CHAPTER 50

MAGGIE WAITED UNTIL LATE Saturday night to check the bogus site. But something was different this time. Really different. And the difference had nothing to do with what she saw on the screen. It was her attitude that had done the one-eighty. She wasn’t all that concerned about what Kat or Alexa or Jo said.

And there was a long list of reasons why she didn’t dread pulling up the site. She looked at her red shoes by her backpack. Fourteen reasons, to be exact.

All she really wanted to see was if Robin Hood had posted anything. She skimmed past the new stuff from the litter. She’d made up her mind she wouldn’t subject herself to that kind of torture. She would only read their posts if Robin Hood showed his face.

His face. What did he look like? It had to be someone she knew, right? He certainly seemed to know her. But what if he was some kind of creepy stalker guy —someone who just watched her —and she didn’t even know him? It was maddening.

Apparently the girls had been busy on the site. She tried not to look at the posts, but she caught just enough to see they had ranted more about all the “morons wearing red shoes” than about Maggie herself. Delicious.

The only truly troubling thing was Robin Hood. Not a single entry from him —and Kat’s posts had been sitting there since yesterday after school. Was he just lying low —or was he gone for good? Where are you, Robin? But that wasn’t the real question on her mind.

Over the next twenty minutes she cut and pasted every one of Robin Hood’s earlier entries into a Word document. Printed it out. Studied it. “Give me a clue, Robin. Who are you?”

She took a pen and scrawled on the margin Robin Hood’s Identity and made a few basic notes.

Robin Hood goes to Southfield Middle School.

Could be a guy or a girl. Sounds like a guy.

Seems to know me —or know about me.

So I probably know him —or know about him?

Robin Hood . . .

She couldn’t add anything else. What did she really know about him? Not enough. She went back to the printout to look for any hint of his real identity.

A half hour later, she gave a frustrated sigh. Either Robin Hood was smart enough to be really careful, or he was just plain lucky. She doubted luck had anything to do with it. But she was no closer to figuring his identity than she was at the start.

She put the printed sheets under her pillow, turned out the light, and lay back —staring into the darkness. “I’m going to figure out who you are, Robin.”