Hacking Harvard

  Then, for several long moments, nothing else happened.

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  "They're weighing their options," Max guessed. "It's safer to do it all now, in one shot--but riskier to do it while Lex watches. But they must know she's not going to tell anyone. They have the ultimate leverage. They'll go for it."

  "Maybe. Or maybe they're not going to do it at all," Eric said. "Maybe we were wrong, and they're not planning to cheat."

  "And maybe fairies will come down to earth and sprinkle you with fairy dust and you'll turn into George Clooney." Max rolled his eyes. "We're talking about twenty-five thousand dollars here. Anyone would cheat for that."

  " We're not."

  Max muttered something too soft for Eric to hear. But before he could ask, the Bums snapped into motion again.

  "Here they go," Max said triumphantly, as the would-be hackers ran a search for Clay Porter's file.

  Max let them find it. He let them change the status to "Deny." Then he let them log out, thinking they had won. He knew exactly how they felt.

  Two days before the main event, Schwarz had successfully navigated their trial run with a mission of his own. "Are you sure we have to do this here?" Schwarz had asked, as Bernard watched the screen, his nails clawing into Schwarz's shoulder.

  "You're the genius," Bernard jeered. "Think about it for a second. If something goes wrong, they could trace it back to us. You think I'm going to risk using my computer?"

  "I was not suggesting your house. But any anonymous network, an Internet cafe, or--"

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  "Nice try, but if you know how easy they can track you down, you'll have extra incentive not to get caught. You do this right, and we all win."

  Schwarz suppressed a grin. "I guess you thought of everything."

  "You bet I did."

  Let Salazar think it's his idea. That had been Max's advice, and Schwarz had followed it to the letter. Now they were in his dorm room, on his computer, a perfectly controlled environment-- Bernard had no cause to think that this was to his disadvantage.

  Schwarz logged into the fake network, a mirror site to the one through which Max and Eric would guide the Bums. He pretended to wander down a number of blind alleys and be driven to the very edge of his capabilities before he finally broke in. The only capabilities pushed to the limit were his acting skills, but so far, so good.

  "Schwarz! Schwarz, I need you!" The door burst open, just as Bernard's admissions file popped up on the screen. Schwarz slammed the laptop shut.

  "Um, hi, Stephanie, I really cannot--"

  "This is serious," she moaned, tipping her head forward so that her hair cascaded over her face, then pushing the golden strands back into a ponytail with an exaggerated sigh.

  Schwarz was transfixed.

  "I need you--there's this party tonight that I totally forgot, and I have to go because Jake's going to be there, you know, Ned's hot cousin, the one on the football team? And I told him I was going, but I've got a chem problem set due tomorrow, and I'll never get through it in time, unless you--"

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  "I am sorry," Schwarz said, finally shaking off his paralysis. "But I am busy."

  "But--"

  "I wish I could help, but . . ."

  Her eyes were watering.

  "Sure," she said, her voice a little higher than a whisper. "Okay. I shouldn't have asked, I guess. I'll figure it out. Or maybe I'll. . . it's fine."

  Schwarz sighed. "Can you wait half an hour?"

  "Of course!" The pout disappeared, and her eyes dried--so quickly that Schwarz had to wonder how real the tears had been in the first place.

  "Just come up as soon as you can," she said. "Oh, and maybe on your way, you could grab some Ben & Jerry's from 7-Eleven?"

  7-Eleven was definitely not on the way from the ground floor to the second. But Schwarz nodded.

  "You're the best!" The door slammed shut behind her.

  Bernard whistled, then mimed clacking a whip at Schwarz. "Dude, she's got you tamed like a dog."

  Schwarz scowled at him. "Shut your mouth, please."

  "Play nice, tough guy."

  "No need," Schwarz said. "I am in." He opened the laptop, and Bernard's fake records flickered onto the screen. The decision status indicated "WL." He shook his head. "I am sorry. Wait list."

  "Good thing I've got additional resources. Go on," Bernard said, thumping his palms against the desk. "Do it. Do it."

  Schwarz replaced the "WL" with an "A" for admit. His hand hovered over the "enter" key. "Where is the binder?"

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  Bernard pulled it out of his bag and almost handed it to Schwarz, then snatched it away at the last second.

  "The longer we are in the system, the more likely we are to get caught," Schwarz warned him.

  "Not we. You. You get caught."

  "And, um, you get waitlisted."

  Bernard put the binder down on the corner of the desk. There was a tear in the lower right edge of the Star Trek sticker, but Schwarz elected not to say anything. Never taking his eyes off Bernard--who was definitely impatient and probably dumb enough to start playing on the network himself--he tossed the Binder of Power safely into the back of his closet, then sat down again in front of the computer.

  "Are you sure about this?"

  "Do it!" Bernard shouted.

  Schwarz hit "enter."

  It was the first real smile he'd ever seen on bernard's face. "Pleasure doing business with you," Bernard said, reaching out his hand.

  Schwarz declined to shake.

  "Crisis averted," Max said, shutting down the program. "Now we just sit back and wait for the money to come rolling in."

  "If we win," Eric pointed out. He started stuffing the equipment back in his bag; the sooner they got out of the shed and away from the Bongo Bums, the better.

  "Actually, I've been meaning to talk to you about that," Max said hesitantly--at least, as hesitantly as Max ever said anything, which wasn't much.

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  "The money?"

  "The if."

  Eric clenched his jaw.

  "We can do it," Max said, his voice a millimeter away from a whine. "If the Bums can do it, you know we can do it."

  "The Bums didn't do it, remember?" Eric slipped the laptop into his bag, slung it over his shoulder, and stood up. "The Bums did exactly what we let them do. No more."

  "Only because they're incompetent. If we wanted to get into the network, we could. It would take ten minutes, and we could guarantee a win."

  "Guarantee jail time, too," Eric said. "If we got caught. Or at least guarantee that no college would ever have us. And some of us are still hoping for a diploma."

  "Don't be such a wuss. What makes you so sure we'd get caught?"

  Eric resisted the urge to slam the door of the shed on the way out. But they were still too close to the house, still in the danger zone. He slipped it shut gently and forced himself not to yell. "It doesn't matter whether we get caught," he hissed. "It's wrong, and I'm not doing it. And you're not doing it."

  "Says you?" Max raised his eyebrows. "I don't need you, not for this."

  "Do you need me at all?" Eric asked. "Because if you're the kind of person who would do that . . ."

  "Then what? We're not friends anymore? Are you kidding me?"

  "You said it. I didn't."

  "We could get Lex in, too," Max said. "She would never even have to know we did it for her. Or she could know you did it for

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  her--I bet she'd do whatever you wanted after that. I'm talking anything you wanted."

  "You're disgusting."

  "And you're tempted. Admit it."

  "Not all of us are like you, Max."

  "And there he goes again!" Max said loudly. Too loudly. Eric tugged him down the sidewalk, away from Gerald's house and the scene of their crime. "You just can't resist, can you? You have to throw it in my face. You're Gallant and I'm Goofus. You're Lisa and I'm Bart. You're Austin Powers and I'm Dr. Evil. You
're Luke Skywalker, and I'm Darth--no, not even that, in your mind, I'm probably Jar Jar Binks. You're Pikachu and I'm--"

  "I get the picture, thanks."

  "You drew the picture," Max retorted. "And it's black and white, just like everything else in your life."

  "Do you have to be so melodramatic?"

  "Do you? You've got these unreasonable standards and we're all supposed to dance around living up to them. Or we end up like Lex--out of your life. End of story. It's blackmail." They finally reached the car.

  Eric opened the door, but didn't climb inside. "There's nothing wrong with having high standards."

  "Yeah, you're right." Max slapped his palm against the car roof. "We should all be like you. Incorruptible. Lucky we've got someone like you to judge us and point out everything we're doing wrong."

  "I don't judge," Eric said indignantly.

  "Give me a break. You're still judging Clay for crap he pulled ten years ago. You won't talk to Lex, and I don't even get why you're mad in the first place."

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  "You wouldn't."

  "Oh, right, because I'm defective. I almost forget. Why do you even stick around? Do you just like standing next to someone who makes you look good?"

  Eric's fingers tightened around the door handle. "What am I supposed to say to that?"

  "Nothing." Max opened the driver's side door and slid behind the wheel. "You should just know, you make it really hard for someone to be your friend."

  "I didn't realize I was so much work. Maybe I should just make it easy for you." The passenger side door slammed shut with a dramatic bang.

  Of course, it would have been a bit more dramatic if Eric had been on the outside.

  Max looked over at him and raised an eyebrow. "Wasn't that supposed to be an exit line?"

  Still fuming, Eric strapped on his seat belt. "Pretend it was. I'm not walking home just because you suck."

  "So I'm supposed to pretend you're not here?"

  Eric didn't say anything.

  "Just act like you're standing on the curb in a snit and I drove away without you?"

  Eric crossed his arms and stared straight out the windshield.

  Max turned on the radio, choosing a hip-hop station he knew Eric detested.

  Eric began humming a Beatles song under his breath.

  Max turned up the volume.

  Silence for ten minutes, until Max drove right by Erics house.

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  "You want me to jump out while the car's still moving?" Eric asked sullenly.

  Max gave an exaggerated jerk of surprise. "Oh, I'm sorry, are you still here? I thought I left my best friend back there on the curb, sulking."

  "Just stop the car and let me out."

  Max slammed on the breaks. He turned to Eric, then sighed. It's challenging to cram exasperation, frustration, amusement, dismay, regret, defeat, concern, and boredom into a single exhalation of breath.

  But Max was a champion sigher.

  "Give me a break. Are you really threatening to ditch me for good if I decide to cheat?"

  Eric closed his eyes and responded with a more amateur sigh, resignation tinged with a hint of exhaustion. "Of course not. Are you really going to cheat?"

  Max glanced at the stuffed crimson H dangling from the rearview mirror---and back at the Harvard sticker emblazoned on the rear windshield. Then he shook his head. "Of course not."

  And, unlike most of the things that came out of Max's mouth, it was true.

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  March 10 * ADMISSIONS COMMITTEE DELIBERATIONS

  Objective: Surveillance, precautionary measures

  April need not be the cruelest month.

  --Bill Mayher, The College Admissions Mystique

  I'm here because Max invited me," I said before Eric had a chance to ask. But he just shrugged and stepped into the dorm room, pulling up another chair in front of the computer screen. The shrug's message was obvious: I don't care.

  But what did that mean?

  Was that, I don't care because I'm glad you're here? Or I don't care what you do? I don't care because I'll hate you forever? Or maybe, I don't care because I've already forgotten that we ever knew each other and I have a new girlfriend, an MIT freshman named Aimee who designs circuitry and wears a size two?

  I shrugged back.

  "Ladies and gentleman!" Max exclaimed, pausing for the nonexistent drumroll and trumpet blare. "Welcome to the festivities. I'd just like to take this time to thank you all for contributing to what I think we can safely call our greatest hack, one step closer

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  to the attainment of the unattainable, the brass ring that--"

  "Just turn it on," Eric said.

  "It's a momentous occasion," Max protested, "we should--"

  With a nervous glance at Max, Schwarz leaned over his shoulder and double-clicked the mouse. We fell silent as a dark grayish conference room popped up on the screen. Schwarz had hidden a camera inside the smoke detector lodged in a corner of the ceiling, giving us a fly on the wall view. Thanks to the high resolution, we could not only see which admissions officers suffered from male- pattern baldness, we could tell which was wearing a toupee.

  There were twelve of them assembled around the conference table, each with a stack of folders piled in front of them and their faces fixed in a solemn expression, as if they were composing themselves for the hidden camera--but maybe that's just how you look when you've got the fate of twenty thousand desperate teenagers in your hands. The woman at the head of the table had her rust-colored hair pulled back into a bun and wore glasses that were almost as thick as Schwarz's. She was the only one without a stack of papers in front of her; all she had was a list. It was the day's docket--and Schwarz's snooping indicated that Clay's name was about forty names down. If our calculations were correct, and if they didn't take too many bathroom breaks, this was judgment day.

  Clay had been invited along for the fun; he'd opted to stay home and rotate his tires. Max didn't get it, but I did. after all, I could have had Schwarz find out when I was going to be on the docket. I could have watched them debate my merits, weigh my SAT scores against my grades against my essay against the hundred other applicants who all said and did exactly the same thing (or worse, the hundred

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  applicants who did it all, but better). I could have ignored Eric ignoring me and sat there trembling as the admissions officers picked me over like a giant tomato at a country fair, trying to decide whether I was big enough, round enough, supple enough, red enough, and firm enough to get the blue ribbon.

  Not that I'd ever been to a county fair.

  And not that I ate tomatoes.

  But you get the point.

  So I decided against watching my own fate be decided. But I had to see something. I had to know what went on in that locked room and who these people were who would be stamping me with the "approved" or "defective" label I'd be wearing across my forehead for the rest of my life.

  Schwarz passed around a bowl of popcorn, and we gazed at the screen, waiting to be blown away.

  But it turned out spying on an admissions session was a lot like watching baseball. That is, if you're like me, and find baseball about as interesting as picking gum out of your hair. For those of you out there who get all fired up at the thought of watching a bunch of lumpy, overweight guys standing in the middle of a field spitting and scratching themselves--and you're entitled to your opinion--feel free to substitute bowling. Or backgammon. Because I think we can all agree that some things just aren't meant to be a spectator sport.

  Most decisions had already been made before anyone hit the table--the admissions officers had pored over the files, ranked the applicants, and convened in small groups to decide on a recommendation. So at the full committee meeting, they had only to sum up each case, concluding with a recommendation of either "admit,"

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  "wait list," or--and this was usually issued with a dismissive head shake and a toss of the folder
onto a towering pile in the corner-- deny.

  We did our best to pay attention, but it was a losing battle. And when the popcorn was finished, so were we.

  "So, what are you guys going to do with your cut of the money?" I asked. "If you win, that is." I was lying on the floor, my feet propped up against the wall and my head on Schwarz's roommate's pillow. It smelled faintly of old cheese and cheap cologne, but I was trying to ignore that, since it was softer than the hardwood. Max was looking out the window and playing idly with a yo-yo, Schwarz was at the computer still half-monitoring the proceedings, and Eric was sitting on Schwarz's bed, pretending to read.

  At least, I told myself he was pretending. He wasn't turning the pages very often, or with any regularity, and every once in a while, I thought I caught him looking at me, although I couldn't be sure. It occurred to me that when I was lying on my back, my chest looked even flatter than usual, so if he was looking, he wasn't exactly getting the most flattering view.

  But then, he probably wasn't looking at all.

  "If we win, I am buying an iPhone," Schwarz said dreamily. "And also, a vintage print of--" He glanced at me and flushed pink. "Uh, there is an old magazine photo I would like to have the original of."

  I laughed, and not just because I already knew what magazine he was referring to. "A phone and a picture? Schwarz, you've got to think bigger. We're talking about--"

  "I've been saving up for this new Alienware desktop, the Aurora

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  ALX," Eric said quickly. "An AMD Athlon 64 FX-62 dual-core processor, AM2 DDR2 memory technology . . . it's the ultimate gaming machine. And with the installment plan, I only have to pay a hundred bucks a month."

  "When we win," Max said, "I'm going to find myself a sweet apartment in Somerville, sign a lease, and get the hell out of the Kim house of crimson horrors once and for all." He tucked the yo-yo--a mint-condition 1984 Papa Smurf spindle with the original silver- blue lettering along the edge, estimated worth on eBay: $27--into his backpack. "The other half goes into the market. I make back everything I lost and more, enough to get in on the ground floor before the XemonCo IPO, I get rich, buy a mansion, retire early-- and I'll even leave Maxwell Sr. with something nice to hang up on his damn wall." He raised a fist in the air, and his middle finger popped to attention. "A nice, hi-res, eight-by-ten photo of this."