“It’s lacrosse,” Clark said. “They’re playing lacrosse.”
We lay flat on the ground to avoid being spotted, then crept closer on our bellies for a better look. These girls didn’t look anything like the bikini models on my bedroom walls; none of them would ever make the pages of the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit issue. They were too short or too tall, too fat or too freckled, too sweaty and too flushed and too imperfect. But they were real, they were gloriously alive—laughing and shouting and sprinting across the field. I watched them in quiet astonishment and realized that the rumors about St. Agatha’s were true: these were the most beautiful girls I’d ever seen.
“I bet they all get their periods together,” Alf said.
“Please don’t talk right now,” Clark said. “Just let me enjoy this moment.”
“It’s true!” Alf said. “When girls live together, their menstrual cycles sync up automatically. To protect the herd.”
I had listened to Alf’s bullshit stories all my life but this seemed like a whole new level of absurdity. “Protect the herd from what?” I asked.
“It’s a biological safety check,” Alf said.
“What does that mean?” I asked.
“Charles Darwin, Billy! Don’t you pay attention in science?”
“Keep your voice down,” Clark hissed, but it was too late. Out in the field, one of the girls stopped running, lowered her net-stick, and turned toward the tree line. We got down as low as we could, crouching behind skimpy shrubs and trying to disappear into the ground. Alf was still mumbling about natural selection and gorilla tribes until I elbowed him in the side.
The girl on the field was maybe twenty feet away from us. She stepped closer to our hiding place, and I felt certain we were busted. Then a rubber yellow ball streaked past her and she turned to sprint after it.
“That was close,” Clark whispered. “Let’s keep going.”
We fell back into the forest, weaving through the trees until we saw the tall spire of the chapel. I checked my map and saw we had arrived at the north end of the campus, just behind a large two-story classroom building and a garden ringed by tall hedges. It was our only lucky break all day—the hedges were enormous, nine or ten feet tall, and shielded us when we emerged from the tree line. Any students or teachers glancing out the windows of the classroom building wouldn’t see us.
“What is this thing?” Alf asked.
I pointed to a narrow gap between two hedges—an entrance. There was a small stone tablet embedded in the ground. It was engraved with the words IN LOVING MEMORY OF SISTER BEATRICE (1821–1857). A PLACE OF BEAUTY AND SILENT CONTEMPLATION. Clark raised a finger to his lips, gesturing for us to be quiet, and slipped through the gap.
Inside the garden was a labyrinth of smaller hedges, all waist-high, guiding us through flower beds on paths lined with white gravel. Alf cringed with every step, tiptoeing like a little baby, hopping and yelping and crying out in pain. I glared at him. “Do you need to be carried?”
Alf lifted his right foot and plucked three jagged stones from his sole. “It’s like broken glass,” he said.
“Keep your voice down,” Clark said. The garden was full of shady nooks with stone benches and statues of angels and cherubs, and Clark reminded us that a sister could be lurking in the shadows.
“You should have left me at the polo field,” Alf said. “I’m no good without sneakers.”
“We’re almost through,” Clark said. “If we get closer to the classroom building, I bet we find someone.”
But the garden was more complicated than it looked—the paths doubled back on themselves, splitting into dead ends and infinite loops. I don’t know how anyone was supposed to relax in this place; it was a giant exercise in frustration, and Alf’s nonstop griping just made it worse.
Then we turned a corner and nearly collided with a girl on a bench. She was taking notes in a paperback and listening to a Sony Walkman—but at the sight of us, she dropped everything and scrambled backward, reaching for a silver whistle that hung from a chain around her neck.
“Wait,” I said.
“Please,” Alf told her.
The girl pressed the whistle to her lips.
“Video City!” Clark exclaimed.
And the girl hesitated.
“You work at Video City!” he said. “You’re Lynn Scott. You do Lynn’s Picks, the staff recommendations near the cash register. Don’t you recognize us?”
Our faces were covered with mud. Our clothes were ruined. Of course she didn’t recognize us.
“We were just there last week,” Clark said.
Alf nodded. “We rented Kramer vs. Kramer.”
Lynn blinked. “Wait a second—you’re those guys? The guys who keep renting Kramer vs. Kramer over and over?”
“Maybe once or twice,” Clark admitted.
“Eighteen times!” she said. “The owners keep a tally on a sticky note next to the register. They’re taking bets on how soon you get to twenty.”
I noticed Clark had already hidden the Claw inside his pocket. Every time we went to Video City, he was always careful to hide the Claw from Lynn and her coworkers. He’d manage to show his membership card and pay for the movie and accept his change and carry out the video using just one hand, which is a lot more awkward than it sounds.
Clark started to introduce us but Lynn cut him off. “You guys aren’t allowed to be here,” she said, kneeling down to retrieve her book and Hi-Liter. “I’ll get expelled just for talking to you.”
“We need your help,” Clark said.
She shook her head. “I’m here on scholarship. I can’t take any chances. My parents will kill me.”
“Please,” I said. “I have a letter for Mary Zelinsky. I just need you to give it to her.”
I reached in my back pocket for the envelope, only to find a limp, soggy mess, saturated with muddy water. I’d ruined the letter while crawling through the creek. I peeled open the envelope and saw all of my words blurred together. Mary would never be able to read them.
Lynn observed the dripping envelope, skeptical.
“Maybe you could find Mary?” I asked. “Can you bring her here?”
“No.”
“It’s important,” I said.
“Then go to the store. Or go to her house. Knock on her door like a regular person.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
Lynn was already walking away from us, and we had no choice but to follow her. She clearly knew the fastest route to the exit. In just moments she would be out and gone.
“It’s a long story,” Clark said. “Billy can’t go anywhere near her.”
Lynn glanced back at me. “Your name is Billy?”
“That’s right.”
“And Mary knows you?”
“Yes.”
She shook her head. “I don’t believe it. I talk to Mary all the time. She’s never mentioned any Billy.”
Now, right there, I should have known something was wrong. I was certain my name would have come up once or twice. Especially after I led a gang of thieves into her father’s store and destroyed the place.
“Maybe a Will?” I asked. “Did she ever mention a Will?”
“Never.”
“Never?”
“Raoul, she brags about Raoul all the time. But she’s never mentioned any Will.”
“Who the hell is Raoul?” Alf asked. He was limping along behind me, clutching my shoulder for support.
“I don’t know,” I said. It was my first moment of doubt all day. You don’t know her at all, Zelinsky had warned me. All this time she’s been fooling you right back. Maybe this was why Mary had pushed me away in the store. Maybe she was secretly in love with some asshole named Raoul.
“Please,” Clark told Lynn. “Just find Mary, and tell her Will is here. He wants to see her. She can come, or she can ignore him. But let her decide. Give her the choice, okay? That’s all we’re asking.”
It was the mos
t Clark had spoken to a girl in years, and I don’t know where he found the courage. But in that moment I realized he was blessed with a remarkable gift. Even with his muddy hair and weird hand-me-down clothes and one hand shoved deep in his pocket, there was something about the way Clark looked or the way Clark spoke that made him impossible to refuse. In the span of just fifteen seconds, Lynn went from looking pissed off to anxious and concerned. Suddenly our mission had become her mission.
“All right,” she said, “but you won’t have much time. Lunch is almost over.”
Even Clark seemed surprised by her turnaround. “But you’ll actually get her? You’ll bring Mary here?”
“I better not get in trouble.” She pointed to a shady nook in the garden with a large statue of the Virgin Mary. “Go hide over there. Behind the statue. Keep your voices down because Sister Ellen comes here all the time, and you do not want to cross Sister Ellen.”
“Thank you,” Clark said.
“Don’t thank me. Just hide,” she said.
We all moved behind the statue and crouched down.
Clark was whispering excitedly about the way Lynn had spoken to him. “I am totally asking her out,” he said. “As soon as I get my surgery, as soon as they hack off this stupid freak show, I am totally asking her out!”
“She likes you already,” Alf said. “Why are you going to wait four years?”
“I don’t want to spook her.”
“You’ve already spooked her! By renting that stupid movie eighteen times!”
Their bickering was making me tired. Or maybe it was just the sun—directly overhead and beating down on us. I could feel parts of my skin crisping up; the rest was slathered in mud. My heart was pounding.
Clark took the Claw from his pocket and tucked it under his shirt. He looked like a portrait of Napoleon. “Is this less obvious?”
“You’re just calling attention to it,” I said.
Clark shook his head. “I wish I brought gloves.”
Alf was exasperated. “You need to get over this, Clark. The girl’s here on scholarship. She’s not stupid. You’re not fooling her.”
Clark wouldn’t relent. He kept the Claw hidden beneath his shirt. “If she sees it too soon, she’ll be repulsed. It’s better this way.”
Footsteps passed nearby, on the other side of the hedge wall, and we all stopped taking until they were gone. I was feeling anxious, and I asked if the guys would mind giving me a little privacy. “I’d like to meet with Mary one on one.”
“Sure, totally,” Alf said. He suggested that we meet by the gap in the fence, where we crawled through the creek. “If you’re not there in twenty minutes, we’ll know something’s wrong and we’ll leave. Does that sound all right?”
“That sounds great,” I said. “And thank you, guys. Thanks for helping me get this far. I owe you big-time.”
“You don’t owe us nothing,” Alf said. “Just promise you’ll make this count, all right? Tell her what you came to say. No wussing out.”
He put out his hand and we shook on it. “No wussing out.”
“Good luck, Billy,” Clark said. “I really hope it goes okay for you. And tell Lynn I said good-bye, all right?”
I promised I would, but this turned out to be unnecessary.
Alf and Clark were just standing to leave when Lynn returned to the garden. Trailing behind her was a tall, slender Asian girl with long dark hair. She cracked her gum and studied us with disapproval.
“Who’s this?” Alf asked.
“This is Mary,” Lynn said. “From Video City.”
“Who the hell are you?” Mary from Video City asked.
“Zelinsky,” I told Lynn. “I said Mary Zelinsky.”
“You said Mary from Video City.”
“I don’t know Mary from Video City.” I turned to Mary from Video City. “I’m very sorry to bother you. There’s been a mistake. I’m looking for Mary Zelinsky.”
The girls stared back at me, confused.
“She’s short, black hair?” I said. “She paints little pictures on her fingernails? Little binary numbers?”
“Wait, Computer Geek Mary?” Lynn asked.
“Yes,” I said.
“From the typewriter store?”
“Exactly!” I said.
“We don’t really know her,” Lynn said.
“She keeps to herself,” Mary from Video City explained.
We were interrupted by a loud chime that echoed across campus. Lynn explained that this was the bell between classes. “You’re too late, anyway,” she said. “I’m sorry, but I gotta go. I can’t miss Trig.”
My mind couldn’t move fast enough to brainstorm a Plan B. “Where does Mary go after lunch?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” Lynn said.
“She might have Organic Chem,” said Mary from Video City. “On the second floor of the classroom building.”
I wasn’t leaving now, not after coming this far. I reached into the wall of hedges, pulling apart the leaves and branches and peering out across campus. Girls were spilling out of the cafeteria, dozens of girls talking and laughing and carrying textbooks. They filed across a concrete walkway, walking to the doors of the classroom building.
Clark peered over my shoulder. “There,” he said, pointing with his good hand. “Do you see her?”
I saw her.
Mary had just exited the cafeteria, and the trip to the classroom building would take her less than thirty seconds. There was no time to think or make smart choices. If she reached the classroom building, she was gone for good. I lunged forward, bulldozing through the hedges like a cartoon character, pushing and clawing my way through the brambles. Then I ran as fast as I could.
As soon as I left the garden I realized I’d miscalculated. Mary was already halfway to the classroom building, and there was no way I’d reach her in time. I shouted Mary’s name, and what followed seemed to happen in slow motion. Every girl on the campus—and by now there were at least a hundred of them—they all stopped moving and turned to stare at me. They gaped and pointed and their mouths formed perfect Os.
Mary heard me yelling and turned around. At first she just seemed confused—but then I came running up and all the color left her face. She looked mortified. And suddenly I felt like an idiot. What the hell was I thinking? What was I going to say, here at the school in front of everyone?
I turned to retreat, and to my astonishment I saw that Alf and Clark were right behind me. They’d left the garden and followed me and now they were beside me. A crowd of girls closed around us, forming a circle. They were pointing at us and laughing, and I remembered how awful we looked. Our clothes were ripped and ruined. My khakis were spattered with blood and muck. Alf was barefoot and Clark had his Claw tucked away like Napoleon and all of us reeked of swamp water. I’m surprised Mary even recognized me.
She was dressed in the St. Agatha’s school uniform—a white blouse and a pleated plaid skirt—and she was holding a stack of textbooks like a shield. Her classmates all peeled away, leaving Mary to stand alone. The other girls squealed and jeered at us like monkeys in the zoo. I’d have to shout to be heard over them. Mary looked like she wanted to sink into the ground and disappear.
A nun in a black habit pushed her way through the crowd. She was built like a linebacker, almost as tall as Officer Tackleberry but dressed in a black tunic and a black belt and black orthopedic shoes. “What is this? What’s happening here?” I didn’t answer, so she turned to Mary. “Miss Zelinsky! Are you talking to these . . . creatures?”
Mary shook her head. “No, Reverend Mother.”
She turned to me, and I couldn’t hold eye contact. I looked down at my filthy sneakers. It was all too much. It had to be a hundred degrees. I was exhausted and hurting and ridiculously thirsty. “All three of you are trespassing on private property. You’re going to follow me to the main office, and we’ll wait for the police.”
I knew what would happen after that. I knew they would cart us back t
o the police station and my mother would get summoned with another phone call and this time there would be no second chances. There were no more breaks.
“I need to talk to Mary,” I said.
The Reverend Mother’s eyes widened. “Did you say something? Are you actually speaking to me?”
“Can we please have five minutes of privacy?”
You’d think I’d asked to spend the night with her. “Absolutely not!” she exclaimed. “You’ll come to the office right now, and all of these young women will go to class. Go on, now, go!”
The young women didn’t disperse. They were too riveted by the drama. This was better than episodes of Knot’s Landing and Falcon Crest combined. More and more students were joining the crowd every moment, and I saw sisters weaving among them, shooing people away.
“Please,” I said. “Just one minute.”
“Go on!” the Reverend Mother repeated. “Anyone standing here in five seconds is going to face serious consequences!”
They seemed to understand this was no idle threat. They shuffled backward, reluctantly stepping away from the spectacle. Mary looked absolutely miserable. I’d ruined everything.
“Hang on,” a voice said, and I realized it had come from the barefoot boy standing beside me. “My name is Alfred Boyle and I’ve been an altar boy at St. Stephen’s for the last seven years. You know me, Reverend Mother. I’ve seen you at the five thirty Mass. And I biked all morning to get here. We climbed your mountain and crawled through your mud and your thorns. I lost my sneakers and ruined my best Hard Rock Cafe shirt from Cancun, Mexico. And my poor friend Clark—” He grabbed Clark’s elbow and yanked the Claw free of the shirt, holding it high for everyone to see. “My poor friend Clark destroyed his hand climbing under your fence!” All of the girls gasped, like Alf had just unveiled the Elephant Man. “And we did all of this just so Billy could talk to Mary. So I’m asking you to show a little compassion. Like our savior Jesus Christ taught us in the story of the Good Salmatian.”
The Reverend Mother glared at him, and something twitched at the corner of her lips. “Do you mean Jesus and the Good Samaritan?”
Alf nodded. “That’s what I said.”
The Reverend Mother stepped forward to inspect Clark’s hand. Like the rest of him, it was covered in mud, so you couldn’t tell precisely what was wrong with it. Clark was mortified, but he endured the scrutiny. What else could he do? He let her look, he let everyone look. The other girls were no longer drifting away; if anything, they had moved even closer.
The Impossible Fortress Page 20
