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steered clear of hand-eye coordination games. He stuck to the world of digital role-play, which, as far as he was concerned, took brains, style, finesse--and had a significantly lower humiliation factor. Besides, at least as a dragon slayer, he was doing some good in the world. Okay, maybe not his world, but it still had to count for something that he'd rescued six villages, 237 peasants, four maidens, an orphan, and a deposed prince from rampage, destruction, and certain death. World of Warcraft trained you to fight the good fight, so that when the real fight came to you, you'd be ready. All RoadKill 7 trained you to do, as far as Eric could tell, was pick up hookers and repeatedly drive your car off a cliff. Though he was willing to admit the possibility that he was playing it wrong.
"Do you guys need a remedial tutorial on the meaning of 911 ?" he asked as Max grabbed the controller. "Last week it's some kind of bra emergency, and now you drag me back here for what? PlayStation
?"
crisis
"Patience, young Jedi," Max said, leaning closer to the tiny TV in an effort to see whether the fuzzy figure approaching his car was a prostitute or a cop. "All good things come to those I deem worthy."
Schwarz, who was at his desk, legs kicked up on the nineteenth- century wood, the "authentic Harvard chair" (with the gold seal to prove it) digging into his back, looked up from his notebook. "Professor Kempel is giving a lecture on homological algebra and the computability problem at five, so if this is perhaps not that important ..."
"It's important," Max said, eyes still fixed on the screen.
Schwarz nodded, and turned back to his homework. "Okay."
Eric threw himself down on the roommate's bed, which had
44
gone unused since the first week of school, when Schwarz's roommate, one Marsh Preston, of the Upper East Side Prestons ("Maybe you've heard of us?"), had tossed his CK boxers, Paul Smith shifts, and six jars of Kiehl's moisturizers and bronzers into a Harvard athletics duffel bag and taken off for Canaday Hall, where his high school girlfriend had a single. "I could be at a rally right now," Eric said. "People Against the Encroachment of Civil Equality. PEACE."
"That's not PEACE, that's PA-ECE," Max said. "And you hate rallies."
"Fine." Eric sucked in a breath through gritted teeth. "So I could be home playing World of Warcraft. What's the difference? This is still a waste of time."
"This is a time to cherish," Max chided him. "A time to treasure the moments of your lives with the people who truly--"
"A time to cut the bullshit," Eric said. "Why are we here?"
Max hit pause. He stood up and turned to face his friends. "Why are we here? A good question. An excellent question. Why are we here? Are we just marking time?"
"I am actually trying to understand the decomposition of symplectic manifolds," Schwarz said, pausing to blow his nose on one of the aloe-infused tissues that had just arrived in another baked-goods- free care package from home, "and their relation to Lagrangian barriers and--"
"We're squandering our God-given talent on lame stunts and schoolboy pranks," Max continued. "It's time to ask ourselves what we want. What we really want. Fame? Fortune?"
"Speak for yourself," Eric muttered.
45
"Or is it something less mundane, more powerful, more meaningful^." Max asked, his voice rising and falling in ecstatic preacherlike swells. "We always say we want to poke holes in the system, deflate the big heads, unseat the tyrants--but what do we do? Nothing."
Eric hopped off the bed. "It's not nothing," he said. "It's ..."
But what was it?
More than a joke, maybe, but . . . how much more? He looked down at his T-shirt, which today read: WAR IS A STATE OF MIND-- BRAIN DEAD.
"What we do matters," he insisted. "It's subtle, but it's necessary. We poke holes in the system. Weaken its foundation. Like Borat. Like Michael Moore. Like--"
"Like children," Max said. "Flooding out school board meetings. Sealing the school shut." He snorted. "Kid stuff. Time is slipping by, and all the while, we've been ignoring the real prize. Our perfect score. Our Everest." He waited expectantly, but this time, there were no interruptions, just two blank stares. "I'll give you a hint, boys and girls. When it's not flipping you off, it's sticking its massive fingers into everything. It's gobbling up everything around it like a chocoholic at a Hershey's convention. It owns us. All of us." More blank looks. Max shook his head. "Here's a hint, geniuses. Without it, Eric wouldn't eat. Schwarz wouldn't graduate. And my father . . . well, we all know the only thing in life Maxwell Sr. truly loves."
"You want us to pull a prank on Harvard?" Schwarz asked, in the same tone he'd used in the fifth grade when Max ordered him to climb up on the roof and field-test their homemade parachute.
"Not a prank, Professor Schwarz," Max replied, with the same mix
46
of confidence and wheedling that had persuaded Schwarz to jump. "A hack. And not just any hack, but the greatest hack we've ever done. Our coup de grace. Our magnum opus." He began pacing back and forth. "Who's with me?"
"With you for what, exactly?" Eric asked.
Max stopped in front of the window and turned his back on the two of them, staring out at the lush green of Harvard Yard. "We're going to take the biggest loser we can find--the least ambitious, least intelligent, least motivated, most delinquent and drugged-up slacker we can get our hands on--and we're going to sucker this school into letting him in."
There was a long pause. "And?" Eric finally asked.
"And what? That's not enough for you?" Max said incredulously. "Look at this place." He jerked his head toward the window. A group of students draped in black sat in a circle listening to their silver- haired professor. A guy on a silver scooter whizzed down the diagonal path that cut through the Yard, veering around a tour group that whipped out cameras and cell phones to capture the authentic slice of Harvard life.
A couple groped under a tree.
Three jocks in crimson sweats whacked each other with lacrosse sticks.
A red-haired kid in a FOREVER JUNG T-shirt juggled milk bottles.
"Appalling." Eric rolled his eyes. "Definitely needs our immediate attention."
"Can't you see it?" Max grimaced, and pulled down the blind. "It's all a scam. And they're the suckers who bought it. My father--"
"Right. Your father," Eric said. "Who I'm sure has nothing to do
47
with this. I'm not getting arrested just so you can prove to him that--"
"Forget Maxwell Sr.," Max snapped. "I have." He strode to the other side of the room, ripping a Harvard pennant off the roommate's side of the wall. "And no one's getting arrested. Not if we do this right." He crumpled the pennant and shot it toward the trash can, where it bounced off the rim and rolled a few feet away. Schwarz grabbed it off the floor and, with a nervous glance at Max, laid it on his bed and began smoothing it out.
Max began pacing again. "This isn't about my father. This isn't even about Harvard--or not just Harvard. It's about all the bullshit they've been feeding us since preschool: Do your homework, be good, fall in line, do what we say, and maybe, if you're lucky, you'll get the golden ticket. We're supposed to act like the only thing that matters is getting into college--getting into this college--and so most of the people who do get in are the ones who buy into the bullshit so completely that they've never done anything for any other reason. It doesn't matter what they want, what they like, what they care about, who they are--they don't even know anymore, because they're trying so damn hard to be the people Harvard wants them to be. In the end they're not even real people anymore. They're zombies. No offense, Schwarz."
Schwarz gave him a half-shrug.
"And what about all the people that don't get in?" Max continued. "The ones who let some stupid letter from some stupid school tell them what they're worth as a person. Harvard says they're nothing, and they believe it."
Alicia Morgenthal, Eric thought, before he could stop himse
lf. He
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preferred not to think about her at all. It was easier that way. Not because he felt guilty--though he did. But because when he thought about her, he couldn't help thinking about what had happened that day, and he couldn't help thinking about what had happened the night before. He couldn't help wondering whether he could have stopped her.
Or what might have happened that night after she kissed him-- if he hadn't let her run away.
It was easier not to wonder at all, but maybe she deserved better than that. Maybe she deserved some justice.
Eric sat down on the edge of the bed and tapped his finger against the bridge of his glasses. "You want us to get someone into Harvard who doesn't belong here--"
"Who Harvard thinks doesn't belong," Max clarified.
"To prove that there's something wrong with the admissions system," Eric said. "To prove it's not perfect."
"Or even functional," Max added, rocking gently from his heels to his toes.
"And that it shouldn't be the way you measure your worth as a human being." Eric nodded. "I like it. I don't know if we could do it--"
"Of course we--"
"But I like it."
Everyone knew that the college admissions system was screwed up--not just at Harvard, not just in the Ivy League. Everywhere. Too many people for too few slots, too many kids with overpaid college counselors writing their essays for them, too many overachievers with too many expectations that the system would be
49
fair and they would win the future they deserved, too much stress, too much misery, too many lies. Eric figured it was bad all over, but in Cambridge, with the shadow of Harvard looming over them like a crimson mushroom cloud, it was unbearable. Everyone knew it.
But no one did anything about it. Because they thought it couldn't be done.
"I would prefer not to get expelled," Schwarz said hesitantly.
"You'll be fine," Max said. "You're doing it."
Schwarz sighed. "We will not get caught?"
"We will not get caught."
"Okay." Schwarz closed his eyes for a moment, and his lips moved as if in silent prayer--but Eric knew better. Those weren't prayers. They were names. Names and months and the occasional color of fishnet stockings. But for Schwarz it was all the same thing. Finally, he opened his eyes and nodded. "I am in."
Max sat down on the floor and grabbed the PlayStation controller. "So it's all set." He tossed one to Schwarz. "Head-to-head action?" Schwarz nodded, even though there was no chance he would win against the RoadKill master, and the thunder of digital engines filled the room.
"Forgetting something?" Eric asked.
Max sent his car flying over a heap of burning tires, then skidded into a U-turn to collect an extra weapons cache. "You're right--case of bullets. See? You're not so bad at this game after all."
"Me," Eric corrected him. "I haven't said I'll do it."
Max shrugged. "You will."
"And you know this because?"
50
"This shit's right up your alley," Max said, bouncing on his knees as his car raced Schwarz's toward an abandoned overpass. "Taking down the system, power to the people, rage against the machine, all your bullshit."
"It's not bullshit," Eric said hotly.
"Exactly. And this is your shot, so man up."
"If we do it, we do it my way," Eric said. "Nothing too illegal. And we stay out of their computer system--it's crude."
"Also a felony," Schwarz pointed out.
Max nodded. "Terms accepted."
"And you tell us what's in it for you," Eric added.
"I already told you," Max said. "It's the ultimate hack. And all that crap about the admissions system being screwed up. You may be the righteous avenger and all, but that doesn't mean the rest of us can't get pissed off by all the bullshit once in a while, right?"
"What's in it for you?" Eric pressed.
"Nothing."
Eric crossed his arms. Max continued to stare at the TV screen.
"Pause that game and tell me."
Max didn't answer.
Eric leaned over Schwarz. "Can I see that for a second?" he asked, nodding at the controller. Schwarz handed it over.
Eric rammed his car into Max's, and they both exploded.
Game over.
"What the hell!" Max tossed down the controller. "What's wrong with you?" He turned on Schwarz. "What's wrong with youi Why'd you give it to him?"
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Schwarz shrugged. "He asked."
Max didn't just roll his eyes, he rolled his whole head.
"What's in it for you?" Eric asked again, now that he had Max's full attention.
"Nothing."
"Try again."
"I made a bet, okay?" Max shouted. "Happy now?"
"Is that the truth?"
"You can't handle the truth," Max said in a bad Jack Nicholson impression. Then he shrugged. "Yeah. It's the truth. Just a small bet. No big deal."
"Then no. I'm not happy." They didn't do bets. It was too much of a risk--not just because they didn't have the cash to spare if they lost, but because it meant involving more people in the plan. People you couldn't necessarily trust. More to the point, it went against the whole spirit of the hack.
True hackers didn't hack for money. They did it for pride of ownership, for the challenge, for the principle of the statement. They did it to take a stand--to expose corruption and complacency, and to do it in style.
They didn't do it for cash.
Even Max, who did everything--and anything--for cash, had always understood that. Until now.
"A bet with who?" Eric asked.
"You don't want to know."
Eric gave him a mirthless smile. "Let's pretend I do."
Max looked away, picking up the controller again. Eric yanked it out of his hands. "Max, "he said warningly.
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Max cleared his throat. "Turns out they're not so bad, once you get to know them. Good cash flow, impeccable credit. I really think--"
"Max! Who is it?"
Max winced. "The Bums."
Eric felt the moan pool in the pit of his stomach, churning through his intestines and slithering up his throat to finally spill out of his mouth in a guttural roar.
"Why?" he asked, when he'd regained the power of speech. "Why would you do that?" The Bongo Bums--so named in honor of scientist, bongo player, infamous prankster, and egomaniac Richard Feynman--were two juniors from Boston Latin High School who gave hackers everywhere a bad name. For them it was all about bets and bragging rights--and they'd won more than their fair share of both. But they knew they were only the second best in the Boston area, and so did everyone else on the hacking circuit. The Bums had always wanted an epic rivalry; Eric, Max, and Schwarz just wanted to be left alone.
"Why not?" Max shrugged. "It's just a hundred bucks, and we can do this--you know we can do this--so where's the risk? Why not let the Bums pay us for our trouble?"
"Just a hundred?" Eric didn't buy it. Max's philosophy was that every penny counted--at least when he was the one collecting the payoff--but a hundred bucks wouldn't have been enough to make him break protocol and cut a deal with the enemy. Or at least, it shouldn't have been enough.
"Just a hundred . . . each."
Schwarz hiccuped.
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"But that just means more money for all of us when we get the job done," Max said quickly. "Which we will."
Schwarz looked pale, but Eric knew he would do whatever Max wanted.
Max knew it too, and looked at Eric. "So what do you say?"
He wanted it. There was something about the idea--maybe the challenge of the execution, maybe the thrill of the payoff, the knowledge that it would actually mean something--that felt right.
And yet, there was the bet. There were the Bums. There was the inescapable feeling that, as usual, Max was keeping a crucial detail to himself.
"I need some time," Eric said.
"O
f course you do. Take all the time you need. At least until tomorrow, at eight thirty a.m."
"And what happens then?" Eric asked.
"We choose our lucky loser," Max said. "The Bums are meeting us outside the school to approve the selection and cement the final terms. Clock's ticking--applications are due in three months. So if we're going to do this, we start now."
"And if we're not going to do it?"
Max raised his eyebrows and gave Eric a knowing grin, then smoothed back his hair--the cowlick on the top of his head popping up again as soon as his palm had passed over it--and popped a breath mint. "Get your ass in gear, Schwarz. Hillel dinner starts in ten minutes, and I want to get a good seat."
Schwarz groaned. "I do not want to take you back there again. Everyone knows you are not Jewish--"
54
"Hey, there are Korean Jews, I could be one of them--they don't know!"
"There are approximately one hundred and eleven Korean Jews, and you are not one of them."
"First of all, you know you made that statistic up. Second of all, it doesn't matter, because no will ever have the nerve to call me on it," Max gloated. "That wouldn't be PC, now, would it?"
Eric glanced back and forth between the two of them. "Do I even want to know?"
"You know the girl who plays Ariel-7 in SpaceQuestY' Schwarz asked. "The one with the, um, you know, silver all over her . . ."
"Yeah, what about her?"
"She is a freshman here," Schwarz said.
"A Jewish freshman," Max added. "Avery devout Jewish freshman who eats in Hillel every night." He glanced at his watch. "Which means we're late, Schwarz. Up. Now."