The Summer We Went Offline

The humidity was absolute murder. I wiped my **palm** on my shorts for the third time in thirty seconds, leaving a dark streak on the already-drenched fabric.

"You're obsessing again," said Maya, plopping down beside me on the bleachers. "It's been, what? Two minutes?"

I held up my **iPhone** like it was evidence. "Three minutes and twelve seconds. Since his last post. Which, might I add, was a black square. What does that even MEAN, Maya?"

"That he's being dramatic?" She cracked open a soda. "Or maybe—bear with me here—he's just posting a black square."

Maya had been my **friend** since kindergarten, which meant she was contractually obligated to listen to me spiral about Jordan. Jordan, who I'd been secretly low-key obsessed with since seventh grade. Jordan, who'd gone radio silent three weeks before sophomore year, returning to school with mysterious bruises and zero explanation.

My detective brain—a **spy** in the making, if you asked me—had theories. Fight club. Secret underground boxing ring. Definitely something cool and brooding.

"The **baseball** team's first game is Friday," I said, mostly to myself. "He hasn't posted about practice once. He's always posting about practice. This is weird, right? This is objectively weird."

"You know what's weird?" Maya stood up and stretched. "That you know his posting schedule better than your own brother's birthday. Come on. We're doing something radical."

"What?"

"We're going over there. To his house. Like normal people."

My stomach dropped. "Absolutely not. That's terrifying. That's the kind of thing main characters do, and I am very much the supportive best friend who dies in act two."

"You're being ridiculous." She grabbed my arm and hauled me up. "Worst case? He's not home. Best case? We find out what's actually going on. Either way, you stop checking your phone every twelve seconds."

We walked. My heart played a very uneven drum solo against my ribs. The humidity was still terrible. My **palm** was sweating again.

Jordan's house came into view. The front door was open.

And there he was, in the driveway, tossing a baseball back and forth with his little sister. He was laughing. He looked tired but happy. The mysterious bruises? A clumsy attempt at learning to skateboard, apparently—his sister showed us the bandaged knee.

"You guys want to join?" he called. "Mia's winning, but I'm making a comeback."

I stood there, processing. All that detective work. All that obsessing over cryptic posts. The truth was so much simpler than my theories.

"Yeah," I said, putting my phone in my pocket. "Yeah, we do."

Maya smirked. "Told you. Radical."

Sometimes the spy stuff isn't nearly as interesting as just showing up.