I turned to Art3mis.
“？‘Recast the foul, restore his ending,’？” I recited. “This whole time, we thought the clue meant we were supposed to restore Duckie’s ending. But what if ‘restore his ending’ means we need to restore John Hughes’s ending? The ending of Pretty in Pink he originally wrote in his screenplay?” I nodded at the RDJ NPC. “What if we need to find a copy of the original script and give it to him?”
Art3mis threw up her hands. “And how are we supposed to do that?”
I smiled at her. “We go to the writer’s house,” I replied.
She gave me a puzzled look for a few seconds, then her eyes lit up with understanding.
“Holy shit!” she cried. “That might be it! Z, you’re a genius!”
Before I knew what the hell was happening, she grabbed my face and planted a kiss on me. She wasn’t wearing an ONI headset, so I knew she didn’t feel that kiss. But I did. Then she turned to RDJ.
“Don’t go anywhere,” she told him. “We’ll be right back.”
Then she grabbed me by the arm and pulled me back in the direction of the car.
Art3mis knew a shortcut through the rich side of town, and was somehow able to navigate from memory, racing through the dark, undifferentiated maze of identical streets, each lined with identical houses. She managed to get us there in just a few minutes, but her erratic driving triggered another needle drop—“March of the Swivel Heads” by the English Beat. I don’t think she touched the brake pedal once, until we finally screeched to a halt in the Johnson family’s driveway.
As soon as our feet touched the driveway, another needle drop went off: “Modigliani （Lost in Your Eyes）” by Book of Love. Hearing it, Art3mis glanced over at me, and we shared a brief smile of recognition. Then we both turned and ran to the front door. She rang the doorbell, and a second later, Mrs. Johnson opened it, wearing an annoyed scowl. Her young daughter was standing in the doorway behind her, and she was scowling at us too. I recognized both of them from their brief scene in The Breakfast Club when they drop Anthony Michael Hall’s character, Brian, off at detention, and his mom says, “Well, mister, you better figure out a way to study!” and then his little sister says, “Yeah!” （Another piece of trivia I’d learned from Artie’s blog, years ago, was that they were played by Anthony Michael Hall’s real-life mother and sister.）
“I’m sorry,” Mrs. Johnson said, after she spent a few more seconds scowling at us. “We don’t allow solicitors.” She pointed to a small No Solicitors sign with gold lettering nailed to their front door.
“Oh, we’re not selling anything, Mrs. Johnson,” Art3mis said. “My name is Art3mis, and this is my friend Parzival. We’re here to speak with your husband—about our mutual friend, Duckie? Philip F. Dale?”
Mrs. Johnson’s scowl vanished, and she gave Art3mis a huge smile. In the next moment, her face melted and morphed, and she transformed into a completely different woman. Now the NPC in front of us was a slender woman with long blond hair and a warm, friendly smile. I didn’t recognize her at all—but Art3mis did. Instantly.
“Mrs. Hughes!” she said, lowering her eyes and bowing her head, as if she’d just encountered royalty. Then she glanced sideways at me and whispered, “Nancy Hughes! I’ve never seen her here before! I didn’t even know you could!”
“John is upstairs working,” Nancy said, stepping back to open the door the rest of the way for us. “But I believe he’s expecting you. Please, come on in…”
She ushered us into the foyer and closed the front door. I looked around for Brian Johnson’s little sister, but she’d vanished along with her mother. However, I did catch a glimpse of two young boys chasing each other around the dining-room table with Nerf guns. I realized they must be NPC recreations of the Hugheses’ two sons, James and John. Seeing them reminded me of an interview John Hughes gave, where he mentioned that his screenplay for Mr. Mom was based on his experience caring for his two boys on his own for a year, when his wife, Nancy, spent a lot of time traveling for work.
Hughes’s children and marriage had directly inspired so much of his work—it seemed fitting that this interactive tribute to his family was hidden here on Shermer, among all of his fictional creations.
Art3mis and I continued to gaze around us in wonder, like museum patrons on their first visit, until Nancy politely cleared her throat to get our attention. Then she pointed to the long, curved wooden staircase behind her.