The Impossible Fortress(63)

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.

“Hide,” I said.

We dragged our bikes off the road and into the surrounding woods, then dove behind shrubs to conceal ourselves. The Beetle motored past, and we saw five sisters in black habits through the windows, crammed inside like clowns in a circus car. We crawled out from our hiding places to watch the VW ascend the mountain. Even with switchbacks cut into the sides, the incline was steep, and the car climbed slowly, gears grinding and engine groaning.

“I can’t pedal that,” Alf said. “I’m already whipped.”

“That’s fine,” I said. “We’ll leave the bikes.”

We charged the road at a full-on sprint, but the pitch was brutal and after a minute we were all walking again. The sun beat down on our necks. The black asphalt was broiling, and I was soaked with sweat. But we were close. I touched my back pocket, checking for Mary’s letter. Soon she would have it, and that was all the motivation I needed to keep going. In another thirty or forty minutes, she would finally know the truth, and I’d be able to live with myself again.

We had just climbed the second switchback, not even halfway up the mountain, when I peered down to the road below. Another vehicle was emerging from the grove of trees. This one was a brown UPS truck, and it was going well over the speed limit, building momentum before the first ascent.

“Shit,” Alf said.

We started running, but I already knew we weren’t fast enough. The truck was coming way too fast; it was bound to overtake us before we reached the top. At once I understood why the old man at the gas station had predicted our failure. We were running up the road in plain sight, three boys on private property where boys were expressly forbidden.