I realized there was no talking them out of it, so we pedaled off down the street. It felt good to be moving, good to have the plan in motion—but after just five minutes of pedaling, I wished I’d worn shorts. The day was warm and muggy, eighty degrees and still early. I was already sweating, and I still had to pedal fifteen miles on a single-gear dirt bike.
Wetbridge sat at the intersection of the New Jersey Turnpike and the Garden State Parkway, and it was ringed by six-lane highways. None of these roads were designed for bike traffic, but we squeezed into the shoulder lanes anyway, pedaling furiously as Greyhound buses and tractor trailers thundered past, spraying our faces with gravel and exhaust. I kept my mouth shut, but somehow it filled with a grit that tasted like charcoal. By the time we exited onto a smaller two-lane road, I was dripping with sweat—and filthier than I’d been in my entire life.
And we still had thirteen miles to go.
We passed through three different towns, each nicer than the last. We were entering a part of New Jersey I’d never seen before—residential neighborhoods where all the homes had circular driveways and two-car garages, where the hedges were pruned and the gardens were mulched and the flower beds were bursting with vibrant colors. Between the houses, we saw glimpses of crystal-blue swimming pools and private tennis courts. Traffic was light, so we biked down the center of the road, looking around in astonishment.
“This place is rad,” I said. “Soon as I grow up, I’m moving here.”
“Soon as you grow up?” Alf asked.
“You know what I mean. When I get older.”
Clark shook his head. “This street’s like Park Place and Boardwalk combined. How are you going to make all that money?”
“Game design,” I said. “I’m going to save all my money and get a new computer, and then I’ll make games that sell like crazy.”
Alf and Clark didn’t answer, but I knew what they were thinking: Minimum wage was $3.35 an hour and an IBM PS/2 averaged $4,000. I’d need to save for years and years before I ever wrote another line of code, and who had that kind of willpower?
“I’ll tell you one thing I like about Baltic Avenue,” Alf said. “Less grass to mow.”
“And less snow in the winter,” Clark said. “Can you imagine shoveling all these driveways?”
“It’d take forever,” Alf said.
We stood up on our bikes and pumped our legs, pedaling faster, leaving behind the neighborhood and talk of our futures.
By eleven o’clock I was farther from home than I’d ever been in my life. We were passing fields full of tomatoes and corn and fir trees; we even passed a stable full of horses. Our teachers had always told us that New Jersey was nicknamed the Garden State, and that day I finally understood why. The relentless heat made everything seem more unreal. The temperature had soared into the nineties. I had a headache and I desperately needed a drink. We biked more than a mile on a dusty two-lane road without passing a single person or automobile.
“You’re sure this is the right way?” Clark asked.
I stopped to check the map. “We’re almost there,” I told them. “Another mile and change.”
We stopped at a two-pump Gulf station to buy drinks and clean ourselves up. Clark paid fifty cents for a bottle of something called Evian, which turned out to be plain old water. Alf and I teased him mercilessly. What kind of dummy wasted fifty cents on water when there was a free spigot and hose right outside the building? Clark shrugged and drank it down. “This is fantastic,” he insisted. “It’s the best water I’ve ever tasted.”
I removed Mary’s letter from my pocket and tucked it under my bike seat for safekeeping. Then I used the hose to clean my face and rinse the dirt and gravel from my clothing. Within minutes, I was sopping wet, but it felt tremendous, and I knew the sun would bake everything dry before we arrived at St. Agatha’s.
The attendant was an old man in a plaid shirt and oil-stained pants. He dragged a rusty lawn chair into the shade of the garage and sat down. He watched us spraying ourselves with the hose, and I sensed he was getting ready to yell at us.
“Are we close to St. Agatha’s?” I asked him.
“Very close,” he said. “But you won’t make it.”
Alf and Clark stopped horsing around.
“What did you say?” Alf asked.
“I said you won’t make it. I know what you’re trying, and it ain’t going to work.”
Clark set down the hose and we all walked over to him. “How do you know?”
“I’ve owned this station since 1969. That’s the year Neil Armstrong walked on the moon. And every year when summer rolls around, I sell sodas and Slim Jims to knuckleheads who think they can sneak into St. Agatha’s. So I am speaking from experience. Turn your bikes around. You will not get inside. No one gets inside.”
“Because of the fence?” Alf asked. “The electric fence?”
The old man smiled. “You won’t even reach the fence.”
He refused to elaborate. Just shook his head and clucked his disapproval, like we were venturing blindly into a jungle full of quicksand and crocodiles. I retrieved Mary’s letter and returned it to my back pocket. Alf and Clark didn’t say anything, but I knew what they were thinking: we had come too far to turn back now.
We hopped on our bikes and kept going.
3100 REM *** DRAW NEW FORTRESS ***
3110 FOR I=1345 TO 1362
3120 POKE I,35:POKE I+BG,9
3130 NEXT I
3140 FOR I=1625+15*40 TO 1642
3150 POKE I,35:POKE I+BG,9
3160 NEXT I
3170 FOR I=1519 TO 1542
3180 POKE I,35:POKE I+BG,9
3190 NEXT I:RETURN
A FEW MINUTES AFTER the gas station, the road curved through a small patch of trees. When we emerged on the other side, the mountain was upon us.
No one associates New Jersey with mountains, but there are forty miles of them in the northern part of the state, formed by volcanoes 150 million years ago (apparently I did retain one or two facts after a year of studying Rocks and Streams). Our destination wasn’t particularly large. If you were driving past the mountain in a car, you wouldn’t give it a second look. But from the sweaty vinyl seat of a dirt bike on the hottest day of the year, it might as well have been Kilimanjaro.
We soon arrived at the base of the mountain and a large sign:
NOW ENTERING MOUNT SAINT AGATHA’S
PREPARATORY SCHOOL FOR GIRLS
PRIVATE PROPERTY
AUTHORIZED VISITORS AND GUESTS ONLY
“Hear ye children, the instructions of a father, and attend to know understanding.”—Proverbs 4:1
“This is it,” Clark said. “Are you sure about this?”
“Sure I’m sure,” Alf said. “I’ve come this far, haven’t I?”
Clark flipped his empty water bottle at Alf’s face, conking him on the forehead. “I’m talking to Billy, numb-nuts.”
Alf leapt off his bike, and it clattered to the pavement. He reached his arm around Clark’s neck, pulling him into a choke hold. “I’m sure, I’m sure,” I said, inserting myself between them and calling for a cease fire. “Knock it off and let’s go.”
I’d barely separated them when Alf pointed behind us, to the grove of trees we’d just traveled through. A white Volkswagen Beetle was weaving along the road, coming right toward us.