I SLEPT ALL THROUGH Sunday. When I finally awoke, it was Monday morning, and my 64 was gone. The disk drive, the paddles and joysticks, all of my games and books, even the power strip—everything had been cleared away.
My mother was in the kitchen. She wished me a good morning and handed me a glass of orange juice. I asked her about the computer, and she explained that she had already placed a For Sale ad in the newspaper’s classified section. The money we raised would go to Mr. Zelinsky to pay for whatever his insurance wouldn’t cover. “We’ll have a yard sale, too. Every penny helps. I’d sell the car if I didn’t need it for work.”
When I left the house for school, Alf and Clark were waiting in my driveway. Alf had bruises on his face; he explained that his father started kicking his ass in the parking lot of the police station.
I apologized for pulling the alarm. “I didn’t want us to get caught. But I couldn’t let Tyler trash the showroom.”
I’d expected Alf to be angry, but he just shrugged. “That bridge was going to break whether you pulled the alarm or not,” he explained. “I’m just glad I wasn’t standing on it.”
“Plus you’re the reason Zelinsky dropped the charges,” Clark added. “If he didn’t like you so much, we’d all be in jail right now.”
I shook my head. “Zelinsky didn’t drop the charges because of me.” I still remembered his words at the police station: Do your worst to this one. Charge him with everything you’ve got.
“He must have had a reason,” Alf said. “My uncle says you can’t collect insurance if you don’t press charges.”
“So what?”
“So he’ll have to pay the damages out of his own pocket. Letting us go will cost him a fortune. Why would he do that?”
I tried to imagine the cost of all the repairs—all of the broken shelves, all of the smashed inventory—and my stomach churned like I was back in the police station all over again. “I don’t know,” I said. I had pondered Zelinsky’s decision all weekend, but it still didn’t make any sense.
We got on our bikes and pedaled slowly along Baltic Avenue. Our neighbors gawked as we went by; news of our caper had obviously gotten around, and I dreaded the idea of returning to school. I asked Alf how he planned to handle our classmates and all of the money he owed them.
“That’s the only good news,” he said, skidding to a stop so he could show me the contents of his backpack. Inside were hundreds of glossy photocopies, all neatly stapled and collated. “My grandma Gigi felt sorry for me, so she went to 7-Eleven and bought their last Playboy. I can’t tell if she’s skipping her meds or just being really cool.”
Alf may have settled all of his debts, but our first day back at school was a mess. When I arrived in homeroom, I found an obscene stick figure of Vanna White sketched in black ink on my desk. The other boys burst out laughing; they coughed the words loser and pervert into their fists. The girls were even worse; they turned away from me in disgust, like I’d just arrived with dog poop all over my sneakers. After passing most of my freshman year in relative anonymity, I’d finally made a name for myself.
The only person who mentioned the break-in directly was the principal, Mr. Hibble. I passed him standing outside his office, and he warned me to “keep my rooster straight.” He explained that students with criminal records were not eligible for Cosmex Fellowships. “?‘The door to a Yankee prison swings one way,’?” he said. “Have you heard that saying? Do you understand what it means?”
“Nobody wants to hire a criminal?” I guessed.
“Precisely!” For once, Mr. Hibble seemed pleased with me. “Don’t blow this chance, Billy. I can spot a good kid from a mile away, and I know you’re a good kid.”
It was the only positive human contact I’d have all day. I was so surprised and grateful, I asked if we could speak privately inside Mr. Hibble’s office. “Of course!” he said, and I think he was expecting me to reveal some confidential information about Zelinsky’s store. Instead I walked behind his desk and rewired the cables behind his computer, linking the printer to the terminal via the disk drive. Then I instructed him to press the F3 key, and he watched in astonishment as the first page of the school directory spooled from his printer.
“How did you know?” he asked.
I shrugged. “Just a hunch.”
“More like natural instincts, if you ask me.” Hibble grabbed my wrists and forced me to study my palms. “You’re a born mechanic! Good with your hands! That’s called a gift, Billy. And Cosmex will put your gift to work, I guarantee it.”
I avoided my locker all day because I was afraid of seeing Tyler Bell. I feared he was planning to take some kind of spectacular revenge on me. But at lunchtime, Alf and Clark explained that I didn’t have to worry. Tyler had dropped out of school just three weeks before graduation and enlisted in the United States Army. “They’re sending him down to Fort Benning,” Alf explained. “It’ll be a long time before you see him around Wetbridge again.”
Relieved, I finished my lunch and went to my locker. Upon opening the door, I found a black Maxell disk waiting atop my belongings. I recognized it immediately. The label read FORTRESS BACKUP in Mary’s pristine cursive handwriting. The night of the deadline, we’d sent the master copy to the Rutgers contest but kept a backup for ourselves at the store. I checked around the disk for a note, some kind of explanation, but there was nothing. Then I remembered who I was dealing with and brought the disk to the library.
The lone computer terminal was available, so I inserted the disk and loaded the directory. There were just two files, a large backup of the game and a smaller file named GOOD-BYE. I loaded GOOD-BYE into memory and typed RUN. At first glance it appeared to be another text adventure, like the other two mini-games Mary had sent me.
They told me what you did, "Billy." I can't believe it's true. But they say you made a full confession, that you answered to everything.
The Impossible Fortress was an excuse.
Radical Planet was a trick.
The plan was to fool the fat girl, make the fat girl think she was pretty. Well, I have to admit, it worked. This fat girl was fooled.
The cursor was blinking, prompting me to input a reply.
>I'M SORRY
But I knew it was a dummy prompt, that it didn’t matter what I typed, that there was no way to win or lose this game. More text spilled down the screen.
I can't believe I trusted you.
I told you so many things that I never told anyone.
And guess what, genius? If you'd just asked me for the alarm code, I probably would have told you that, too. I would have wanted you to know the story behind it. October 2 was my mother's birthday, so 10-02 was my lucky number.