You might want to call Dad and ask him about Mexico.…
She considered telling her mom to call her, that they needed to talk about something important, but she tossed her phone on the bed. She reached for the laptop on the nightstand. She didn’t want to look, but she needed to. She pulled up the Danny Pine site. More cruel comments. She read a few of them, then slammed the laptop shut. She felt the tears coming again.
No, she decided, screw them. She had nothing to be ashamed of. She’d done nothing wrong. She wouldn’t be intimidated. Eric was a piece of garbage, and she wouldn’t let last night define her. She opened the laptop and started tapping out responses to the vitriol. But she stopped suddenly—trolls fed on hate and drama and engagement. Instead she’d simply take away their platform. She clicked on the keys until the Danny Pine sites were all deactivated, temporarily anyway. Her brother had enough problems without her drama. She’d give things time to calm down. Her classmates’ attention span was limited. Things blew over quickly.
Now she’d distract herself with a project. She thought of her father, the feverish look in his eyes. His unwavering confidence in her. You’ll figure it out. You always do.
She reached for her phone again and scrolled through her contacts. She clicked on the number for the call. A phone call. When was the last time she’d made one of those to someone other than her parents? Such an antiquated method of communication. But it’s what you did if you didn’t want to write something down—if you didn’t want a written record—if you were going to do something illegal.
CHAPTER 27
Maggie banged on the door to the garage. Toby peeked out from the sheet covering the window, saw it was her, and opened the door.
“Hey,” Toby said. “You got here fast.”
Maggie couldn’t remember the last time she’d been to Toby’s poor man’s Batcave. She looked around. Toby’s fortress had expanded. He had a large L-shaped desk with six monitors. Computer hardware was stacked in four-foot cabinets, a tangle of cords and flashing lights. To complete the cliché, crushed energy drink cans and grease-stained pizza boxes were piled in a trash can. Steve Jobs in training.
They’d been friends since the sixth-grade science club. In middle school they’d been inseparable, prompting jokes about them being a couple. But it was never like that. Toby showed no interest in her—or any girls, for that matter. Some speculated that he was gay, but that wasn’t it. The truth was that the older Toby got, the less use he had for humans. By the time they’d reached high school, he’d retreated into his computers and his mission to create the next Big Thing. Not some silly app. The next PC or iPhone or idea that would change the world. Though they’d grown apart, Toby answered her call on the first ring, and didn’t hesitate when she’d asked to come over.
“Welcome to my lair,” Toby said with his infectious smile. He still had the same hairstyle that looked like his mom cut it, the same skinny torso and pasty complexion.
“Wow.” Maggie made an exaggerated show of scanning the room. “This has gotten…”
“Out of hand? Unabomber-like?” Toby deadpanned.
“What are you working on?” Maggie said.
Toby smiled. “I can’t talk about it. You could be a corporate spy from MIT.”
Maggie punched him in the arm.
“Ow,” he said, rubbing the red spot on his bony upper arm. He stared at her for several seconds. “Are you, like, okay?”
Why would he ask her that? Because she hadn’t been to the Batcave in so long? Or had he heard gossip about the party?
“I mean, on Snapchat some kids were saying—”
“I’m fine,” Maggie said, not making eye contact. She composed herself, forced her eyes to look up at his. “I need your help with something.”
“I figured,” he said, collapsing into a worn couch that was pushed against the garage wall.
“It may require you talking to some of your sketchy web friends,” Maggie said.
“Hey, they’re not sketchy. Unkempt. And weird. But not sketchy.”
“Whatever you say.”
He shrugged. “What do you need?”
“I need to know how to track someone through their cell phone.”
Toby kicked his feet up on the coffee table, which was just some boards on top of cinder blocks. “Easy, get the phone and download a tracking app. Don’t you watch TV?”
“But I don’t know whose phone it is. All I have is the number.”