The Impossible Fortress(22)

“Nothing.”

I didn’t dare mention the machine language book, not after my mother had taken away my computer privileges.

“Nothing?”

“I was just looking around and stuff.”

Again he nodded, like this was precisely the answer he’d expected. My poor mother sighed long and loud. As bad as I felt, I knew she felt a hundred times worse.

“Your grade point average is zero point eight. A D-plus. You’ve been late to school nineteen times this year. Your teachers say you’re bored, disinterested. You don’t like learning. You don’t like schoolwork. And that is totally fine, Billy.”

I looked up, surprised. Totally fine?

“Academics aren’t for everyone. Not everyone can go to Rutgers or Penn State or even community college. That’s what I tried to explain to your mother last fall, when you asked about Honors classes. You’re obviously not ready. And that’s okay.”

“It’s not okay,” Mom said. “If he worked harder, if he applied himself . . .”

Hibble shook his head. “?‘You can teach an elephant to tap-dance, but you won’t enjoy the show and neither will the elephant.’?” He spoke like this was some time-tested adage, but my mother stared back in bewilderment.

“I don’t know what that means,” she said. “Is that an expression? Is Billy the elephant?”

“These are his state assessment tests,” Hibble said, pushing my transcripts across his desk. “Every child in New Jersey takes this test. Eighty-three percent of ninth graders outperformed Billy on this exam. And that’s okay. We’re not here to blame Billy for his intellectual shortcomings.”

My mother stared at the transcript like it was written in a foreign language, like she simply couldn’t make sense of it. I’d always hated the state assessment tests, with their stupid questions and their fill-in-the-bubble answer sheets. After an hour of coloring the little circles, I felt ready to jump out the window—and the test lasted three days.

Mom pushed back the transcript. “So what happens now?”

“That depends on Billy.” Hibble turned to me. “You’re graduating in three years, son. What do you want to do after high school?”

I shrugged and looked over his shoulder, praying the whole thing would soon be over. I didn’t dare tell him about Planet Will Software or my plan to become a successful programmer, like Fletcher Mulligan of Digital Artists. I knew Hibble would just laugh.

“Answer the question, Billy.”

“I don’t know,” I said.

“He’s only fourteen,” Mom said.

“He needs a goal,” Hibble said. “Work without a goal is just spinning wheels. It’s wasting energy.”

I tried to think of a bullshit answer that would satisfy Hibble and came up short.

“We’re not leaving this office until we’ve found a goal,” he said. “Have you thought about the army?”

I shook my head. I’d seen enough movies to believe the military was full of men like Hibble, that the army would be a lifetime of ugly encounters just like this one. “No army.”

“How about Food World?” Hibble asked. “Do you want to work with your mother on the cash register?”

“Billy’s not doing that,” Mom said.

“He has to do something,” Hibble said, raising his voice. “He’s failing ninth grade, and the rules say I need to hold him back. Make him repeat the grade all over again. If you want me to ignore the rules and move him forward, I need to know what he’s moving toward. Where is he going?”

The situation was more dire than I thought. I never realized there was any risk of repeating ninth grade. No one was ever held back at Wetbridge High—not even Greg Kuba, who came to school with a padded helmet and a diaper under his Wranglers. The threat scared me into telling the truth.

“I’m going to make video games,” I said. “I’m going to start my own company, and I’ll only hire cool people. Or I’ll go work for somebody cool like Fletcher Mulligan of Digital Artists. He’s in California, but I’d move there for the job.”

Hibble was grinning before I’d even finished. I might as well have said that I wanted to be an astronaut, or president of the United States. “A computer programmer? Is that a joke?”

“He’s serious,” Mom said.

“You’re failing math, Billy! Not Pre-Calc, not even Algebra. You’re failing C-track! The basics! Pie charts and number lines!” I felt my face turning redder and redder. I knew I should have kept my mouth shut, because Hibble was really piling it on: “Think for a minute, Billy. What college is going to teach you programming?”

And he was right, sure he was right. I knew no college would ever want me—but that was okay, because I didn’t want them. “I’ll teach myself.”

Hibble leaned across his desk and raised his voice, like he was desperate to get through to me. “That’s not how it works. You think brain surgeons teach themselves? Or lawyers?” He gestured to the boxy TRS-80 computer on his desk. “I’ve spent three years on this machine, and I still can’t get it to print. And I went to Brown, understand? The best of the Ivies! There are some things you can’t teach yourself.”