The Impossible Fortress(57)

Then she abruptly stood up and went into the kitchen. She returned a moment later with a washcloth, a bowl of warm water, and a first aid kit. She sat beside me on the sofa, pressed the washcloth to my forehead, and fumbled open a bottle of hydrogen peroxide. “That is a nasty cut,” she said, and I realized I’d forgotten about the gash on my forehead. “Close your eyes for a second, all right? Sit back.”

My mother was an expert at fixing scrapes. She often reminded me that she’d been planning to go to nursing school, before I’d entered her life so unexpectedly. She dabbed a wet cotton ball to my forehead, and I braced myself for a sting that never came. Then she gently blew on the cut and unwrapped a fresh bandage. “I guess I only have one question,” she said. “There’s one thing I still don’t understand.”

“What’s that?” I asked.

“Why aren’t you in jail right now?” she said. “Why did Zelinsky let you go?”

And the truth was, I had no idea.





2610 REM *** CLEAR MEMORY ***

2620 PRINT "{CLR}{2 CSR DWN}"

2630 PRINT "JUST A MOMENT . . ."





2640 SYS 49608


2650 IF INT(S/43)=S/43 THEN POKE W3,20

2660 POKE H3,PEEK (SP+1)

2670 POKE W3,21

2680 IF NB(.)=. THEN 4000





2690 GOTO 4500




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.