Get a Clue

by Tiffany Schmidt

  The school song began to swell, and if I’d let it play a second longer, people would’ve rocked forward to clap—instead I hit Pause and stepped up to the mic. This was where I’d diverged from the version Ms. Gregoire had seen, and standing off to the side of the stage, she lifted her coffee cup in salute.

  “I watched this video a dozen times last night and couldn’t figure out what was missing. I was proud of the voices and opinions I’d collected—but the thing that was missing was mine.”

  I scanned the audience, taking courage from my parents’ faces and Win’s curious smirk.

  “When I started these interviews, I recorded everyone else’s answers but didn’t have any of my own. I was ‘the new kid,’ and I blamed that for why I stayed on the periphery, why my only real friends were the other new kid”—I nodded to Rory—“and my Knight Light mentor. I liked school, had some great and not-so-great teachers”—the audience gave an uneasy chuckle—“but I didn’t have the big feelings Hero High seemed to inspire in everyone else. I didn’t understand why people were so proud to wear the sweatshirts with their names on the back, or the reason for their school spirit. It was just a school—and paying hefty tuition didn’t make it any more special.”

  There was an uncomfortable stirring in the rows as people exchanged looks, an obvious footstep closer from the man hovering behind me. I caught Ms. Gregoire gesturing for him to wait. And I took a deep breath.

  “That apathy? That disconnect? That was on me. I was so busy looking back at my old life that I wasn’t investing here. But I’ve spent the past few weeks talking to everyone about this school—meeting new people, hearing their ideas, letting them in. Somewhere along the way I started to get indignant if someone said something negative about Hero High. I had to remind myself not to interrupt and correct false assumptions. I had to stop myself from chiming in with my own praise.”

  I took a deep breath. This wasn’t just a jump, it was a high dive. And this was my last chance to back off the board. Instead I let momentum and honesty carry me over the edge. “Somewhere along the line, I became smitten. Not just with the school. But it’s because of Hero High—because of Knight Lights—that I met the guy I fell for.”

  “Um, it’s not me!” Curtis called out, interrupting an audible “aww” from Merri and Mira and many others I couldn’t see or name. “Just clarifying.” The wave of laughter rolled past me; I was too busy swimming in the shocked joy in Win’s eyes.

  Ms. Gregoire cleared her throat, and I raised my chin to address the room again. So many faces—many still strangers, but hopefully they wouldn’t be for much longer. I had more words on my note cards, but they’d fled from my memory, replaced by ones so emotional that Sherlock would cringe—and to be fair, I probably would later too. But the admissions committee was meeting right after this, and what good was my voice if I didn’t use it?

  “Curtis is right, it’s not him. The person I fell for is applying to this school. And it was in wanting it for him that I realized the depths of my own Hero High pride. I want him to have these teachers, these traditions, his own Knight Light. I want him to walk these halls and across the mosaics. He’d have so much to contribute here. I want him to be a part of the Hero High community that was waiting to welcome me, just as soon as I was ready to let them.”

  The words were out, but I was still in free fall. I pried out my dimples and hid my shaking hands behind the podium. “That was the long answer to my questions—but here’s the short version. Describe Hero High in one word: Possibility.”

  35

  I stumbled off the stage after pressing Play, the school song chasing me out the side door. Was it supposed to feel like this after declaring feelings for someone? Like my rib cage had shrunken and my heart and lungs were being crushed? Had I made a huge mistake? Was I going to get kicked out?

  “Huck!” Win’s voice came from the main door, and I turned to see him marching toward me, one hand gripping the back of his neck, the other loosening his tie.

  I’d used up all my words on the podium, so I leaned against the side of the building and let him speak first. He rubbed his bottom lip while studying our shoes. “I didn’t need you to do that for me.”

  “But—” It killed me a little that we were still having this conversation.

  “No, listen. I didn’t need you to do that for me, because I already did it for myself.” He raised his eyes from the sidewalk and met mine. “My hair is wet.”

  “I—I noticed that,” I said slowly, not quite sure where he was taking this conversation but willing to follow.

  “Because about an hour ago, I did a swim demo for Coach Yang. And before that, I had another meeting with Headmaster Williams.”

  My hand tightened into a fist in my pocket, like I was clutching all my hope. “Why?”

  “There were some things I needed to clear up about my application. I wanted to make sure that if he’d seen the iLive page, he knew it wasn’t mine. And explain I hadn’t sent the email pulling my application—that I would never have because I really, really want to come here.”

  I fought back my dimples. “So when you said I didn’t ‘need’ to do that—you meant it. I really didn’t need to.”

  He nodded. “Pretty much. I had it covered. I don’t know what will happen, but—I tried.”

  “So, I just humiliated myself for no reason?”

  “Well . . .” He raised an eyebrow in challenge. “Not no reason. You—you fell for me?”

  I pointed over my shoulder. “Were you not paying attention? Because I’m pretty sure there are a couple hundred witnesses in there who heard me.”

  “I see,” Win said slowly, pulling his bottom lip between his thumb and finger in that way he knew drove me to distraction. “So you’re staking a claim in case I do come here next year?”

  “I’m staking a claim regardless.”

  “Maybe you should just say it again,” he teased. “Just to clear up any confusion. There are a lot of people you met making that video. How do I know you weren’t talking about any of them?”

  I rolled my eyes and squeezed the podium remote that was still in my pocket. I considered restarting my video. Would that buy us more time? It had to be almost dismissal. “Because none of them are half as frustratingly impossible as you.”

  He crossed his hands over his chest. “I’m not a case anymore. Not a puzzle or a project.”

  “No, you’re not any of those things,” I agreed. “But you’re the guy I fell for. And you could be my boyfriend. I’d like you to be.” I took another step forward, and his nostrils flared. His hands were white-knuckled as they gripped his opposite arms. And of all the times for him to be inscrutable, for me to see all the signs and not be able to read them. I froze, a half step away. “I can’t tell if you’re angry or into this. And while I want to kiss you right now, I’m not okay crossing those signals. Give me something here.”

  I’d meant an answer, but I guessed Win’s response was acceptable too. He grabbed the collar of my blazer in both hands and pulled my mouth down to his.

  He drank my kisses like questions—like this was one more game and I was figuring him out. And maybe I was. Maybe I always would be. The contradictions and challenges, the sweet and the sarcastic. The texture of his hair, his skin, his mouth. The taste of his tongue when he let me in. The sound of his voice when he pulled back. “So much for your observational genius. Shouldn’t you already know? I’ve fallen for you too.”

  If I’d ever wondered what I’d sound like with the rasp of bronchitis, I had my answer when I laughed hoarsely against his neck and said, “You scramble all my radars—because you’re too important to make a mistake.”

  “Then maybe you should just ask. We’ve got this question game down to an art.”

  I swallowed. “Win, will you be my boyfriend?”

  “Sure. Now your turn to answer: Huck, will you be mine?”

  I nodded, and his hand came up to touch my face. It was when he traced my dimples that I kne
w I was smiling.

  “Is this what you texted me about yesterday? The video? Or asking me out? Because, I gotta say, I’d prefer you never use the words ‘We need to talk’ again.”

  Rory would feel so vindicated, and part of me wanted to go the easy route. Laugh and tell him about her upcoming I told you so.

  Instead, I shook my head. “We need to talk because I solved the case.”

  36

  Like blazer-wearing salmon, we swam against the stream of students exiting the Convocation Hall to find Wink. I wanted to tell this story only once, so she needed to be there for it. Objective achieved, I led them to the small room where I’d met Headmaster Williams earlier.

  They both stared at me, but it was Win who asked. “So who made the iLive page?”

  “Morris.” Win drank coffee only when it was saturated with milk and sugar, but bad news: he drank that black. Undiluted, unsweetened.

  Wink asked, “Morris Henderson?”

  “Morris? You’re sure?” Win was already seated but reached forward to brace himself on the chair in front of him.

  In A Study in Scarlet Holmes says, “It was easier to know it than to explain why I know it,” and he was so dang right it hurt. I knew Morris had done it, but he hadn’t confessed. All I could do was lay out my evidence—and let them choose what to do with the information.

  But perhaps I shouldn’t have started by sharing that quote.

  “Um, what?” Wink looked at her brother.

  The corners of his mouth flickered, but his eyes stayed flat, his snark was feeble. “If you skip the Sherlock now, I promise to fanboy later.”

  I lifted my eyebrows. “I’m holding you to that.” But it was the last moment of levity as I moved on to a breakdown of the motivations behind the iLive posts I’d decoded. Wink stared at me. Win studied the window. Pinched the bridge of his nose. Shook his head.

  I finished by revealing why Mr. Rivera had fired him and Morris’s advance knowledge of Win’s forthcoming job offer. “Congrats on that, by the way.”

  “Um, thanks, I guess.” He shook his head the way Luna did when she’d misjudged a leap and fallen short of her goal. Like he was trying to recover from a disorienting blow and get his bearings. “But . . . why?”

  “Because he didn’t want you to leave him behind at Chester High. And . . .” I wasn’t sure if I should pause and let them process or get it all out while they were still stunned. But this part felt harder to reveal. I pointed to the girl leaning against his shoulder and chewing her lip. “Because of Wink.”

  “Me?” She might have pulled away if her brother hadn’t put his arm around her shoulder.

  “According to Morris—and I’m not sure we should believe anything he said—you vent to him if there’s drama. And he was using that page to stir up a lot of drama.”

  “I did this?” She was twirling a strand of hair—not flirtatiously, but in an anxious way that made me concerned she was going to knot her fingers in it.

  “No.” If they processed nothing else I said, they needed to hear this. “He did. Not either of you.”

  Win put his hand on top of hers, tugging her fingers free. “It’s not your fault. I can’t—he’s . . .”

  He looked out the window and trailed off, like he couldn’t come up with an insult bad enough, or maybe he twinspoke it right into Wink’s brain, because she was nodding. “I just liked . . . He always listened. And everyone was so busy yelling at you or praising Curtis, and Reese gets all ‘Suck it up, buttercup.’ He always told me I was right.”

  Win looked at their hands instead of her face. “It’s not like I don’t ever complain about you. Remember the two things Mom said people say to her about us?” He counted them off on his fingers: “ ‘I always wanted twins,’ and ‘Better you than me.’ ” He peeked at her to gauge her reaction. “That’s kinda how I feel most days: I will always want you as my twin, but some days I don’t want to be a twin.”

  “That makes perfect sense.” Wink stared down at her hands. “So what do we do?”

  Win’s jaw hardened. “I’ll handle it. Morris and I already had plans tonight. Why don’t you head straight to Reese’s or something? You don’t have to be there. It’s gonna be ugly.”

  They both shut their eyes for a second as it sank in. If the mood wasn’t so serious, I would’ve cracked a joke about them doing a “creepy twin thing” as they took simultaneous deep breaths.

  When Wink opened her eyes, there was a sharp resolve in them. “Thanks for saying I don’t have to be there—but I think I should be.”

  Their gazes swung to me, but I looked away. To quote Ms. Gregoire, “Sherlock doesn’t serve as judge or jury.” It wasn’t my place to suggest how they handle this. “I’m really sorry.” I pointed toward the hall. “I should check if my parents grabbed my stuff.”

  It was true but also an excuse to give them privacy. I didn’t know Morris like they did. I didn’t share the good memories they had to balance against these brutal revelations. I couldn’t understand what they were feeling or how it was compounded by the unique love-guilt bond of twinship.

  “I’ll come with you.” Win squeezed his sister’s shoulder as he stood. “Tell Mom and Dad I’ll be home soon.”

  As we stepped into the hall, he said, “Can we not—let’s not talk about that right now. I need . . .” He scrubbed his hand across his face. “Just a break.”

  Instead of answering, I reached for his hand. Or maybe that was my answer, because he gave me a weary smile as he squeezed my fingers.

  When Miles and I were little, we used to do this thing whenever Dad insisted we hold hands in parking lots or crowds or pictures. Basically we squashed the heck out of each other’s fingers until one of us—me—squealed.

  Holding Win’s hand felt nothing like that. Sure, I was as aware of it as I’d been all those times Miles tried to cut off my circulation, but instead of the pain of my bones being ground together, my hand was comprised of electricity, of sparks of sensation that were somehow hardwired to my smile. And when I peeked sideways at him, he was smiling too.

  Instead of heading outside where students would still be lingering, the faculty preparing to meet to discuss a list with his name on it, I headed to the alcove in the back. The one Ms. Gregoire had emerged from when she’d given me a heart attack last week.

  If my first kiss had been a revelation, and my second a declaration, this one was pure captivation. It was a good thing I didn’t know how amazing kissing—kissing Win—was weeks ago, because I never would’ve stopped doing it long enough to ask him questions. Or maybe it was this amazing because I’d spent so much time getting to know him, letting him get to know me. Either way, I had a new favorite pastime.

  “Man, I hope I get in,” Win mumbled against my jaw. “If so, let’s make this—”

  I pressed a finger to his lips, pulling him deeper into the alcove as footsteps approached.

  Headmaster Williams sounded weary. “Remember when Convocation was a nice, orderly way to end the day?”

  “I don’t know.” Ms. Gregoire seemed to pause right outside the alcove as she added, “It’s so much more invigorating this year! I think the school needed and needs some new voices.”

  If Headmaster Williams replied beyond a disgruntled “Hmph,” it happened when they were out of earshot.

  “Invigorating, huh?” Win touched my cheek. “That’s one word for it.”

  I nipped at his fingertips. We needed to wait a few minutes for the coast to clear before sneaking out of the building. I knew just how to spend them.

  37

  “Hey, can we sit here a second?” Win was pointing to my front porch swing, and I was already halfway down the steps. We’d just escaped the gauntlet of my parents taking pictures and were headed—finally—to our first date. But I backtracked and sat beside him.

  “What’s up?”

  “I was kinda hoping we could do the whole Morris update here—and then leave it here,” he said, staring down at his clasped han
ds.

  It was Sunday night. The rest of Win’s weekend had been engulfed by “the whole Morris thing.” His family was still undecided about what to do—whether they wanted to press legal charges or ask Chester High to impose consequences.

  The news of the fake page and who was behind it had spread quickly—courtesy of Clara and Mira and Reese and Bancroft. Win told me he was half tempted to let social justice run its course.

  “But I think I want the decision to be Wink’s.” He tipped his head back against the swing’s chains. “It was ‘for Wink’ that Morris said he’d done it. He assumed if I didn’t get into Hero High, Wink would stay at Chester. And that if I screwed up enough, she’d eventually fall for the guy who kept stepping up to comfort her.”

  He gave a flimsy smile. “She was a rock star though. She put together this slideshow of screenshots of every post. And then made him account for every single one when she played it in front of our parents and his.”

  “Whoa. When she decides to step up, she goes all in. I like her style,” I said.

  “Yeah. She was super stoic. Better than me.” Win lowered his head, and his expression made my chest ache. We were already thigh-to-thigh on the swing’s bench, but I put an arm around his back, tracing the striped pattern of his shirt.

  “I don’t think there is a ‘better’ here. You feel how you feel. React in whatever way’s authentic. His was a massive betrayal; no one’s judging if you’re stoic.” I leaned in to press a kiss on his shoulder, wishing I could carry some of the weight.

  Win nodded distractedly. “The worst part is, Morris kept insisting he was still my friend. Saying things like, ‘It’s not really a big deal,’ and ‘We both know you won’t be happy at snob school,’ and ‘I wouldn’t have done it if I’d known you’d be so mad.’ ” He sighed and rubbed his forehead. “And I kept having these moments where I wanted to believe him.”

  I didn’t have advice, but I had empathy, and ears, and a hand. Which I held out to him when he stood and reached for me. And which he didn’t let go of. Not on the walk to Pizza My Heart, not when he held the door for me. Not even to serve or eat his pizza. That felt like a pretty good solution: listen and hold on. And I was committed to it for as long as he’d let me.