The Impossible Fortress(12)
“I’m sorry,” I told her. “I’m going to do better.”
She was so angry, she left the house without saying good-bye. I watched her car pull out of the driveway before going into her bedroom. Most of our house was pretty tidy, but she reserved the right to leave her room an absolute mess. The bed was unmade and there were dirty clothes all over the floor. An ironing board lay toppled on its side; it looked like a tornado had swept through the place.
I opened her closet and pulled on the light. I reached deep into the back, past shoes and sandals that she hadn’t worn in a decade, and grabbed the handle of the fire safe. It was a heavy white chest with a four-digit combination lock. I set the tumblers to 1129; I had guessed the combination years ago, after learning that November 29 was my father’s birthday. I’d never spoken to my dad; he left Wetbridge before I was born and supposedly moved to Alaska to drill oil wells. He didn’t call or write or send money, and Mom rarely spoke of him, but that birthday combination never changed. This fact led me to wonder if maybe he’d reenter our lives someday. Maybe he’d show up on our doorstep with flowers and money and a plausible explanation for his fourteen-year absence. Because I felt certain he’d have a good explanation. I would be willing to listen.
But in the meantime, we were on our own.
I popped the latches on the fire safe and lifted the lid, and there was my power supply box, resting atop tax returns and bank statements. I carried it back to my bedroom, plugged in my C64, and went to work.
600 REM *** INSTRUCTIONS ***
610 PRINT "SAVE THE PRINCESS! SHE IS"
620 PRINT "IMPRISONED IN A DANGEROUS"
630 PRINT "FORTRESS. YOUR MISSION IS"
640 PRINT "TO AVOID THE GUARDS, ENTER"
650 PRINT "THE FORTRESS, AND FIND THE"
660 PRINT "PRINCESS BEFORE TIME RUNS OUT."
670 PRINT "HIT ANY KEY TO BEGIN."
680 GET A$:IF A$="" THEN 680
690 RETURN
I SPENT THE NEXT few nights sneaking the power box out of my mother’s fire safe and sneaking it back before bedtime. Yes, this was dishonest, and yes, I felt bad about lying. But I knew that winning the $4,000 IBM PS/2 was more important to my future than anything I’d learn about Rocks and Streams. If I was serious about Planet Will Software, I couldn’t work on a Commodore 64 much longer. Newer computers offered more memory and better graphics, and C64s would be obsolete in another year or two. I needed to upgrade to the latest technology, and the contest was my best chance to do it.
To keep Alf and Clark from coming around my house, I said I was grounded for bad grades. They came around anyway, tapping on my screen door as soon as my mother left for work, suggesting we watch MacGyver or play Trivial Pursuit or crank-call the girls in our homeroom. I explained that Mom had the neighbors keeping an eye on me, that Mrs. Digby across the street was watching through her lace curtains, so I had to close the door.
I worked on the code all night, and spent my days editing printouts during class. None of my changes made a difference. The Impossible Fortress was still maddeningly slow. I tried everything. I crunched the code as tight as possible, rearranging my subroutines and deleting REMarks and eliminating spaces between commands. In a moment of desperation, I even vacuumed the crevices of my keyboard, on the off chance that dust was slowing the circuitry.
And I thought many times about going back to Zelinsky’s and asking the girl for help. I knew anyone capable of programming Phil Collins on a SID chip would probably have great ideas for speeding up animation. She seemed funny and smart and cool, and I really needed some good advice. But I knew the flak from Alf and Clark would be ridiculous. All the little piggy baby jokes. All the she’s-so-fat put-downs. They would never let me hear the end of it.
So I worked alone, staying up late every night, getting more and more frustrated. By Friday evening, I was ready to quit—and then I heard a familiar squeak of bike brakes outside my window. I peered out through the blinds and saw Alf and Clark riding into my driveway. They were dressed all in black, like girls in a Robert Palmer video, minus the bright red lipstick.
“What’s with the costumes?” I asked.
“Operation Vanna,” Alf said.
“Take three,” Clark said. “We’ve got a new plan.”
I realized they were still talking about the Playboy magazine, about the Vanna White photos. I’d been so wrapped up in my game, I’d forgotten about them.
“You guys are obsessed,” I said.
Clark looked like I’d hurt his feelings. “You said you wanted to see them, too. You said she was the most beautiful woman in America.”
“I know.”
“You said she was a perfect ten!”
“I know.”
“So why aren’t you interested?”
I thought of Fletcher Mulligan, of the $4,000 IBM PS/2, of my hopelessly inept game that still needed hours of work. “Because I’m grounded, remember? My mom has Mrs. Digby watching me.”
Clark peered across the street to Mrs. Digby’s tiny two-bedroom bungalow. Her porch was empty; her windows, dark. “That old lady went to bed three hours ago. She’ll never know you sneaked out.”
“And you don’t want to miss this,” Alf promised me. “The sooner we get there, the sooner we start getting rich.”