; he no longer had to internalize the blame. The gaslighting was over.

  But the fallout was not. And my lack of foresight was cold. Sherlockian.

  I turned to where he was sitting, forcing myself not to flinch or look away from his bruises. He was pinching his bottom lip again, rubbing it between his thumb and pointer. And it looked soft—

  No. Focus. Stop.

  “Stop what?” Win dropped his hand and looked at me sideways. Apparently I’d said that out loud.

  “Stop with the—” I pointed in case he didn’t know where his mouth was and in case I didn’t already look like a complete fool. “It’s just . . . you rub your bottom lip. And it’s stupid hot and I’m trying to focus.”

  “Then maybe that’s a sign you should take a break from doing your freaky super-observer tricks on me.”

  I winced. Freaky super-observer had to be the worst super-hero name in the history of How to Make a Guy Lose Interest in You. “I can’t. It’s just how my brain works.” Overactive enough to be exhausting for me and everyone around me, but not smart enough to solve this. “I can stop telling you what I observe if it helps.”

  Win groaned. “No. That’s worse. Then you’ll have this whole stash of info on me and I won’t even know it.”

  Yeah, I already had that. But I wisely didn’t point this out. “I promise not to use it for nefarious purposes.”

  Win’s forehead creased before he looked away.

  And it was only because of my “super-observer tricks” that I could reverse engineer the explanation. He didn’t know what “nefarious” meant, and growing up with Curtis had made him sensitive to displays of intelligence. I needed a way to turn the tables—make him the expert. Make him smile.

  I rubbed the back of my neck, then asked, “Does Hudson ever come out of his cage?”

  Win blinked. “How is that related to the case?”

  “It’s not. Can he play fetch or something?”

  Win’s mouth slowly unfurled in a grin. “He’s not a dog. But yeah, he can come out as long as we watch him and clean up after him.” He stood. “Move the coffee table and roll up the rug while I get him.”

  I wouldn’t have predicted I’d spend the afternoon sitting wide-legged on the Cavendishes’ floor, trying to lure Hudson away from Win with apple slices. Him laughing at his pet’s stubborn loyalty—or lack of spatial awareness, since it looked like Hudson was too brainless to figure out how to get from Win’s lap to mine.

  “If you could eat just one food or drink for the rest of your life, what would it be?” His answer was ramen.

  Mine—coffee—inspired me to stand and make a cup. I selected a mug and loaded a pod into the machine before Win came up with his question, which he asked in a quiet rush.

  “What’s your coming-out story?”

  Was it meant to be a loaded question? To make me expose memories as painful as those I was constantly asking him to reveal? If so, he was going to be disappointed. I set my mug in position and hit the button. Just the sight of steaming caffeine loosened my chest.

  “I don’t have any big moment. Not the type people talk about or that I’ve seen on TV. I mean, I was nervous—how could I not be? I sat my parents down three different times, but then chickened out of telling them. When I finally did, they were like ‘we know’—and it was pretty anticlimactic.” I gave him a sheepish grin, but his face was unreadable. “But I’m lucky. My parents were always clear that all loves were equal. And I’ve always loved boys and girls equally.”

  I took a sip of coffee as I mentally replayed what I said, then choked on it as the implications of the sentence hit me.

  Win moved to the other side of the island, Hudson held in one hand, tucked close to his chest. “Don’t spew on us.”

  “Um, not that I’ve actually been in love.” My voice was rough from coughing. “I wasn’t saying that I—or you—”

  Win bit his bottom lip, but the corners of his mouth were turned up in trapped laughter. “It’s cool. I didn’t think you were making a big declaration.”

  “Yeah, let’s just . . .” I stared into my mug and debated whether it was possible to drown myself in the remaining two inches of coffee or better to gulp them quick and get a refill. The second option sounded better, so I swapped out the coffee pod while draining my cup. Win was watching me, head tilted in amusement until I said, “You didn’t give your answer.”

  “Oh. Same. I told my family and no one cared.”

  But there were miles of difference between no one being upset and no one caring. I could point that out, push for more information than he’d volunteered—or I could ask a gentler question. But before I could do either, my phone dinged with the alert I’d set up. “There’s a new post.”

  When Sherlock looked for clues, he found blood on windowsills, footprints in muddy fields. He analyzed tree growth and the hats of mugging victims. Just once I’d like to see how he’d handle digital evidence. Maybe he’d find that cyber footprints weren’t as easy to follow as physical ones.

  “How do you know?” Win pointed at the phone and raised his eyebrows, or attempted to. The swelling on the left side of his face made them crooked.

  “As of last night, we’re friends. I mean, it’s iLive official, so we must be.” I held up the post. It was a group shot of a few dozen people in formal wear: the girls in white dresses and the boys in green Mayfield blazers, navy pants, and ties. It was the sort of post I should take to Wink, because in response to “Who’s the girl whose face is replaced with a poop emoji?” Win had squinted, then shrugged.

  “It’s funny you think I’d have a clue. It’s from graduation though.”

  Win put Hudson in his cage when he got Wink from her room. I tried not to read into the parallels: freedom time was over. Like the rodent, we were back to being trapped. She’d known immediately. “That’s Colleen Allen.”

  I
knew the name, it just took me a second to place it. “Goes to Aspen Crest and hates crickets?”

  I got that they were twins; obviously fraternal, which meant they were no more genetically similar than Wink and Curtis or me and Miles. But there were times that felt untrue, like when they both turned toward me after she asked, “Need anything else?” Or how they’d leaned toward each other without looking. An eerie synchronicity.

  I told her no thanks and watched her pass the plaster handprint molds hanging in the hallway. Curtis’s was framed separately, but “Winston” and “Lincoln” shared one. They shared so much more than I could ever understand—including nonverbal communication in the glance they’d exchanged before she shut her bedroom door.

  “What aren’t you telling me about Colleen?”

  “She isn’t my favorite person.” Win had used the same wording when we’d gone through the yearbook. I’d let it go then; now I waited him out. “She accused me of cheating at the end of last year.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, I guess technically I was?” He flipped his palms up. “Mac and I were copying Morris’s social studies homework.”

  “So, not technically, but actually?” I teased.

  “Yeah, but the teacher didn’t collect or go over it. He’d just check off that you had it at the start of class.” Win looked more annoyed by this time waste than he did by Colleen. “Because she told, we all missed the class trip to a Phillies game. I didn’t care, but it wasn’t fair Morris got punished too. He did the work. And Mac loves baseball.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me this the first time we talked about Colleen?”

  “Back then we didn’t even know the page existed.” He touched his face tentatively and groaned. “Look, I don’t like Colleen, but right now someone is telling her about this post and she’s crying or pissed or embarrassed. She’s one more person who’s upset because of this page. It doesn’t even matter that I didn’t do it—or that they think I did—it matters that they all feel lousy.”