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“See?” I say. “He played computer games all the time when he was my age. Now look at him.”

“He also had a 4.0 grade point average and took apart and rebuilt a 1975 Mustang without a manual,” my mom answers. “After what happened between him and Uncle Ted, maybe you can understand why I haven't been so fond of your spending so much time with your games.”

“There has to be more to the story with Uncle Peter and Great-Uncle Ted,” I press. “Adults confiscate games all the time. No reason for a family feud.”

Mom sighs and sits down on the couch. We all sit across from her.

“I guess I can tell you,” she begins. “But your uncle Peter is still embarrassed by it.”

She looks out the window.

“You see, Uncle Ted hired Peter for the summer when he was fourteen. Peter was told to watch the store, but he was so busy playing one of his games that some local kids came in and walked off with a couple of six-packs of beer without him seeing it. Ted sent Peter back to Hawaii the next day. Mom and Dad were so furious with him they let Uncle Ted confiscate his games, the consoles, and the controllers. Peter felt so guilty he never played video games again. He apologized over and over, but Uncle Ted wouldn't hear it. My folks tried to talk to him, but for some weird reason he made a huge deal out of it. He said he'd put his trust in Peter, and Peter betrayed that trust.”

I see Isabel jerk her head in Mom's direction.

Picking up on the clue, I reach out and pat her hand. She continues. “Peter really tried to make it up to him, but somehow, once he broke that bond, Uncle Ted wouldn't budge.”

“So that was the big story between Peter and Great-Uncle Ted?” I ask incredulously. “For the rest of his life, he wouldn't talk to him because of
that
?”

“Yes. He had Peter pegged as a disappointment from then on. I guess my brother has spent most of his life trying to prove him wrong.” Smiling at the memory, Mom adds, “Not only that, but Uncle Ted threw out all of Peter's comic books too! They'd probably be worth a fortune today.”

A sad silence filled the room.

Caleb looks like someone stabbed him in the heart. “That is so
harsh,
” he's finally able to utter. He turns green, and I know he's convinced himself that his precious Amazing Adventure #1 was in that pile of comic books.

Hearing Caleb's voice brings me back to the present. I look down at the box at his feet.

“So what made you get those out?” I ask him.

Caleb pulls one of the boxes of games out and holds it up. “I knew I'd seen those symbols before.”

On the box, above the title, is the name of the company.

KONAMI

I pick up an old controller from the box and push the buttons. I then begin pressing them in a certain sequence, again and again.

“Of course.” I feel like a world-class moron for not realizing it sooner.

Caleb meets my gaze, and the thunderbolt hits him as well. “You think?” he says in amazement.

We continue to stare at each other in shock.

“Mom,” I say as casually as I can, “you said Great-Uncle Ted was sick of watching Peter play his video games?”

“It wasn't that, really. It was more his not paying attention to the store that caused all the trouble. Actually, if I remember, when Peter first brought the games in, Uncle Ted was quite interested in learning about them. Peter said he used to ask him all sorts of questions.”

“So it was just—Uncle Peter was playing them too much….” The words are tumbling out of my mouth. I can feel my body tensing up as I push the same sequence of buttons on the keypad again and again.

“Yes, dear. Everything in moderation, right?” Mom glances at Isabel with a smile.

“Um, Mom…don't you have to get to the hospital?” I ask without looking at her.

My mom glances at her watch and gives a start. “Oh my gosh! With all this reminiscing, I completely lost track of the time!” She leaps up, gives me a quick kiss on the cheek, and heads out.

“See? He can be so thoughtful when he wants to be!” she calls over her shoulder to Isabel.

As soon as the door closes, I exchange high fives with Caleb.

“The Konami Code!” I whoop.

“The Konami Code! That
has
to be it!” Caleb says, excitement rising in his voice.

Isabel has had enough. “Could someone enlighten me as to what the Konami Code is?”

“To anyone who plays games, the Konami code is, well, the worst-kept secret there ever was,” I explain. “Game developers always need to be able to play through the levels to do bug fixes and smooth out the playability. Early on, the Konami company used a series of button pushes to give unlimited lives and power to the player. It got leaked and became legendary in the gaming world.”

I reach in and began to line up the various game controllers that are in the box.

“Ever since then,” Caleb continues, “it's been used on over three hundred games. Sometimes it gives you eternal life in the game, or unlimited power. Stuff like that.”

“Up up, down down, left right, left right, B, A,” we chant in unison.

“
That's
the Konami Code,” Caleb says excitedly as I begin entering the code into a small red controller. “You enter it into almost any game controller over the last twenty years and it will unlock extra powers or levels.”

“So you think—” Isabel starts to say.

But we aren't listening. We're busy pressing the buttons on all the controllers.

“It has to be here,” I say. But I enter the sequence into the last controller with no obvious effect.

“Maybe you have to put the code into the controllers in a certain order,” suggests Caleb.

“It's worth a try,” I answer.

As we laboriously try various combinations of controllers, Isabel sighs, reaches into her bag, and pulls out a large book.

“You could help, you know,” I say with annoyance.

“I am,” Isabel shoots back, not looking up from her reading.

“How? By reading about the Konami Code?” snipes Caleb.

Isabel snaps the book shut and looks up at us. “In case you were wondering, I was reading about your great-uncle.”

She holds up the book. It's titled
Go for Broke: A History of the Japanese American 100th Infantry Battalion and the 442nd Regimental Combat Team.

“Where did you find that?” I ask.

“In the library,” Isabel answers. “They have all sorts of books there. You should visit sometime.”

I decide to ignore that jab, and go on. “So did you learn anything?”

“Remember the four coins we found? Do you remember what countries they were from?”

“Let's see…,” says Caleb, “Um…France, Germany…Italy, I think…”

“And Austria,” Isabel finishes for him. “Those were the four primary countries where the 442nd fought. That's why he picked them.”

I'm only half listening. I'm looking at the cover of the book. It's a photo of a young Japanese American soldier holding several men wearing Nazi uniforms prisoner at gunpoint. I wonder if my great-uncle was anywhere near where that picture was taken, and what he saw in the war.

“So why is it called
Go for Broke
?” I ask.

“Apparently that was the motto of the regiment,” Isabel explains. “It was a Hawaiian expression originally, and they brought it with them.”

Caleb looks down at the remote in his hand and throws it down in disgust.

“Well, if it isn't here, he had to put it
somewhere.
”

All of a sudden, I can feel the hairs on the back of my neck tingle.

Always, it's something right in front of my nose.

Like a sleepwalker, I get up, turn around abruptly, and leave the room.

I head upstairs, rummage around in my room, and then back into the kitchen.

“Guys, I think this is it.”

Isabel and Caleb follow my voice into the kitchen and find me staring at the black rectangular object I've gotten from my knapsack, now on the kitchen counter.

It looks like any other cable remote, with a round Select button surrounded by arrows on the top, bottom, left, and right, to navigate on-screen menus. And, I note with satisfaction, there are even buttons marked
A, B, C,
and
D.

Holding my breath, I slowly press the buttons in sequence.

Up. Up. Down. Down. Left. Right. Left. Right. B. A.

There's a clicking noise, and the entire back of the remote falls away.

I turn the remote around, and there, nested in the wires and circuit board, is a small gold key.

I pick up the key, turn, and press it into Isabel's hand.

“Why are you doing this?” she asks. “Shouldn't you be the one to open it?”

“I don't know,” I say softly. “I think it should be you.”

I go to get the wooden box from my bedroom, leaving Caleb and Isabel alone.

As I return, I hear Caleb say, “This book sounds pretty cool.” He's flipping through
Go for Broke.

“Those guys were amazing,” Isabel remarks. “According to this book, they were the most decorated unit in United States military history.”

“Hmm,” Caleb says.

“That means they won more medals than—” Isabel starts.

“I know what ‘most decorated' means!” Caleb says, glaring at her.

I put the box on the kitchen counter.

“This is it!” Caleb says.

Isabel slowly puts the gold key into the lock. She pauses as it fits in snugly. Then, her hand trembling a little, she turns the key. We hear a click.

I lift the lid, and we take out the items one by one.

All that's inside are an old paperback and a two small black notebooks.

Caleb makes a face. “This is it?” he says again, but meaning something totally different.

Isabel looks crushed. “I
knew
you should have opened it.”

“That wouldn't have made any difference,” I say.

“No jewels,” Caleb moans.

“No gold coins,” Isabel sighs.

“Who knows? Maybe it's another puzzle.” I shrug.

I pick up one of the notebooks. It has formulas and scientific information jotted down in a strong hand, written in what looks like fountain pen.

Isabel picks up the book and reads the title:
“The Maltese Falcon.”

“I've heard of that!” Caleb says. “They made a really famous movie about it during the war!”

“Maybe it was his favorite book,” I say.

Isabel opens the musty paperback. “So it's, what? A detective story or something?”

“I guess so. My dad always goes on and on about it, like it's the best one ever,” says Caleb.

I reach behind the box and pull out the pad of paper from the hospital.

“This is the last thing my great-uncle wrote,” I announce, reading off the sheet:

“THE BOX IS ONLY THE BEGINNING. KEEP LOOKING FOR THE ANSWERS. ALWAYS GO FOR BROKE! PROMISE ME!”

Caleb peers at the box and taps it on all sides. “You think there's a secret compartment somewhere?”

I examine the empty box. Why didn't the game take me this far? Are there things I have to discover for myself?

There's nothing else in the box. No secret buttons or sliding doors.

It's just a wooden box. Containing nothing more than two leather-bound notebooks and a musty old paperback.

“ ‘Keep looking for the answers,' ” murmurs Isabel. “Do you think we didn't search hard enough?”

“Give me a break!” Caleb protests. “Ted was obviously supposed to find this. All the clues led to it. He figured everything out…even how to get into the hospital! What else did his great-uncle want him to do?”

“I don't know…maybe read?” Isabel answers, holding up the book.

“Hey! Maybe it's a valuable book! A collector's item or something. You think that's the treasure he was talking about?” Caleb asks me.

“Maybe…but I keep thinking we're missing something. Something obvious…”

A gasp from Isabel jolts me out of my stupor.

“What's wrong?” I ask. Isabel looks like she's seen a ghost.

“Um…I just looked at the first chapter…”

“So?” Caleb says impatiently. “What's so horrible? Bad grammar? Something misspelled?”

Isabel holds out the book so we can see the title of the first chapter:
SPADE AND ARCHER.

“How could he know?” Isabel stares at me, her usually cool eyes wide now.

I look at the book and read a few lines. I skip ahead.

“It seems that Spade is the last name of the hero in
The Maltese Falcon,
Sam Spade. And Miles Archer is his partner.”

“That is definitely weird…,” Caleb mutters.

“I think it's just a coincidence,” I say quickly, trying to sound reasonable. “Archer is a pretty common name. I mean, your name is in that Henry James book too, right?”

“Right. And of course, Edith Wharton named her protagonist in
The Age of Innocence
Newland Archer,” Isabel reasons to herself.

“Exactly!” I exclaim. “Newland Archer!” The fact that I have no idea who Edith Whateverhernameis is, let alone what
The Age of Innocence
is, doesn't matter. If it calms Isabel down, that's all that matters right now. “Plus, Uncle Ted sent me on this mission before we even met.”

Isabel takes a deep breath, and the color returns to her cheeks. “I'm sorry, guys. I just wasn't expecting to see my name in that book,” she says. “Serves me right for not knowing my crime fiction.”

“Archer is a mutant in the X-Factor comic books,” Caleb adds helpfully.

I glare at him.

“What? I'm just saying it's a common name in literature.”

“Good to know,” Isabel says dryly. “My name is also used for some dumb comic-book character.”

“For your information, Archer isn't dumb. He can transform at will into pure energy, and shoots photoelectric plasma bolts from his gauntlets.”

“He sounds pretty cool,” I admit.

Isabel riffles through the book. “And this actually looks pretty interesting. Is it okay if I borrow it? Maybe there's something here. Some sort of clue.”

“Great idea!” I say. “You can read that and report to Caleb and me. And we'll each take one of these notebooks.”

Caleb picks one up and opens it. It's filled with drawings. Some are detailed diagrams, with arrows pointing to various parts of the picture; others are merely sketches with notations.

“I can look through this one,” he says.

I reach for the smaller book. “I guess that leaves this one for me.”

I pick up the notebook by the back cover. My thumb feels the outline of something hard between the leather cover and the cardboard backing it's glued to. I press my finger against the cover and feel it again.

Isabel and Caleb are watching me. “There's something in there?” Isabel asks breathlessly.

“I'm not sure…,” I say distractedly, my fingers tracing the area.

“I hope it's not like a dead roach or something, 'cause that would be gross,” Caleb says with a grimace.

“It would crunch if it were a roach…and there would be a hole where it had crawled in,” Isabel replies, glancing down with fascination.

“Yeah, I guess so,” says Caleb, sounding relieved.

“I bet it's a jewel of some kind!” Isabel says confidently.

“Only one way to find out,” I answer simply.

I go to a drawer and get a small paring knife with a sharp edge. Carefully, I make a small slit in the leather. I put my fingers into the hole, fish around, and, looking at the others, pull something out.

Caleb's head drops to his chest in frustration.

It's another key.

I look at it. All this for another key.

And no idea what it's for.

I slap the key down onto the counter in frustration. “It seems like every time we learn something, it just takes us back to another blank page. No matter what we do.”

“Plus ça change, plus c'est le meme chose.”
Isabel nods.

We look at her. She just stares back. “What?”

“Just once I wish we didn't have to ask you what you mean,” says Caleb, shaking his head.

“Oh, right. I'm sorry. It means ‘The more things change, the more things stay the same.' I guess I thought everybody knew it.”

“Maybe everybody back in your fancy private school.”

Thankfully, a loud buzzing noise interrupts the scene. I look down and realize it's my cell phone.
Private Caller
comes up on the caller ID.

I raise the phone to my ear. “Hello?” I say hesitantly.

“Is this Ted?” asks a pleasant voice. “It's Clark…Mr. Kent. I'm going to be going back to Hawaii in a few days and just wondered if you ever remembered anything your great-uncle said.”

I look at my friends and mouth the words “Clark Kent.”

Isabel and Caleb listen as I continue.

“As a matter of fact, some of it did come back to me….No, you don't have to come over to the house. My friends and I were just about to get some pizza around the corner….Yeah, it's called Fascati Pizzeria. We can meet there. See you in a bit.”

I click off. Caleb and Isabel are staring at me with confused looks on their faces.

“What's with the pizza business?” Caleb asks.

I gather up the box and my great-uncle's pad and put them in my knapsack. “Look, all we know about this guy is that he doesn't really work for the
Honolulu Star-Advertiser.
I don't want him here at the house until I know who he is and what he wants.”

“Meeting in a public place. Very smart.” Isabel nods. Then her face darkens. “So how are we getting there?”

“Well, we don't get our licenses for four years, so I guess it's bikes,” cracks Caleb.

“Well, I don't have a bike. So, what? I guess I'm supposed to catch up on my reading again while you two go gallivanting around?” fumes Isabel.

“
Gallivanting?
Really? You just said ‘gallivanting'?” Caleb asks incredulously.

“What's wrong with that?” Isabel asks. “It's a perfectly good word. It means—”

“I know what it means,” replies Caleb with a shake of his head. “I just didn't think anyone under the age of seventy used words like that.”

I can feel things getting out of hand again. “Guys, listen…”

“Fine, from now on I'll only use simple words. Like you find in comic books.”

“That is such utter
garbage,
” Caleb seethes. “There is some really great writing in comic books. Which you might find out if you weren't such a—”

“
Caleb.
Chill. Isabel, you can use my mom's bike and helmet. They're in the garage.”

Caleb and Isabel stand up, and I grab a pen.

“What're you doing?” asks Caleb.

“Leaving my mom a note, letting her know where we're going,” I say. “You know how moms worry….”

“Mine doesn't,” Caleb mutters.

As we head for the garage, Caleb can't resist. He turns to Isabel.

“So you actually know how to ride a bike? I thought people at private schools only took like limos.”

“My mother's family has a place on Long Island. I go there every summer. Well, that is, until this summer, of course,” Isabel answers evenly.

I am relieved that she doesn't take the bait.

“So listen, how are we going to handle this?” I ask as we push off in the direction of the pizzeria.

“Simple,” says Isabel, easily keeping pace with us. “We just get Mr. Clark Kent to tell us the truth.”