Read Online Mr. Fahrenheit by T. Michael Martin - Free Book Online Page B

what happens when we do?
    In his head, the smiley emoji lifted its sunglasses and winked.
    Benji checked his phone throughout the morning, but nobody had responded to his text. The silence was easy to shrug off early in the day (after all, few rational humans voluntarily rise before the sun does), but when he clicked the screen on just after eleven, a notification read Message Seen 10:31 AM.
    For the first time, the day’s inner smile wavered.
    He thumbed another text:
    *taps microphone*
    is this thing on? :]
    Almost immediately after he hit Send, an empty speech balloon inflated next to Ellie’s name. The balloon expanded as she typed a response. (The one in his chest did the same.)
    Then, all at once, the animation next to Ellie’s name disappeared. Benji checked to see if his (secondhand) phone had dropped out of network. He had full bars.
    Benji stared at his phone for a few seconds. But the balloon wouldn’t reinflate.
    He was slipping the phone back in his pocket when it started vibrating. The screen lit up with a selfie CR had taken with Benji’s phone: CR, sitting on the toilet, grimacing like he was in the midst of an apocalyptic dump.
    Benji tried to keep the disappointment out of his voice as he answered, “Hey.”
    â€œCan you talk?” CR said quickly in a hushed tone. “Like, privacy-wise?”
    Benji looked around. He was in the heart of the fairgrounds: the central midway, a wide walking path surrounded by the most popular rides. About a hundred feet away, Papaw shouted at a big-rig driver who was trying to back the haunted house into its slot between the mirror mansion and carousel: “Cut ’er left, now. Hard left. No, Mary and Joseph, hard left !”
    Just to be sure nobody would hear him, Benji left the midway and went to the chain-link fence that separated the cornfield from the fairgrounds, sitting down on a big gas-powered generator. “Yeah, I can talk,” he said. “What’s up?”
    â€œWe’re butt-screwed, that’s what,” CR said. “There are pictures online from last night.”
    Benji’s stomach sank. “What?” How was that possible?
    â€œI told everyone the party was a no-pic zone, but there are pictures every-goddamn-where.”
    Oh, thank God. It’s just pictures of the party.
    â€œAnd half of them are location-tagged! LOCATION-TAGGED, BANJO! What is wrong with, like, our generation?!”
    Even over the phone, Benji could hear CR’s breath speed and shorten; it became a thin, reedy whistle. He’s going to have a panic attack , Benji realized, startled. When CR first moved to Bedford Falls in the summer before sixth grade, he’d had panic attacks every couple of weeks (mostly when he was in cramped spaces, though Benji’s backyard tree house was an exception). But CR hadn’t had one in years.
    â€œBuddy, just take a breath,” Benji said gently. After a few moments, he heard CR’s breath slow and steady. “If they’re just pictures of the party, what’s the problem?”
    â€œMy dad, obviously,” CR said, sounding marginally in control.
    â€œHas he seen them?”
    â€œI’m still alive, so no. He’s sleeping off a hangover. Probably won’t even come out of his room until tomorrow. But they’re on Facebook, and he’s on Facebook, because old people love Facebook. Look, if he sees the pics, he’ll go out to the quarry and he’ll see the hole in the damn ice. Maybe he’d let the party slide, but not shooting down a drone on his property. I looked it up: Shooting down a drone is illegal. IT IS SUPER NOT-LEGAL.”
    Benji’s chest tightened. An image popped into his mind: adults swooping in, stringing yellow DO NOT ENTER tape around the quarry. What if Mr. Noland called the police or the FBI, and the saucer got taken away before Benji even got to learn more about it?
    â€œEven if my dad doesn’t see the