The Impossible Fortress(62)

Alf and Clark were waiting in my driveway. They were dressed up, too. Alf had ditched his usual Hawaiian shirt for a pristine white Hard Rock Cafe button-down, and Clark was wearing the nicest hand- me-downs of his Georgia relatives—a lime-green short-sleeved button-down shirt and black wool pants.

“We’re coming with,” Alf said.

“Alf’s worried you’ll mess up,” Clark said.

“I never said that,” Alf insisted.

“You said he’d get fried on the electric fence,” Clark said. “Those were your exact words.”

Alf shrugged, looking sheepish. “You gotta understand, Billy. These nuns mean business. If they catch you on their mountain, they will kick your ass.”

“I’ll be fine,” I said, irritated. “Go to school.” If I somehow had the chance to speak with Mary, I didn’t want Alf and Clark hanging around, making stupid wisecracks.

“We’re coming with,” Alf repeated. “You’ll need a diversion to get through the security gates. Clark and I can draw attention away from you.”

“And then you’ll get caught,” I told him. “You’ve still got bruises from Saturday. Imagine what your dad will do if you’re busted again.”

“If I can see St. Agatha’s firsthand, it’ll be worth it,” Alf said. “I’ve been hearing about this place my whole life. It’s legendary. Did you know there’s a swimming pool? They say the girls lie around on giant pillows. Sunning themselves, like housecats.”

“I don’t think that’s true,” Clark said.

“I’ve brought everything we need,” Alf said. He unzipped his backpack to show us its contents: binoculars, walkie-talkies, wire cutters, and a solar-powered calculator.

“What’s the calculator for?” I asked.

“Math problems,” he said. “I forgot to take it out of my bag.”

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.”