Project X

by Jim Shepard

  The ninth-grader in front of me tears the piece of paper he’s been working on from his binder and passes it back. I’m so surprised that I take it and look at it. It says, “Asshole asshole asshole asshole asshole asshole asshole asshole asshole asshole asshole asshole asshole asshole asshole,” all the way down the page. The whole thing is filled. “Asshole,” he whispers.

  “No talking,” the monitor says.

  “Asshole,” the kid whispers again, after a minute.

  “Mr. Hanratty,” the monitor says. “What did I just say?”

  “I didn’t say anything,” I go.

  “Can I move my seat?” the ninth-grader asks.

  “Leave him alone, Mr. Hanratty,” the monitor says.

  I’ve still got the sheet of assholes in my hand. It’s a pretty amazing thing, when you think about it.

  The ninth-grader raises his hand.

  “What is it, Mr. Sfikas?” the monitor wants to know.

  “He’s swearing at me,” the kid goes. “Can you tell him to stop?”

  “He keeps putting his hand down his pants and grabbing himself,” I go. “He keeps doing this thing with his hand.”

  The kid turns around with his mouth open.

  “His whole chair moves,” I go. “It’s gross.”

  The other ninth-grader’s laughing. Tawanda’s turned all the way around in her chair. The kid gets a megadeath look on his face. “I’m gonna fucking kill you,” he whispers. He says it like he can’t really believe it himself.

  “He’s doing it again,” I tell the monitor.

  We get put into separate empty classrooms and told to not move. Mine has a big sign that says BLACK AND WHITE AND READ ALL OVER and has reviews of books by sixth-graders pinned up on the walls all around the room.

  The monitor looks in every ten minutes or so. When he lets me out at four-thirty, the kid’s waiting on the side steps with his friend. One of the custodians breaks it up. But before he gets there my shirt’s torn off and one of my teeth gets knocked through my lip.

  “So I know where that kid lives,” Hermie tells me a couple days later between classes. He’s wearing black-and-white camo pants. I didn’t even know they made them that small.

  “Can I help you?” I go. I’m wrestling with my combination lock. I’m in no mood for anything.

  “Spin it all the way around three times before you start,” he tells me.

  I spin it once and then give it a yank. The whole locker shakes.

  “Your mouth looks all fucked up,” he says.

  “Up yours, midget,” I tell him. The hall’s starting to thin out. The few lockers that are still open get shut.

  My lower lip’s so swollen that it feels like I could touch my nose with it. When I pass down the hall, kids look at it. The nice girls flinch and the mean ones talk about it.

  “You are such a tube steak,” he goes. He takes off to make it to his class. I make a caveman noise and bang my head against the locker and try it once more. It doesn’t open. I leave my head against it. The bell rings. I spin the thing three times and try again, and it pops right open.

  Before detention that afternoon he sticks his head into the detention room and gives me a little wave.

  “You seen Freddy Budzinski?” he goes. His hair’s a rat’s nest on top but crew-cutty on the sides. It makes his neck look like a stick.

  “You seen him or not?” he goes.

  “What do you want?” I ask.

  “I’ll go slow,” he tells me. “Have you seen Freddy Budzinski?”

  “I have no idea who you’re talking about,” I tell him.

  He looks around like he’s thinking about buying the place, and then checks down the hall to see if the monitor’s coming. “This your last day of detention?”

  I take out my math book and flop it open.

  “I’m gonna kill Freddy Budzinski when I see him,” he goes.

  “It’s very hard to concentrate with all the noise in here,” I tell him.

  He flops in a chair next to me and sits still for a minute, spreading his legs as wide as he can. He starts drumming on the desktop with his thumbs.

  “I really like that sound,” I tell him. “Keep making that sound.”

  He stops and looks up at the history-project covers pinned on the walls. His mouth hangs open, and he breathes through it like something’s clogged. On the floor there’s a poster of a sunflower that somebody’s torn down.

  “So you don’t want to know where that kid lives?” he finally goes.

  I take off a sneaker and shake it out and fish around in it and put it back on. It takes a minute to tie it up again.

  “Where you guys hanging out tonight?” he wants to know. Then he hears the monitor coming down the hall and he’s out of his chair and over to the door in a second. “I’ll come by and see what you guys’re doing,” he says. He bumps into the monitor trying to get through the door.

  “This Student Council?” he asks.

  “Does it look like Student Council?” the monitor asks.

  “It really doesn’t,” Hermie goes. “I’m all turned around.”

  I can hear him getting running starts and sliding on the polished floor, all the way down the hall. The monitor’s new today, taking over for the other guy. “What happened to you?” he wants to know when he sees my face.

  Hermie comes by that night and bangs on the back-porch screen, but we don’t let him in. Before he finally leaves he tells us where the ninth-grader lives. We spend the night coming up with things we could do to the kid but nothing any good. We walk over there the next night to see if anything better comes to us and run right into the kid and his friends and they chase us halfway home. One kid gets some great shots in on Flake’s head before we get away, and someone else kicks me in the tailbone again, just when it was starting to feel better.

  The next night we’re all pissed off and depressed and sitting around in Flake’s basement. “So you wanna check out my dad’s guns?” he goes. His parents have gone out to a movie or dinner or Canada. They’re not going to be back until late.

  I’m sitting on the softest pillow in the house and have to keep getting up and moving it around underneath me. “What kind’s he got?” I go. It’s not like I’ve never seen a gun.

  “Guns,” Flake goes. “More than one.”

  “Okay,” I go. “What kinds?”

  He starts upstairs. “Are you comin’?” he calls down, so I follow him. He’s in his parents’ bedroom. He pulls the shirts on hangers in his dad’s closet to the side, and there’s a box like a suitcase that could hold a little kid. Inside the box are some duffels, and inside the duffels are some guns.

  We look at them on the bed. They’re all heavy.

  “This one’s a carbine,” he tells me. “It’s from WW Two.”

  “WW Two?” I go. I can’t get comfortable on my butt so end up on my hands and knees.

  “Shut up,” he says.

  “And what’s this?” I ask him.

  “That’s a Kalashnikov,” he goes.

  I get off the bed to pick it up, and swing it around with the butt on my shoulder, aiming at the ceiling. It feels like a parking meter.

  “Russian,” he says.

  “Duh,” I go.

  “It’s actually not,” he goes. “It’s Chinese. An AK-47. But the K stands for Kalashnikov. My dad says that’s close enough for him.”

  It’s big and ugly and black, with a stubby little barrel and a three-pronged sight.

  The other one’s called a nine-millimeter.

  “So are these new?” I go.

  “New hobby,” he says. “He went to a gun show last week.”

  “Does he have bullets?” I go.

  “He hides them in a different place,” Flake goes.

  The next night he calls when I’m brushing my teeth. My butt’s still killing me. I think it might be broken. “You thinking what I’m thinking?” he asks.

  “What’re you thinking?” I ask. The mint in the toothpaste s
tings the scabs in my lip.

  “I think you are thinking what I’m thinking,” he goes.

  I get sweaty for a minute and then it stops. “That is like those kids at that Colorado school,” I tell him.

  “Not the way we’re gonna do it,” he goes.

  “What was that school called?” I go.

  “What’re you, the evening news?” he goes. “You want to do this or not?”

  “I get to pick which one I use,” I go.

  “We’d go in with all three,” he goes. “The other one’ll be backup. And we gotta plan it, too. We gotta plan it better than that other thing.”

  “That’s for sure,” I go.

  He’s quiet for a minute. I go over to the sink and spit.

  “What’re you doing?” he wants to know.

  “Brushing my teeth,” I tell him.

  “I’m not just talking here, you know,” he goes. “I’m not just playing.”

  I spit again. “I didn’t say you were.”

  “You just playing?” he goes.

  “Nope,” I tell him.

  “I think you are just playing,” he goes.

  “Well,” I go. “Wait and see.”

  The next day’s Saturday and I’m up early. My sleep is all screwed up.

  I’m lying in the middle of the parking lot at the grocery store. The parking lot’s empty. The grocery store’s closed.

  “What’re you doing down there?” somebody asks. He’s a short little guy with a beret.

  “Bonjour,” I go.

  “Hello to you, too,” he says. “What’re you doing down there?”

  “Just resting,” I tell him.

  “Is it comfortable?” he asks.

  “More or less,” I go.

  He’s unloading stuff from his pickup. “You want a ride home?” he goes.

  “I live right over here,” I tell him.

  He dumps a big case on the pavement and takes out a toolbox. More stuff is unpacked and snapped together. I turn my head so I can see, but I don’t get up. It’s a beautiful day. There was one cloud, but it left.

  “Model rocketry,” he goes. “Wanna see?”

  “No,” I tell him.

  It takes forever to get set up. He hums to himself while he works. When he fires the first one off it makes a sound like a power nozzle on a hose and goes straight up until it’s just a flicker and you’re not even sure you can still see it. Then there’s a pop, far off, and a dot appears: the parachute.

  4

  “Something’s wrong with my tooth,” he tells me while we’re hanging from a tree. The branch we’re on droops over a muck hole where a drainage pipe empties out. “When I press on it, it hurts like above my nose.”

  “I hate dentists,” I go.

  “Yeah,” he goes.

  He thinks about it, hanging and swinging.

  “Look how much bigger my hand is than yours,” he finally goes.

  I climb up onto the branch and sit and look out over the weeds, happy.

  “I can see it in the news afterwards,” he goes. “The two murderous youths and their whatever plan—”

  “Sinister,” I tell him. “Sinister plan.”

  He doesn’t say anything. Then he says, “My parents said I get twenty bucks for every A I get, and I haven’t gotten an A yet.”

  “This is nice,” I go. “It’s nice when it’s cold but not that cold.”

  “Let’s get something to eat,” he says. “You got money?”

  At the convenience store we see Hermie down the Hostess Cake aisle. He’s there with another kid as small as he is. “You got money,” Flake says to him.

  “I’m getting something for myself,” he goes.

  “Buy me something and you can hang around with us,” Flake tells him.

  “Take off,” Hermie says to the other kid.

  “Aw, man,” the other kid says.

  “You heard him,” Flake tells him. The kid takes off.

  Flake gets a burrito. I get some Slim Jims. Hermie gets Sugar Babies. We sit out on the curb eating and watching the idiots come and go.

  “I found that kid Budzinski,” Hermie goes.

  “You kick his ass?” Flake asks. He’s trying to get his mouth around an end of the burrito and the beans are sliding down his hand.

  “Sorta,” Hermie says.

  “Sorta?” I go.

  “He kicked mine,” Hermie says.

  “You look okay to me,” I go. “What’d he use, a pillow?”

  “He beat up a little kid like you?” Flake says. “People’re fucked up.”

  “Fuck you,” Hermie goes.

  My dad’s car pulls in and almost runs over our feet. My dad gets out. He stands there with his hands on his hips. He’s got his jacket and tie on.

  “Your dad’s here,” Flake goes.

  My dad locks the car and walks over to us.

  “Nice ride, Homey,” Hermie tells him.

  “Who’s this?” my dad asks. He points at Hermie.

  “Friend of ours,” I tell him.

  “He have a name?” he asks.

  “Hermie,” I go.

  “Herman,” Hermie says.

  My dad heads into the convenience store, shaking his head. He must’ve just gotten out of class. We all watch him do his thing inside. When he comes out he’s got a gallon of milk. “Now you’re hanging around parking lots?” he asks me.

  “Library’s closed,” Flake goes.

  “Get in,” my dad says. “I’ll give you a ride home.”

  “I just ate,” I go. I show him the Slim Jim wrapper behind me.

  “Get in,” he says.

  “We get a ride, too?” Hermie wants to know.

  “Say good-bye to the boys,” my dad goes.

  “So what’ve you two been up to?” my mom says at dinner. She’s glopping out mashed potatoes onto everybody’s dish.

  “Nothing,” I tell her. “Can I have more?”

  “You’re always planning something,” she says.

  I look at her. “Why’d you say that?” I go.

  “I don’t know,” she says. “I hear you up there in your room, murmuring away. Planning on getting even with this guy or that guy.”

  “We’re not planning on getting even with anybody,” I go.

  The bell rings and she gets up and takes the corn bread out of the oven and brings it to the table. We have to let it cool.

  “Or doing your photosynthesis project,” she goes. “Roddy’s mother told me about that.”

  “It’s a real project,” I tell her.

  “Well, I look forward to seeing it,” she says.

  We eat our dinner. Gus sings a song to himself.

  “What’ve you learned so far?” she asks. “About photosynthesis?”

  “Some strange shit,” I go.

  “Don’t swear in front of your brother,” she says.

  “Sorry,” I tell her.

  “He can swear,” Gus goes.

  “No, he can’t,” my dad says.

  “Can I swear?” Gus asks.

  “No, you can’t,” my dad goes.

  My mom’s looking at me like we’re sharing a secret. It weirds me out. She looks tired and worried.

  “We got a nice call from the vice principal,” my dad goes.

  “Mom?” Gus goes.

  “What’d he want?” I go.

  “He wants us all to meet,” my dad goes.

  “Mom?” Gus goes.

  “So we’ll all meet,” I go.

  “I thought we talked about this,” my dad goes. My mom remembers the corn bread and starts cutting it up and dishing it out.

  “Mom?” Gus goes.

  “You have a headache again?” my dad goes.

  “Yeah,” I tell him. I must’ve been rubbing my forehead.

  “You’ve been getting a lot of those lately,” my dad goes. “Maybe we’ll have to have that looked at.”

  “Somebody should look at something,” I go.

  “Mom?” Gus goes.
<
br />   “Yeah, honey?” my mom goes.

  His little brain locks. You can see it. He smiles at having everybody’s attention, and tilts his head to get the thought to roll from one end to the other. “Don’t look at me,” he goes.

  “We’re not looking at you,” my dad tells him.

  “Mom?” he goes.

  “Yeah, honey?” my mom says. She really is a good mother.

  “Do I have to go to school tomorrow?” he goes. He calls preschool school.

  I’m sadder than usual for some reason. “Now what’s the matter with you?” my dad says to me. It makes me jump.

  “Do I just have like a sign on my face today?” I go.

  “You have a glass head,” my dad says.

  “Remember when we used to tell you that when you were little?” my mom asks.

  “I have a glass head,” Gus goes.

  “You sure do,” my dad tells him.

  I do remember when they used to tell me that, when I was little. I remember one Easter and a guy in a rabbit suit, but I don’t know why. “So what am I thinking right now?” I ask them.

  “What’re you thinking right now,” my dad says, giving it some thought. “You’re thinking, ‘Why don’t they leave me alone?’ ” Gus takes a bite of mashed potatoes and holds his mouth open so I can see. “That’s it, isn’t it?” my dad goes.

  “No,” I go.

  “That was it,” he goes.

  “What am I thinking now?” I go. I think: Kalashnikov.

  “You’re thinking, ‘Why do I have to eat with them?’ ” my mom goes.

  I laugh, and it cheers her up, but it makes me sadder than ever. Gus is still smiling. I’m pretty sure the world would be a better place if I was dead.

  “Glass head,” my mom goes.

  “I don’t know how you guys do it,” I finally go.

  “There’re six doors in and out,” Flake tells me. We’re in our fort under the underpass. It’s raining and the dirt smells wet. Every so often he ducks his head out to make sure nobody’s around. “Four double doors and the two side doors near the fences.”

  “Six?” I go. That doesn’t sound right.

  “Yeah, six,” he goes.

  “Not eight?” I go.

  “No,” he goes. “Six. I counted.” He goes back to drawing in the dirt.