Project X

by Jim Shepard

  “Nah,” he goes. It sounds like it hadn’t occurred to him.

  “Get something on,” my mom goes.

  “Hey, did Bethany give you something today?” I ask. “Like a note?”

  “No,” he goes.

  “Yesterday?” I go.

  “No,” he goes.

  He doesn’t ask what I’m talking about.

  My mom opens the door wider and comes in and drags a sweatshirt out of my dresser and pulls it over my head. I have to switch hands with the phone when she stuffs my arms in the sleeves. Then she goes downstairs and leaves me there, in a sweatshirt and no underpants.

  The next morning Flake finds me before I’m even completely off the bus. “Let’s go talk with Tiny Tot,” he says.

  The sixth-graders hanging around the baseball backstop see us coming and keep an eye on us. Hermie’s not around and we don’t feel like asking anybody where he is. Flake heads off to the front of the building and sure enough, we find him there in a tree.

  “What’s up, Screw the System?” Flake calls up to him.

  “Nothing,” Hermie says. He’s trying for nonchalant but he’s happy and worried that we came looking for him.

  This was a bad move, I realize, standing there. Now whenever he wants our attention he’ll go back to the gun thing. I put my hands in my pockets and there’s a hole I never noticed. Two fingers go through to my leg.

  Most of the leaves are still on the tree so when he moves his expression’s hard to see. He’s trying to climb but you can hear his sneakers slipping on the bark. Little twigs and dead leaves float down like snowflakes.

  “Are those lights on your sneakers?” Flake goes.

  Hermie doesn’t answer him.

  “Hear you’re still having trouble with that kid,” Flake goes.

  “What kid?” Hermie says.

  “You want our help or not?” Flake asks him.

  “What’re you going to do?” Hermie asks him back.

  I look at Flake. I’m a little curious myself.

  “We’ll deal with it,” Flake goes.

  There’s a big slipping sound and Hermie falls a few feet. A couple heavy branches swing a little. “Ow,” he goes. I can see him rubbing something. “Why’re you guys helping me?” he asks.

  “That’s what we do,” Flake goes. He holds up both his bandaged fingers to the school. “We help people.”

  Hermie laughs.

  “I say something funny?” Flake goes.

  “Yeah,” Hermie says.

  “So point him out to us,” Flake goes.

  “What’re you going to do, poke him in the eye with your bandage?” I ask. He gives me a look.

  “I hurt my butt,” Hermie complains.

  “That’s the bell,” Flake goes, though I didn’t hear it. “Show us who this kid is after school.”

  “I think I broke my butt,” Hermie says.

  Flake jogs to the front doors and I follow him. “I know how that feels,” I call back to Hermie.

  “Hey, help me get down,” Hermie shouts, right before the doors shut behind us.

  Flake and I get a chance to talk between second and third periods.

  “We gotta only talk about the kid,” Flake goes. “If we talk about the gun, it’ll make it a big deal.”

  “That’s what I was thinking,” I tell him. He nods. “But we can’t go beating up sixth-graders,” I tell him. He nods again, like he thought of that, too.

  He’s kind of a hero for the rest of the day because word gets out that when they took the class picture for the eighth grade, homeroom by homeroom on the bleachers in the gym, at the last minute he held up both his bandaged fingers. Everybody’s figuring it’ll come out in the photos. Everybody’s coming up to him in the halls and congratulating him, even ninth-graders and assholes like Dickhead and Weensie. After school he’s in a really good mood.

  “Hear you gave them the finger in the photos,” Hermie says when he finds us outside. The buses are starting to fill up.

  “Yeah, whatever,” Flake goes. “So where is this kid?”

  “Over here,” Hermie says, and leads us two buses over. He points to a kid sitting in the back window. He doesn’t try to hide that he’s pointing him out to us.

  “Him?” Flake goes. The kid looks smaller than Hermie, if that’s possible. “I can barely see his head in the window.”

  “I didn’t say he was a giant,” Hermie says, insulted. “I said he beats me up.”

  Flake looks at me like somebody’s asking us to gang up on Gus. “We’re on the job,” he goes to Hermie. “Mr. Hermie’s sleeping well from tomorrow night on.”

  “Herman,” Hermie tells him.

  “Herman,” Flake tells him back.

  “So listen,” Flake says to Budzinski once we get him alone. After we found his house we watched him shoot baskets with some of his tiny friends. They hacked around for an hour and a half and I think they made three baskets. They saw us watching. When the other kids finally left we walked over. Budzinski took one more sad hook shot and then put the basketball away and came out of the garage with a hammer.

  “Feel like driving some nails?” Flake goes.

  “What do you want?” Budzinski says.

  “Can I see that?” I ask him, like I’ve never seen a hammer before. Budzinki hands it over.

  So the three of us are standing in his driveway with me holding his hammer. Somebody looks out the window screen near the back door.

  I hold up the hammer like that’s the reason we came over. “This is a beaut,” I tell him.

  “So listen,” Flake goes.

  “I’m listening,” Budzinski tells him.

  They look at each other.

  Flake makes this grin like he wants to pound the kid’s head in. “You know that kid Herman?” he asks.

  Budzinski just looks at him.

  “About your size?” Flake asks.

  “Yeah,” Budzinski finally goes.

  “He’s a friend of ours,” Flake tells him.

  “Yeah?” Budzinski says. He sounds interested.

  “Well, we watch out for him sometimes,” Flake goes. “He’s such a doofy little shit.”

  “You got that right,” Budzinski says. He looks like he’s trying to decide whether or not to laugh at us. If he does Flake’ll take the hammer out of my hand and kill him right in his own driveway.

  “He can be a pain in the ass sometimes,” Flake goes.

  “You got that right, too,” Budzinski tells him.

  “We were hoping you’d cut him some slack for the next few weeks,” Flake says.

  “Why should I?” Budzinski goes.

  “Because if you don’t we’ll kick your ass,” Flake tells him.

  “I’ll kick your ass,” Budzinski tells him back.

  The top of the kid’s head comes up to like Flake’s armpit. “Is the whole sixth grade fucking nuts?” Flake asks me.

  “Get out of my yard,” Budzinski goes. “Mom!” he calls.

  “What’s the matter?” his mother says from behind the screen in the window.

  “Get outta my yard,” Budzinski goes again.

  “We tried to ask you nice,” Flake tells him.

  “I’m calling the police,” Budzinski’s mother says through the screen.

  “Call the police,” Flake tells her. “Call the fucking National Guard.”

  “Don’t you talk to me like that,” his mother says. She leaves the window and shows up at the back door. “What’s your name?”

  “Ed Gein,” Flake tells her. “Tell the police Ed Gein was here and that he wants your son.”

  “And what’s your name?” she says to me.

  “Richard Speck,” I tell her.

  “Gimme my hammer back,” Budzinski tells me.

  I throw it into the yard.

  “Asshole,” he goes.

  “I’m dialing,” his mother says from inside the house.

  The garbage cans at the end of the driveway are empty but Flake kicks them over any
way.

  “That didn’t work out too well,” I tell him on the way home.

  “Now he’s really gonna go after Hermie,” Flake says to himself.

  I just keep walking. The hole in my pocket is bigger.

  “Fucking cocksucking motherfucking dickbag dildo cuntsuckers,” Flake goes.

  I don’t have much to say to that so I let it go. He makes the same point a few more times on the way home.

  “We gotta move our thing up,” he finally says, right before I head off for my house.

  “I know,” I go.

  “We gotta pick a time,” he tells me.

  “I know,” I go. My insides are screwed up thinking about it.

  “Come over tomorrow night,” he goes.

  “Yeah,” I go. And it feels like summer vacation was over just because somebody said so.

  11

  No sleep.

  In the middle of the night I remember a math test I forgot about. There’s still plenty of time to study before people get up. I know some of what I need to but just stare at the pages. I clear off the kitchen table and sit with just the hall light on. The house is quiet. My math book smells. The numbers and unknowns in chapter 3 jump from place to place after a while. On one problem I keep seeing a 5 where there’s an X. 120/3 = 40 miles—10/1 hr = 30 miles/ 1 hr 450/30 = 15 hrs. I shut my eyes for stretches. The refrigerator makes its little noise. Solve for X.

  I read Isaiah in the Bible but don’t like it as much.

  I nod out once it’s getting light and wake up in time to go upstairs before my mom gets up. I keep yawning and stretching my mouth to get some feeling back into it. “You’re dressed already,” she says when she opens my door to wake me.

  I remember part of a football game I played in with some kids like a year ago.

  “Eat something. Even if it’s candy,” my dad goes once he sits down at the table. I’m still staring at my eggs. It’s a weird feeling, like the right words or numbers are standing around just out of reach. My eggs look weird, too.

  The meeting with Flake’s tonight. I’m thinking, if I could just close my eyes from now till then.

  “Hey. The bus,” my mom tells me. She’s leaning forward and has her hands on her thighs. Apparently she’s said this already.

  On the bus for some reason I think about summer camp when I was little. We put on a play. 12 Angry Men.

  “Seen Hermie?” Flake asks before homeroom. The ninth-graders are playing some kind of You’re It game with a willow switch. It looks like it hurts.

  I shake my head.

  “Can you talk?” he goes. I nod a couple times. “I gotta go to the dentist after school,” he says. “So just come over after supper.”

  I nod again. My cheeks are numb.

  “My mom thinks I gotta get braces,” he goes. He’s smiling because he’s thinking, Well, that’s not gonna work out.

  The Kalashnikov’s heavy. I don’t know if it’s got a really big kick or if I can even hold it steady or what. Well, you’ll find out, I say to myself when the homeroom bell rings.

  There’s an announcement about an assembly sometime this week. I miss when.

  “When’d they say it was?” I ask the girl next to me.

  She looks at me.

  “When’d they say it was?” I ask her again.

  “Mr. Hanratty, what is the problem?” my homeroom teacher goes. Everybody’s got their mouth open, with this look. I’m surrounded by fish.

  She sends me to the vice principal. We should’ve tested the guns before we did this, I tell myself while I’m walking down the hall. Now we’re not going to have time.

  I space out during my math test. Halfway through, the teacher stops in front of me and goes, “Mr. Hanratty, do you have something to write with?” “No,” I go, and he gets me a pencil.

  “I got a question for you,” Tawanda says when we pass in the hall.

  After fifth period I can’t get my locker open again.

  Before seventh I go to the nurse and tell her about the headache. Almost nobody goes to the nurse seventh period because you’re almost home.

  “What’s it feel like?” she asks, interested.

  I make claws and put both of them up around my eyebrows.

  She has me lie down on a little cot with a facecloth over my head.

  While I’m lying there I hear the vice principal. He keeps his voice down but I can still hear him. “Our friend with the nose is having a tough day, isn’t he?” he goes.

  “Headache,” the nurse tells him. She shakes me a few minutes before the end of the period so I can get to my locker and still make the bus.

  “We don’t even know what we’re going to do about the doors,” Flake says as soon as I come into his room that night.

  “I know,” I go.

  He’s lying on his back in his underwear with his arm over his eyes. One of his bandages is soaked with dried blood.

  “You bang your finger again?” I go.

  He doesn’t answer. “I got the guns out by myself,” he finally says. “I think I know about the safeties and everything now.”

  “Good,” I go. It’s nice to have some good news.

  “Sit down,” he tells me.

  There’s an open jar of peanut butter on the chair. I pick it up and ask where the top is.

  “What is it with you and stupid questions tonight?” he goes.

  I roll the jar under his bed. It keeps going until it hits the wall. “This place is a shithole,” I tell him.

  “You mean this town?” he asks. He sounds worn out.

  “You gonna keep your arm over your face all night?” I go.

  “What do you care?” he goes. “You showing off your outfit?” It’s quiet. I move my feet back and forth while he lies there like he’s dead. “You gonna play one of your speeches?” I ask.

  “No,” he goes.

  His mom’s screwing around with the blender downstairs. She was setting it up when I came through the kitchen. Now it sounds like she’s trying to grind rocks.

  “How was the dentist?” I go.

  He grins without moving his arm off his eyes. “I need braces,” he goes.

  “When’re you supposed to get ’em?” I go.

  “Turns out I got an overbite,” he goes. He finally takes his arm off his face and sits up. His neck is against the headboard.

  “Is that comfortable?” I go.

  He looks away and shakes his head. “So did you see our friend today?” he asks. “Or that other fucking midget? Budzinski?”

  “Nope,” I go. “But that doesn’t mean they weren’t there.”

  He makes a face.

  “So what’re we gonna do?” I go.

  “First thing we gotta do is solve the door problem,” he tells me.

  “When’s the assembly?” I go.

  “Friday, fourth period,” he goes. “You finish the stuff we’re gonna bury?”

  “Pretty much,” I go. “You?”

  He gets up and roots around in his closet. There’s a little poop stain showing through his underwear. He throws shirts and shoes out into the middle of the room, then comes out with a pile of papers like a phone book.

  “You’re gonna bury all that?” I ask him.

  He looks proud.

  “What is it?” I go.

  “None of your fucking business,” he goes. The first page is all filled with writing. He holds the pile in front of me before he puts it back in the closet. He’s careful about how he hides it again. Then he throws the shirts and shoes back in over everything he’s arranged.

  I had like five pages to bury, so now there’s that to feel bad about.

  “A wedge,” he goes. “Jesus Christ. A wedge.” He’s still standing next to the closet.

  I don’t get what he’s talking about.

  He bunches his fingers together and makes a little move with his hand to demonstrate. “To seal up the side door. We do it from the outside. From outside the gym, in the hall. One of us brings a little wedge a
nd a hammer. Bang, you drive it in under the door. Nobody from the inside can open it.”

  I’m still looking at him, trying to figure it out.

  “We wait till everybody’s in the gym. Then one of us does that,” he goes.

  “Where do we get a wedge?” I go.

  “A wedge,” he goes. “Anywhere. You make one. It takes two seconds.”

  I think about it. It makes sense. “So we gonna test it?” I go.

  “We don’t have to test it,” he goes. “It’s a wedge. What’re we, testing to see if a wedge works?” He flops down onto the bed again, happy. “I can’t believe I didn’t think of it before. I can’t believe even you didn’t think of it.”

  I have a new headache or else the same one that just keeps coming back. “So this means we can do it Friday?” I go. But he’s already thinking about something else. He’s excited again. “You gonna have trouble with your fingers?” I go. Meaning with the guns.

  He shakes his head, still thinking about whatever the other thing is.

  “Roddy? Homework?” his mom calls up the stairs. We both jump.

  “He’s just going,” Flake calls.

  We listen for her leaving the bottom of the stairs.

  “Do we know how much kick these guns have?” I go.

  “Listen to you: Joe Pro,” he says. “How much kick.”

  “Well, who knows,” I tell him. The headache makes me squint.

  “Just hold on to it,” he tells me back. “Don’t hold it like a faggot and you’ll be fine.”

  “I’m not gonna hold it like a faggot,” I tell him.

  “Then we’ll be fine,” he goes. “Look, you better go.”

  I get out of the chair. “What about the thing with Hermie?” I go.

  He does a thing with his hand like bugs are around his head. “We gotta stall him for a week,” he goes. “Lemme think about it.”

  “You think about it, too,” he tells me, after I say I’ll see him later.

  I don’t come up with anything that night. Instead I spend a lot of time thinking about Bethany. I make up this little scene where she comes over and I go, “Hi. What are you doing here?” and she doesn’t say anything but she pulls me into my garage and then puts her hand on my face.

  I whisper to myself. A hard-on that’s so hard it hurts comes and goes. We haven’t figured out what we’re going to carry the guns in, either.