Get a Clue

by Tiffany Schmidt

  The most interesting part of this post was that it wasn’t true. Wink wasn’t the only person he’d do extreme favors for. To make his family happy, he’d have played Rover for any of them.

  She was just the most likely to ask.

  21

  Miles called Thursday morning and asked if I wanted to come to the city for the weekend. Someone had given him a pair of Rangers tickets they couldn’t use. It felt a little traitorous to my beloved Blue Jackets, but I’d gladly take a rain check on plans with Bancroft and a break from feeling like a broken detective to binge on rinkside nachos. And give Win a break too.

  I didn’t know the outcome of yesterday’s mayhem, or if Win was okay, or if I’d be welcome at the Cavendishes’. But I was going right from Convocation to the train station tomorrow and didn’t want to disappear for the weekend without giving him a heads-up.

  As I trudged down the sidewalk to his house after school, my phone rang. It was a New York area code, which meant it was either Miles, a telemarketer, or—most likely—a news station. I’d spent the last few weeks sending them to voicemail and deleting the messages. But today—mostly out of procrastination—I answered and let a production assistant named Charles pitch me a segment about how it was “so admirable you noticed your teacher’s sexism and took action.”

  “Stop,” I said. “I’m just a guy that made a horrible mistake. If I could do it again, I’d make different choices.”

  Charles countered, “Then come on our show and talk about that: how you’ve learned to be a better feminist ally. Give advice to other guys about—”

  “I pointed a phone and pressed a button. It was literally the least I could do.” And getting praise for it made my stomach twist. “Mine is the last voice you need. Get people of color, get women. Anyone other than a white dude who messed up, saying he did it in the name of feminism.”

  “But you meant well—”

  I groaned against the receiver. “My intentions are not a selling point. I observed. Clara experienced. If you want to talk to someone inspirational, why aren’t you calling her?”

  There was a pause. “That’s—that’s a good question. Will you give me her number?”

  “Not a chance.” I hung up before Charles could pitch his “Yeah, but—”

  They all had a “Yeah, but,” and they all infuriated me. My only consolation was that Clara wasn’t getting hounded. I’d had Rory ask. But . . . maybe she should be? Not hounded, but asked. Given opportunities and platforms. I mulled this over as I knocked on Win’s door.

  “Hey.” We said it simultaneously. Followed by a synchronized, “I’m sorry.”

  I elaborated first. “I’m sorry if I overstepped with your parents. It just made me so—” I paused and took a deep breath. “I want them to believe you.”

  “They do. I have my phone back. I’m ungrounded and probably have a few Get Out of Jail Free cards for future groundings.” He shook his head, like he was disoriented by this shift in family dynamics. “If you didn’t come over, I was going to call, because yesterday was a lot.”

  “Everyone okay? You and Wink?”

  “Yeah, but I’m—I’m talked out. I’m really glad you’re here though.”

  “Me too.” Sometimes his honesty was so real it made me ache, made me uncomfortably aware of all the filters I fed my words through.

  “We can work on your video.” He bypassed the kitchen and led me straight to his room. “Maybe today I can help you for once. What’d you use to film the interviews?”

  It was a clear request for a break from all things iLive, so I pulled out my phone and cued up the first video. “This.”

  “Probably stick with that then. Let’s see what you’ve got to work with.” He watched the first few seconds of the interviews. Each time he shook his head, I cringed. But his voice was soft and supportive when he said, “So, let’s start with the basics. We can fix what you have here with filters and settings and cropping. But going forward, film horizontally, like a TV screen. And try to have the people all take up about the same room on-screen. Typically about a third. You’re going to want to work on steadiness. Don’t hold the phone; use a tripod or prop it against books or something so it’s not moving.”

  I nodded, locking each of these facts away.

  “You want to avoid backlighting—when the light source is behind your subject, it makes it hard to see their faces. So, no more filming people in front of windows. It’s kinda ridiculous that no one in media class thought to tell you this.” He pointed at the screen. “You wanted to do some text overlays, right? Put facts on there about the school?”

  “Yeah, like statistics on diversity or sports or class size.”

  “Okay, then we need to make sure you leave space for those. The easiest way would be to shoot with a blank backdrop, against a bare wall or blackboard. And see if you can go in a quiet classroom so there’s not so much background noise to scrub.”

  “You can really help me fix this?” I asked.

  He laughed. “Isn’t that supposed to be my line? I’m the screwup, you’re the fixer.”

  “I disagree. Vehemently.” He looked away, and I reached out and almost touched his face but pulled my fingers back. “Your eye looks better.”

  He smirked before sinking onto his bed. “Liar.”

  But it wasn’t a lie. He always looked good to me. Was that the sort of thing I could say? It seemed like the type that he might. I shifted my feet. Say it, swallow it, admit it, repress it.

  “Here.” He tossed me my phone. “Send me the interview files and I’ll fix them up this weekend. But first, show me you’ve been paying attention.”

  I frowned. “You know I have.”

  “Prove it. Where should I sit? Set up the shot.”

  I directed him to the end of his bed, away from the closet doors so I’d have a blank wall beside him. I dimmed the lights on the ceiling fan and opened a blind. Positioned the phone on his dresser and took a test shot. “That would work.”

  “So, ask me your questions.”

  “Right.” I pressed Record. “Uh, what do you think of when you hear ‘Hero High’?”

  “Snazzy uniforms,” he deadpanned, then glanced away. When he faced the camera again, his expression was serious. “It feels like Hero High is a safe space . . .”

  I was glad I’d given his dresser the job of keeping the camera steady, because there’s no way I could’ve. I asked my questions and he kept talking, earnest, honest. I couldn’t look away. I didn’t move, even after he said, “So, yeah. All that and snazzy uniforms.”

  I swallowed, but my mouth stayed dry. “Please tell me that’s the answer you gave in your interview. Because good luck rejecting that.”

  He snorted. “Feel free to use it in your video. The eye will add a classy touch.”

  He was being sarcastic, but I paused to consider. “Do they make filters for that? There are dog ears and makeup and Santa hats . . .”

  “Please—” His snort had ballooned to full laughter and he doubled over. “Please make me a black-eyed Santa. Or, like, the eyelashes—” He pantomimed batting his.

  Win was still laughing when his phone rang on the bed beside him. He glanced at Wink’s name on the screen and hit the speakerphone button. “It’s not my fault if I’m being too loud. Someone”—he grinned at me—“is being unintentionally hilarious.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, but whatever. I need your help,” Wink whined. “I’m having a toilet paper emergency.”

  “You clogged the toilet?”

  “No. Gross. Ugh. Brothers,” she huffed. “I mean, there is none.”

  He was spectacularly nonchalant, leaning over the drawer of his bedside table and fishing something out before answering. “So you want me to bring you some?”

  “Either that or I live here now.”

  The “something” was made up of flexible stands of black balls that he bent and twisted. “I guess you live there now. Or at least until I need the bathroom
.”

  I laughed. She inhaled. “Is that Huck? Am I on speaker-phone? Win!”

  He tossed me the object. Clearly a phone clipped to one end, but what were the three strands for? “Tripod,” he mouthed before answering her. “You called me from inside the house. How was I supposed to know it was a secret conversation about poop and not you being too lazy to walk across the hall?”

  At this point it might be safer for him not to deliver the TP, because it was going to be A Study in Murdered Siblings if she ever got out of the bathroom. “And I guess I should’ve known Huck’s here, because he always is. Maybe if he was here less, you’d have more time to change the roll after you finish it.”

  “Still on speakerphone,” he said.

  “I’m going to kill you,” she growled, and I mentally high-fived myself for predicting this.

  “Threats won’t get you TP.” But he was sitting up and swinging his legs off the bed.

  “Fine. I’ll use your towel.”

  That got him moving. And while he was opening the hall closet and having a through-the-door squabble with his sister, the doorbell rang. I wandered past them and opened it for Morris.

  “Oh. Hey.” He blinked and rocked back a step in surprise. “You’re still—you’re here?”

  “Why wouldn’t I be?” He gaped and hedged and looked so uncomfortable that I decided to save him. “Because of Win’s iLive post about future ex?”

  “Yeah. Sorry.” He sucked on his upper lip and shoved his hands into the front pocket of his green hoodie. “I didn’t know if you’d seen it and didn’t want to start something if you hadn’t. You guys are cool?” Morris looked so concerned that I almost forgave him for believing the page.

  “Yeah, we’re cool.”

  “Good. I was coming to check on how Win was doing between that and his eye. Guess I’m not needed.”

  He hesitated on the stoop, but I waved him inside. “I didn’t punch him. Promise.”

  Morris frowned and pulled off his Phillies cap. “Yeah, I know. I was there when Cole did.”

  “I was . . .” I trailed off because nothing good came from pointing out a failed joke, plus I wanted Morris to like me. “Anyway, I’m not mad about the post. Win’s funny like that. I mean, how has he wronged you over the years?”

  He laughed, then paused when I didn’t join in. “Oh, you were serious? He hasn’t. Should he have? Is this the new ‘squad goals’ thing?”

  I shrugged again. “It seems to be a pattern.” It’s not that I was testing Morris—except, fine, I was testing him. Annoyed he was another person who believed the page could be Win’s. And maybe he knew I was peeved, because he was watching me as warily as I was watching him.

  “Hey, Morris.” Win and Wink came into the kitchen, still nudging each other. “What are you guys talking about?”

  Morris blinked, his scrutiny melting into a grin as he held out a hand for Win to bump. “Huck was telling me you have a pattern of ‘wronging’ people—I’m trying to decide if I should be offended you don’t care enough to offend me.”

  Win’s eyebrows rose as his gaze shot to me. I flipped my palms up in a subtle shrug. That was certainly one interpretation of my words.

  “Work on that, okay?” Morris’s laugh sounded forced. “If you don’t insult me soon, I’m going to be seriously hurt.”

  “Sure thing.” Win pivoted for the cabinet where snacks were kept. “Popcorn, corn chips, or—” He broke off and narrowed his eyes at his sister; with one ringed in purple, the effect was lopsided. “What’s wrong?”

  I didn’t believe in twin intuition, but I also had zero explanation for how Win knew anything was wrong. Two minutes ago she’d been issuing threats of fratricide—and, yeah, their bickering and joking was a bit pricklier today, but I attributed that to residue from last night. Win’s jaw hardened and his legs widened to a protective, reactive stance. He tossed a bag of corn chips to Morris and faced her.

  Only then did I see any evidence of distress as she squished her lips to one side and sank onto the couch. “Sorry I was a jerk earlier, Huck.”

  I nodded. “You okay?”

  “It’s stupid.” She hugged a pillow, the same thing Win did when overwhelmed. “Just . . . Reese and I said we’d go to the freshman formal together. But Paxton asked her today and of course I told her to say yes, but now I’m the only one who’s dateless.”

  The bag Morris had been opening tore in an explosion of chips. He chuckled self-consciously. “Well, now that I’ve got your attention: I’ll take you.”

  Win laughed. “No, you won’t, and get a broom.” He snatched up another throw pillow and threw it at Wink, but both the toss and his voice were gentle. “I’m not going. You can stay home with me.”

  “But you don’t want to go.” Wink’s chin sunk into the chenille fringe as her lip quivered. “I do.”

  “Again, I can take her.” Morris was ineffectively shoving the chips into a pile with his foot, breaking most of them.

  “Again, you cannot.” Win’s voice was edging toward impatient, Wink’s lip headed toward trembling. Morris had picked a bad day to come over, because he had no idea of the emotional showdown that had taken place last night or the fallout the twins were still sorting through—both picking at and protecting each other, everything still so raw.

  Morris abandoned his mess, taking crunching footsteps closer. His face was briefly thunderous, then he laughed and clapped a hand on Win’s back. “Wait! You’re doing it. I told you to try and offend me and you went for it. Good one. You got me.” He turned and headed to the closet, grabbing out the broom. “So, I’ll take Wink. Consider it done.”

  “Um, I don’t get a say?” asked Wink. “It’s only my date. You can’t just ‘consider it done’ when you didn’t even ask me.”

  Morris’s face fell, and Win’s hardened into stone. He’d picked up another pillow and was squeezing it with white knuckles. No part of this was going to end well. I didn’t know how Curtis was faring, but both Cavendish twins were emotional jack-in-the-boxes, ready to spring in the face of whoever turned their crank.

  There were way too many volatile feelings trapped in this room—but it suddenly occurred to me that we didn’t have to be.

  “Time out!” I called, and all three faces swiveled toward me. “Win, you’re not grounded, right?”

  “Yeah,” he said cautiously.

  “So let’s go somewhere.”

  He dropped the pillow and reached for his shoes. “Okay. Where do you want to go?”

  22

  Since Morris had to clean up the chips and Wink said we were going to be “disgustingly adorable” on the walk, it was agreed that they’d stay and sweep while we went ahead and tried to snag a table at Cool Beans. They’d join us when the kitchen floor would no longer make Mrs. Cavendish break into hives.

  It bought us a five-minute head start. And I suspected Morris would spend most of it apologizing to Wink and trying to talk her into going with him to the formal. I also suspected her answer had nothing to do with Win’s objection and that she wouldn’t change her mind.

  I gave a satisfied hum, knowing I’d get a chance to prove my hypothesis soon enough.

  Win grinned and bumped his shoulder against mine. “I’m kinda digging how excited you are about getting coffee. It’s cute.”

  I blushed and wondered if I should tell him coffee was only part of the appeal, and puzzling out Wink and Morris was secondary too. Mostly it was that we were outside his house—together—without risking punishment.

  “Here’s the thing.” I stopped at the end of his block, gesturing vaguely to get his attention.

  “Where?” He followed the motion of my hand and was studying the neighboring yards. He glanced back down the sidewalk at his house, then the other direction toward Main Street. “What thing?”

  “No.” I waved my hand like I was wiping away the words, and he tracked the motion with an increasingly furrowed brow. “There’s no—it’s not an actual physical thing. But I
need to know something.”

  He laughed. “You always do.”

  “One question, I swear.” I held up a finger and gave him my most winning, dimpled smile.

  He groaned and rubbed the back of his neck. “Can we go back to looking for the nonexistent thing?”

  “Just this one question, I promise.” I grabbed his hand, and his surprised eyes swung to mine.

  “Fine.” He sighed as he squeezed my fingers. “Ask.”

  I waggled my eyebrows and paused dramatically. “Why’d you have to invite Wink and Morris?”

  But in truth, it was fine when they joined us. Catching up before we’d even reached Cool Beans, Wink pretended to gag when she saw our clasped hands. “See? What did I tell you? Disgustingly adorable.”

  All three of them mocked me when I ordered a dark roast in the size they called “mega,” and the barista paused before ringing it up. “You sure? We don’t sell many of these outside of finals time.”

  I was sleep-deprived and I was sure.

  We snagged the table by the electric fireplace, and Wink mixed sugar into the foam of her cappuccino and ate it with a stirrer. Morris offered to share his giant cookie. Win had his cranberry juice. Wink had brought cards. Apparently gin rummy was their game—and Bancroft was right about her being a card shark. Morris was scorekeeper, and Win was patient with explaining the rules, laughing at my beginner’s luck when I won the first hand without having a clue what I was doing.

  It felt like an afternoon from the future—like I was getting a sneak peek at life post-iLive. And I hoped that was true, but there was still so much unresolved. I laughed along with them when Morris almost spilled Wink’s cup while knocking to end a round—and rolled my eyes when she won again. And protested my innocence when Win accused me of trying to look at his cards, but really I just wanted to sit closer to him. Through it all, though, my stomach ached—and not the acid burn of too much coffee. There was so much I was actively trying to compartmentalize, so many frayed pieces that I needed tied up in neat knots.