The Impossible Fortress

by Jason Rekulak

  “Do your worst to this one,” he said. “Charge him with everything you’ve got. Send him someplace awful.”

  Tack replied in a low voice. “If we charge Billy, we charge everybody. We can’t pick and choose who’s responsible.”

  “But you know he’s responsible,” Zelinsky said.

  “That’s for the courts to decide,” Tack said.

  I realized Zelinsky was confused about the whole situation. He hadn’t heard my side of the story. He somehow thought I was responsible.

  “I didn’t break anything,” I said.

  “Shut up,” Tack said.

  “And I didn’t steal anything. It was those other guys—”

  “Shut up,” Tack repeated. “Don’t say anything.”

  “But I’m not responsible—”

  Zelinsky’s bloodshot eyes bore into me. He’d been roused from his house in the middle of the night; he was still wearing the undershirt he’d slept in. Around his neck was a silver chain; a dainty women’s wedding band hung from its bottom like a charm.

  “You’re completely responsible,” he said. “All of this was your fault. You let them into my store.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m sorry for all of it.”

  “You’re only sorry you were caught,” Zelinsky said. “They told me what happened. How you planned the whole thing. Tricking Mary into giving up the code. And I’ll admit you had me fooled. Had us both fooled. You were pretty damn convincing. But here’s what you don’t know: All this time she’s been fooling you right back. You don’t know her at all. And you’re too dumb to even realize it.”

  He said this with tremendous satisfaction, as if somehow—at the end of this absurdly long night—he was walking away with the last laugh.

  “I don’t understand,” I said.

  “I know you don’t,” he said. “You never will.”

  I wanted to ask what he meant, but he was already leaving. Tack followed him out and closed the door. None of it made any sense. Mary was fooling me right back? Why was he singling out me? What about the guy who stole the lighters and cigarettes? Or the guy who smashed all the typewriters?

  I didn’t have much time to ponder things. Tack returned to my room just a few minutes later, this time accompanied by my mother. She wore her white Food World uniform, and she was clutching a handful of Kleenex. Her face and neck were flushed with hives, like she was having an allergic reaction.

  “How did you find me?” I asked.

  “Officer Blaszkiewicz called me,” she said. It took me a moment to realize she meant Tackleberry. “He said you were too afraid to do it yourself.”

  “Stand up,” Tack said. “Put out your wrists.”

  I held out my arms, and he undid the cuffs.

  Mom took a deep breath. “Mr. Zelinsky is dropping the charges. For all of you.” She whispered the words, like she was afraid of jinxing herself.

  “Under two conditions,” Tack added. “Number one, you don’t go anywhere near the store. No General Tso’s, no train station, no movies. If I see you anywhere on Market Street, I will arrest you for harassment and bring you back here.”

  “All right,” I said.

  “I need you to say it,” Tack insisted. “Look me in the eye and say it out loud.”

  I looked him in the eye and said it out loud: “I will stay away from Market Street.”

  “Number two, you stay away from Mary. You don’t call her, you don’t talk to her. You see her at Wetbridge Mall, you turn the other way and run, understand?”

  “I would like to apologize,” I said.

  “Oh, that’s real sweet,” Tack said. “Suddenly you’re concerned about her feelings? Well, forget it. You don’t get to apologize. You’ve bothered her long enough. Move on and harass someone else.”

  “He understands,” Mom said, placing a firm hand on my elbow. “Tell him, Billy.”

  I looked down at her hand, at the red blotches that were spreading across her arm. I felt all of her weight bearing down on me, like she was about to fall over.

  “I’ll stay away from Mary,” I agreed. “I’ll never talk to her ever again.”

  We left the police station at dawn. Market Street was deserted. Off on the horizon, the sun was rising behind the train station, filling the sky with pink and orange. There were no signs of Alf or Clark or their parents. I wanted to ask about them but didn’t dare say a word. I kept my mouth shut and got in the car.

  Mom cried all the way home. Halfway to Baltic Avenue, she got so upset she had to stop the car on the side of the road. I said I was sorry and she hit me in the arm with her purse.

  We entered the house and Mom told me to sit on the couch. I said I wanted to go to bed. “We’re not finished,” she said. “You and I, our conversation hasn’t even started.”

  I sat on the couch. She sat across from me with a box of Kleenex and took a deep breath. “When Officer Blaszkiewicz called me at the store, I refused to believe him. I thought he was talking about a different Billy Marvin. Another kid with the same name. And on the way to the police station, I actually stopped by our house. I was convinced I’d find you asleep in your bed. But I went up to your room and you weren’t there. Your bed was empty. And then I saw this.”

  She unzipped her purse and removed a sheet of loose-leaf paper. I recognized it from earlier that morning, from a million years ago. I must have left it on my desk before running out to the mall. It was covered with the words fat bitch and fat fucking bitch over and over in a deranged scrawl. I didn’t even recognize it as my own handwriting.

  “This is not the life I wanted for us,” Mom said. “I wish I had more money. I wish I had a better job. Heck, I wish your father hadn’t left us. But I don’t complain, Billy, you know why? Because plenty of people have it worse. We’re surviving. We’re healthy, we’re capable, we’re getting by. And the number one thing that keeps me going is you. Your grades drive me crazy and you’re squandering all your potential, but I always knew you were a good kid with a good heart, and that sustained me.” She looked at the loose-leaf again—the fat bitch, the fat fucking bitch. “But now I realize I don’t know you at all.” Her voice broke, and she covered her face with her hands, taking big, heaving breaths as tears ran down her cheeks. “I welcomed that girl into our home. You made me part of this horrible plan. How could you?”

  There are plenty of things that a teenage boy doesn’t tell his mother. As we get older, there are more and more things we hold back, things too hard to say or too embarrassing to explain. We do this to protect our mothers as much as ourselves, because let’s face it—most of our thoughts are truly unthinkable.

  That morning was the last time I was ever fully candid with my mother about anything. I talked for a good hour. I told her everything. It was hard to tell the truth, but every detail seemed to revive her, even the embarrassing ones. Especially the embarrassing ones. It killed me to admit some of this stuff, but the more I talked, the better she looked. She stopped crying and set down her Kleenex, and the red hives slowly faded from her neck. My explanation must have been pretty thorough because she didn’t interrupt me with questions. She just sat and listened and nodded until I was finished.

  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 th
at?” 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.

  “How did you know?” he asked.

  I shrugged. “Just a hunch.”

  “More like natural instincts, if you ask me.” Hibble grabbed my wrists and forced me to study my palms. “You’re a born mechanic! Good with your hands! That’s called a gift, Billy. And Cosmex will put your gift to work, I guarantee it.”

  I avoided my locker all day because I was afraid of seeing Tyler Bell. I feared he was planning to take some kind of spectacular revenge on me. But at lunchtime, Alf and Clark explained that I didn’t have to worry. Tyler had dropped out of school just three weeks before graduation and enlisted in the United States Army. “They’re sending him down to Fort Benning,” Alf explained. “It’ll be a long time before you see him around Wetbridge again.”

  Relieved, I finished my lunch and went to my locker. Upon opening the door, I found a black Maxell disk waiting atop my belongings. I recognized it immediately. The label read FORTRESS BACKUP in Mary’s pristine cursive handwriting. The night of the deadline, we’d sent the master copy to the Rutgers contest but kept a backup for ourselves at the store. I checked around the disk for a note, some kind of explanation, but there was nothing. Then I remembered who I was dealing with and brought the disk to the library.

  The lone computer terminal was available, so I inserted the disk and loaded the directory. There were just two files, a large backup of the game and a smaller file named GOOD-BYE. I loaded GOOD-BYE into memory and typed RUN. At first glance it appeared to be another text adventure, like the other two mini-games Mary had sent me.

  They told me what you did, "Billy." I can't believe it's true. But they say you made a full confession, that you answered to everything.

  The Impossible Fortress was an excuse.

  Radical Planet was a trick.

  The plan was to fool the fat girl, make the fat girl think she was pretty. Well, I have to admit, it worked. This fat girl was fooled.

  The cursor was blinking, prompting me to input a reply.

  >I'M SORRY

  But I knew it was a dummy prompt, that it didn’t matter what I typed, that there was no way to win or lose this game. More text spilled down the screen.

  I can't believe I trusted you.

  I told you so many things that I never told anyone.

  And guess what, genius? If you'd just asked me for the alarm code, I probably would have told you that, too. I would have wanted you to know the story behind it. October 2 was my mother's birthday, so 10-02 was my lucky number.

  And now that's ruined for me, along with everything else.

  Again the cursor prompted me for a reply, another dummy prompt. I didn’t type anything this time, just hit RETURN.

  So now I just need to forget. That's what all the grown-ups keep telling me. "Don't waste another minute thinking about that jerk." And I know they're right. I just don't know how I could have been so wrong.

  Lucky for me, there aren't many reminders of you in the showroom. Just some notes and backup disks that I've already trashed. This is the last backup copy of the game we made together. I just wish all mistakes were this easy to erase.

  As I read, the motor in the disk drive started spinning, a familiar sound which usually meant the computer was loading more data. But then the drive made a loud
knocking noise—the sound of a disk being reformatted and wiped clean. I popped out the disk and the game was interrupted by a DOS error. I thought that I’d been fast enough, but when I checked the directory, it came up empty, zero files in memory.

  The Impossible Fortress was gone.

  2700 REM *** DRAW NEW HERO ***

  2710 FOR X=0 TO 62

  2720 READ A

  2730 POKE 12544+X,A

  2740 NEXT A

  2750 POKE 2044,196

  2760 POKE V+21,16

  2770 POKE V+43,1

  2780 POKE V+8,HX:POKE V+9,HY

  2790 RETURN

  THAT AFTERNOON, I WENT to my classes determined to make a fresh start. With no computer programming in my future I was free to concentrate on my grades. I decided I would end the year on a high note. I would ace my finals and give my mother a report card worthy of posting on the refrigerator. I arrived at Rocks and Streams and took a seat in the front row. I opened my notebook and put the date at the top of the page. I listened attentively as Ms. Seidel patiently drilled us on the five kinds of igneous rocks: granite, diorite, gabbro, peridotite, and pegmatite. After a minute or so I turned to a new page and started writing a letter to Mary.

  The guilt kept sneaking up on me and derailing my concentration. I couldn’t stop thinking about what I’d done—or what Mary thought I’d done. I needed her to know the truth. The Impossible Fortress wasn’t an excuse. Radical Planet wasn’t a trick. Everything was real, it was all real.

  I spent the afternoon sitting in classes and putting these thoughts on paper, drafting a letter to send to Mary. I didn’t think anything could be harder than writing machine language, but I was wrong. Again and again, I crumpled my paper into a ball and gave up. But after a few moments my thoughts would return to Mary, and I’d start writing again.

  The end-of-day bell rang at two forty-five, and I still wasn’t happy with my letter, but it would have to be good enough. I hurried out of wood shop and bolted down the hall, darting around students as they emerged from classrooms, pushing and jostling each other, ready to go home. Everybody had spring fever, but there were still three more weeks of school. I could feel a sort of expanding energy in the hallways, a growing pressure, as if the school couldn’t contain us much longer.