Get a Clue

by Tiffany Schmidt

  “Question,” he asked as we walked from pizza to bowling. “You would’ve ordered garlic knots if you were here with your family?”

  “Oh, absolutely,” I said. “You?”

  “Yup. Definitely. Still sorta regret not getting them.”

  He was laughing right up to the moment my mouth met his. I kissed him till his hands migrated to my hair and hips, then pulled back to whisper, “Still thinking about garlic knots?”

  I ducked from his arms and ran down the sidewalk, his footsteps and laughter chasing me until I let him catch up. He poked me. “Fine, we’ll both order them next time and cancel each other’s breath out. Deal?”

  “Sure. My question. Least favorite nickname?” There’d been so much talk of “the twins” lately: “the twins” as victims of Morris, “the twins’ ” decisions about how to proceed, “the twins’ ” uncertain schooling future as they waited for a decision letter. But really it was Win’s friend, Win’s letter, Win’s uncertainty. Did it bother him to be lumped into a set?

  The corners of his mouth dropped as his eyebrows shot up. “Last week I would’ve told you ‘Win.’ ”

  It took a minute for my expectations to catch up with reality. “What?”

  “It felt like a punch line—’cause all I did was lose.” He gave me a self-conscious smile and met the hand I was extending halfway. “But I think that’s changing. I’ve had some pretty decent victories lately—regardless of what happens with Hero High.” He squeezed my fingers. “So I guess my answer is ‘Blubs’—it’s what my grandma calls me. You?”

  He looked up expectantly, like he hadn’t just blown my mind or made me fall even deeper. I wanted to be here for all his victories. I wanted them to be infinite. “Um, yeah. I—uh. Your brother’s stuck on ‘Huckleberry,’ but I’ll live.”

  Win groaned and lifted our joined hands to cover his face. When he lowered them, he was shaking his head. “He told me that was your real name, and I believed him.”

  “For how long?” I asked.

  “Until two seconds ago. I was this many years old when I found out it wasn’t true.”

  I’m not sure which of us laughed first, but it was the kind that was contagious and uncontrollable. That stole our breath and made our shoulders shake. Tears leaked out of my eyes when Win fanned his, muttering, “Okay, okay”—then he snorted, which had us doubled over again.

  Eventually we bowled—I needed my hand back for that. Though Win probably didn’t. Even if I’d been hanging off his other arm like a giant anchor, he still would’ve wiped the lanes with me. He was worried about stacking spares and strikes, while I was wondering if we could get a lane with bumpers.

  I tried everything: switching hands, counting my steps, changing ball size, even bowling two-handed between my legs. None of it made a difference in my score. All of it made him laugh. And there hadn’t been nearly enough of that sound in my life. Tonight felt like a good start.

  “Gelato?” I asked after we’d finished a game, which had been one more victory for him to add to his balance sheet.

  “Tomorrow,” he said.

  And for just a second my smile slipped, because once upon a month ago I’d told Mrs. York that I’d be bringing Win ice cream the day Hero High letters arrived—that I’d pair it with a bow or tissues. That day was tomorrow.

  “It’s a date,” I told him, folding up that fear and hiding it far from our clasped hands and good-night kiss.

  38

  First period had barely started on Monday when the art studio phone rang. Mrs. Mundhenk’s eyes darted my way a few seconds into the conversation, so I began to clean up even before she crossed the room.

  “Huck,” she whispered, like she could somehow stop every eavesdropper from listening. “Headmaster Williams would like to see you.”

  Campus was quiet. Except for a tardy senior, no one else was out, and I was tempted to take a forbidden shortcut across the lawn to get to the office faster. I resisted. If this meeting was in reaction to my third-strike “antics,” then this might be my last chance to enjoy the campus as an enrolled student. So I paused to admire the stone buildings, the stained glass windows, the reproductions of Reginald R. Hero’s famous tiles that sat at the corner of each walkway. I passed globes and quill pens, theater masks and maps. Followed the path of tiles with judicial hammers—the one that lead to the administration building.

  Mrs. York ushered me into the room with the too-large portraits. “He’ll be in shortly.”

  The paintings made me feel even smaller without my parents to act as buffers. Should I call and ask them to come? Could he expel me without a guardian?

  “Mr. Baker.” Headmaster Williams beckoned me from his office. “Please, join me.”

  The two other times I’d sat in this room, it had been on the punishment side of his desk. This time he led me to a pair of wingback chairs in a corner lined with bookshelves.

  I sat. He did too. For fifteen long seconds I had so much sympathy for Fielding and Sera Williams, because their father was way too comfortable with silence. I knew the wait-it-out technique; I used it myself, yet it was killing me not to fidget or dimple or make small talk.

  It took all my remaining self-control not to fist-pump when he spoke first. “Your video was quite good. With your permission, we’d like to share it on the school’s social media accounts.”

  “Of course.”

  “But your speech at the end . . .” He stood and crossed the room. “Over the years, the admissions committee has gotten all sorts of attempts at bribes or threats. But I think your speech was the first time anyone used a romantic declaration to try and sway their hand.”

  “Do I get bonus points for being creative?” I asked, and either he ignored me or he didn’t hear me over the snick-snick-snick of the blinds he was raising.

  “It gets dim in here, all the dark wood.” I blinked at the sunlight, not quite sure what was happening.

  “Headmaster Williams, sir.” I cleared my throat. “Am I being expelled? Is that why I’m here?”

  “No.” He reached into the lower drawer of his desk and drew out a tissue-wrapped package, placing it on top of the blotter. “I placed a rush order for this on Friday.”

  I craned my neck but couldn’t see what it was and didn’t know if I was allowed to leave my seat.

  “We had decided to decline the younger Mr. Cavendish’s application.” I sucked in a breath and opened my mouth, but he raised a hand to still me. “That was the early recommendation of the admissions committee. Then the email about withdrawing his application was sent and it seemed like the matter was settled.

  “But Winston had quite the advocate on the committee.” Headmaster Williams quirked an eyebrow at me. “Ms. Gregoire was singularly impressed with him—surprisingly so for a person she’d only met in passing. And Coach Yang was sent a video from summer swim meets and a follow-up email from the coach at Chester High who says Win has the discipline to train on his own. Mr. Welch got a phone call from the owner of a local photography studio who vouched for Winston as both an employee and an artist.”

  I grinned, full dimple. Full, authentic dimple—because while I could take credit for talking Win up to Ms. Gregoire, I’d had nothing to do with the rest. Win had meant it when he said he was here to play. He was here to win.

  “And your video . . . speech . . . whatever you want to call it.” Headmaster Williams chuckled. “While unorthodox, you made your point. As did he when we met on Friday. He’s communicated his desire to attend, and Winston clearly inspires strong devotion from those around him.”

  I winced. Not everyone was inspired or devoted to him.

  While I was in this office, Win was across town in Principal Nunes’s with Morris and his parents. Wink and Mr. and Mrs. Cavendish would be there too—hopefully their support outweighed the awful. Hopefully they found some sort of justice and peace. And I had to give their parents some credit; it wasn’t just Wink who’d stepped up. Mr. and Mrs. Cavendish had been working ha
rd to right past oversights since learning about the page. And since the Morris reveal? Well, it was a good thing I was already inner sanctum, because they’d gone full overprotective helicopter parents, and I wouldn’t be surprised if they guilt-bought him a pony—or at least the new camera filter he’d been eyeing.

  Headmaster Williams cleared his throat and I blinked, trying to figure out if he’d been talking while I’d zoned out or if he’d been doing dramatic silence again. “Maybe we need a little bit of unorthodoxy around here.”

  Since he’d picked up the same conversational thread, I was going to assume dramatic silence.

  Except, wait. I stood. “Do you mean—”

  He pushed the tissue paper away from the bundle, revealing a gray sweatshirt with Cavendish across the back. “Would you like to be the one to deliver this? Winston’s acceptance letter should be waiting when he gets home today.”

  I hugged the sweatshirt to my chest. “No.”

  “No?” Headmaster Williams was too surprised to notice I was trying to hand it back, so I folded it and placed it on the desk.

  “There’s been enough drama around his admission. If I deliver the sweatshirt—I don’t want him to think he owes me. I want there to be no question he earned this on his own.”

  If anyone had told me my meeting with the headmaster would end with his shaking my hand and calling me a “Good man,” I would’ve laughed and told them to switch to decaf.

  But it did.

  And I walked out of the administration building whistling and counting down the minutes until I could show up on the Cavendishes’ doorstep and ask Win to model it for me.

  First, however, I had English class, where I pulled a black hardcover from my bag and returned it to Ms. Gregoire. “Thanks for this—for everything—but I’m done with Sherlock for a while. I’m ready for my life to be a little less of an adventure.”

  “Oh, Huck.” She laughed as she took the book. “Your story is only getting started.”

  39

  I’d never imagined I’d open the Milverton video file again; had thought I’d be taking a break from all editing software. But I’d spent the week making a gif. It wasn’t as complicated as I’d thought. Or maybe Win was just a good teacher. He was definitely a good distraction, which is why it had taken a whole week. To be fair, several nights had been monopolized by Hero High acceptance celebrations—his family taking him out to dinner Monday, my parents having him over Tuesday.

  Wednesday I made him model his new sweatshirt and we went out for gelato on our own.

  The gif was the same as so many others; it featured Clara raising her hand on loop. The difference was the caption. Ours read: WHEN YOU DON’T LET THE PATRIARCHY GET YOU DOWN.

  I’d shown it to her, of course. Gotten her approval and permission when we met her for coffee on Thursday. I’d ordered half-caf, then sat back and let her and Win talk about how it felt to lose control of their image and reputation, and the steps they were taking to regain a sense of empowerment. My role was to listen and learn. I knew Clara didn’t blame me for the video. I also knew that didn’t make me innocent.

  That night I’d carefully clicked to send the new gif to two dozen of our friends. The plan had been for everyone to post it after first period Friday morning in the hopes of the new version going viral and changing the narrative.

  It was the second post on Win’s new iLive page. The first explained that this was his only page and that he’d recently learned there’d been another one using his identity to insult and hurt. The post included a picture of iLive’s takedown notice and an apology for what had been done in his name.

  It didn’t identify Morris, which was far more gracious than he deserved. The Cavendishes and the Hendersons were in discussions. There were lawyers and school administrators involved, and while Morris was currently suspended pending a decision, the final outcome wasn’t clear yet. Wink had quickly shut down any Henderson excuse that included “He just likes you and didn’t know how to show it.”

  And Win and I rehearsed his response to their lawyer’s request for leniency: “I’m offended you’re so concerned about the impact being held accountable could have on Morris’s future, when he demonstrated no concern about how his actions impacted mine.”

  If he wanted to, Win could do what Clara had done that morning—appear on a talk show and tell his story—but that wasn’t his style. Clara might not have considered it her style either, but from the exclamation-point-heavy texts my parents had sent, I knew she’d nailed it.

  The interview had aired first period. I knew some teachers had offered to turn it on, but everyone gathered in the Campbells’ basement after school had promised to wait and watch it together.

  We’d trooped down the stairs with snacks and phones. Sera and Fielding were in full uniforms, but the rest of the Crimson Knights were taking advantage of spirit day freedoms.

  The sight of Curtis wearing Eliza’s red sweatshirt like a crop top still made us snicker—and him preen.

  Since Chester High was ten minutes farther away, the Cavendish twins were last to arrive. Win bust out laughing when he looked from his brother to me. “How many times today did people ask if you were dating him?” he asked me.

  “Not that many. Turns out Curtis did a pretty good job of establishing that fact at Convocation.” I smoothed down the front of the sweatshirt. “But I still had plenty of chances to tell people that this ‘Cavendish’ sweatshirt belonged to you, my boyfriend and future Hero High student. You’re not getting it back by the way.”

  He grinned. “That’s fine. I’ll keep yours.”

  Eliza wrinkled her nose. She’d avoided “all displays of romantic entanglement” by wearing her Hero High cross-country sweatshirt. But when she thought he wouldn’t notice, she looked at her crop-topped boyfriend with such soft devotion. Right now she whirled on him with her hands on her hips. “Curtis, should I be concerned that someone has replaced your brother with a nonsarcastic imposter who’s willing to talk about his emotions?”

  “I’m teaching him everything I know, Firebug.” Curtis punched my arm and said, “You’re welcome,” at the same time that Eliza told Win, “Please tell me you’re not listening.”

  Win winked at her before being engulfed by Bancroft, Elijah, and Shi. “I hear you’re coming to Hero High!” He nodded and ran through the handshake routine three times faster than I could do it once.

  “Are we ready to do this thing?” Merri’s voice came from the other side of the two enormous buckets of popcorn she was carrying down the stairs. Hannah was behind her with a tray of drinks. “Because if you make me wait any longer I’m going to break my vow and peek.”

  Merri reached the bottom of the stairs and thrust one of the bowls at Lynnie. “Have you heard from Penn? Is Clara happy with how it turned out?”

  Lynnie nodded. “They’re out to dinner with their dad, but he said she did great.”

  “Of course she did.” Mira—who’d showed up with a giant bag of pretzels—sounded indignant that anyone would question Clara. Man, that loyal, vacuum-loving lioness was growing on me. “Now, who has the remote?”

  Fielding held it up, and unsurprisingly, no one challenged his right to it. Even more than his father, Fielding had a quiet authority that made you want to listen to him. So when he said, “Grab a seat, I’ll queue it up,” everyone scrambled to sit.

  He, Merri, Rory, and Toby were crammed on the couch. Lynnie and Lance sat on the love seat. Her twin, Byron, lay on the floor by her feet. Of everyone, he was the quickest to “shhhhh,” the most focused on the TV. It was a fact I filed away for the future.

  Wink was sitting on a faded beanbag chair with Mira and Elinor and Gemma. It was easy to see how she’d meld back into their group next year. Curtis had pulled the coffee table to the side, and he and Eliza were perched on top. The rest of us grabbed spots on the floor.

  Fielding pressed Play, and Byron told him to turn it up before the theme music had even finished.

  Th
e muscles in my back stayed locked for the first two-thirds of Clara’s interview. It wasn’t until the male host, Preston, told her, “I’ve got to say, you’re an articulate and impressive young person,” that I relaxed against the shoulder Win had pressed into mine.

  Clara smiled and turned to the camera. “It’s because of the environment where I spend my days. Reginald R. Hero High has taught me my voice matters—that everyone’s does.”

  I did a fist pump. Clara was born to be heard.

  “So explain that video then.” Abigail, the female host, leaned forward with a sympathetic expression. “Why hadn’t you spoken up when you were so clearly frustrated by not being called on?”

  Clara started to reach for a curl but stopped herself and folded her hands on the table. “It was the opposite of what I’d always been taught, which is why it threw me. I got caught up in thinking that if the teacher gave me a chance, I’d be able to prove myself. But that was never going to happen. I’m done wasting my energy on people who don’t value me. Whether that’s a teacher or someone making mean memes with my picture, I’m over it. I know you’ve talked to Huck, so he’s already told you he went about it in the wrong way, but he was also right. Something needed to be done. I wasn’t using my voice, but I should’ve been. I’m not going to let anyone silence me again.”

  “Wow,” said Preston. “What advice do you have for other young girls?”

  “Surround yourself with people who value and challenge you.” She glanced down at her nails. I couldn’t see them, but I was pretty sure they were back to her usual color-coordinated glitter. “Don’t dim your sparkle, or waste it on people who don’t value you.”

  “What’s the strangest thing that’s come out of this?” asked Abigail.