Project X (4 page)

“What is your group project?” she asks me.

“Photosynthesis,” I go.

Flake makes a snorty noise, too soft for her to hear.

She keeps looking at us, both of her hands on the banisters. “You guys are so smart.” She taps a finger on the wood and walks away.

We go back to Flake's room and shut the door. He puts a finger against one nostril and blows boogers into his desk garbage can.

“We have to be totally careful,” I tell him. “They can figure out who did it in so many ways now. They can use like DNA and stuff.”

“DNA,” he goes, like I've finally said the stupidest thing of all.

“What?” I go. “They
could
.”

“Go like this,” he tells me, then puts both hands over his mouth.

I do like he says.

He drops his hands. “Stay like that,” he goes.

At ten o'clock the phone rings. My mom calls for me to pick it up.

“What's up,” Flake says, then waits. “They off?”

“They're off,” I go.

“Check,” he says.

“They're off,” I tell him.

“Just check,” he goes.

I throw the phone across the room into the beanbag chair and troop downstairs. They're both watching television. I climb back up to my room.

“All right, Mr. Secret Spy,” I go. “What do you want?”

“Tonight,” he goes. “Three o'clock. Set your alarm.”

“I don't think my alarm works,” I go.

“Jesus Fucking Christ,” he goes. He sighs. He hangs up.

Back downstairs, I ask my mom, “My alarm work?”

She looks up from the TV. “I'll get you up, honey,” she goes. She turns back to the TV.

I climb back up to my room and fiddle with the thing. I set it for ten minutes ahead, then five minutes. I can't get it to work. It's a little plastic travel thing and I pound it flat a few times.

What difference does it make? I end up thinking. I'm not going to go to sleep anyhow.

Everybody's in a group. Everybody spends all their time thinking about their group. Or how they want to be in a different group. It's a big shitpile with everybody shitting downward, so you want to be high as possible. On top are the jocks, though not all jocks. If you only do cross-country, you might as well be on the chess team. Next to the jocks are kids they call the Buffys, because they look like they came off TV. First day of seventh grade Flake and I were in homeroom and a girl said to him about this new guy, “He is so Angel.” The guy was good-looking and had that shit in his hair. And Flake said back to her, “I have no idea what you're talking about.”

Behind the Buffys are the school-spirit types, the ones who organize the Cookie Drives and Theme Dances and Administration Appreciation Days. Behind them, the kids who play music in a band. Behind them, the other jocks—the track teams and the guys who swim the twelve-thousand-mile race and stuff like that. Behind them, the artsy types. Behind them, the kids that are good at something real, like math or writing. Behind them, the theater kids. Behind them, the rebels. Behind them, the druggies. Behind them, the kids nobody notices. Behind them, the fuckups. Behind them, the geeks. Behind them, the kids from like the sticks, the trailer types. Behind them, the retards and kids with missing jaws and shit. Behind them, us. Our group is a group of two.

Every so often people do nice things for each other but mostly you don't trust anyone out of your group. That's just the way things are.

They're all ants. Jock ants, artsy ants, theater ants.

Boil water and pour it down an anthill, the ants come out another hole, Flake says.

My mom has a bad dream. I hear her downstairs. I go down without making any noise and peek into their room. She's quiet and then flops over and makes a whining noise. My dad sleeps through it. She makes the whining noise again.

It's just about three o'clock. I go back upstairs to get ready. I think about cutting holes in an old wool hat like a bank robber and then imagine Flake's face when he sees it. When he walks into the yard, he's wearing the saucepan on his head. I wave from the window and climb down.

The grass is wet and the crickets are going like it's summer. It feels great to be out. There's no moon I can see, so it's pretty dark. Flake sticks his arms out and takes a huge deep breath, then pounds on his chest like a gorilla. We walk over to his yard.

Behan sleeps in the neighbors' house. We check out the situation and everything's quiet. We walk over to the doghouse like we're all Whatever, but we're ready to run if we hear a noise. My feet are already soaked. When we get there Flake hands me the saucepan and crawls inside. His legs and butt don't fit in. I'm interested in the shingles on the little roof. You can pick off the pebbly stuff with your fingernails. He backs out with a Baggie in his hand and we take off.

“Nice watchdog,” he says once we're out of the yard.

“Where'd you get the saucepan?” I ask. It doesn't look new.

Turns out he got it from the Goodwill bin.

“How do you think of shit like that?” I ask him.

He shrugs as he walks. We're moving pretty fast and keeping to the backyards. “I'm smarter than you,” he goes.

He's smarter than me in some things, dumber in others.

Something's sloshing and I realize he's got a canteen on his belt under his sweatshirt. He sees me looking at it.

“Gotta have water,” he says. “Wanna have to find a sink once we get in there?”

The school's a pretty good hike away, on foot. I don't know how long it takes to get there. At a red light we see a cop car, just hanging out.

When we finally get there I'm yawning like crazy.

“Now you got me doing it,” Flake says. We're both pretty nervous.

My feet are tired. “How're we getting in?” I ask him.

“Watch,” he says. He leads around to the old part of the building, to a window under the back stairs. It's totally dark under there and I can't see anything at all. I hold my hand out but can't even feel anything.

“Shit,” Flake goes.

“What?” I go. “What's wrong?”

“I stuck a card in the window to hold it open,” he goes. I can hear him feeling around. “Somebody must've found it.”

“They
found
it?” I go. “So they know we're coming?”

“Yeah, it's a trap,” Flake goes. “The whole thing's a trap.” He ducks out from under the stairs and comes back a minute later. Glass breaks like somebody dropped a mug on the floor.

“You just broke the window?” I go.

“C'mon,” he tells me. There are little brittle noises while he breaks away the broken pieces. “Watch the glass.”

“They'll know that's how we got in,” I tell him back. I can hear him already sliding through. I feel around the opening, then hop up on the ledge and slide one leg inside.

“You have to drop down a little,” he says. “Hang on to the sill.”

“Can we get out this way?” I go.

“Jeez, I sure hope so,” he goes.

He knows where everything is, once we're in.

“You been down here before?” I ask him.

He takes out a little flashlight and starts shining it around in front of his feet. We come to three straight doors that turn out to be unlocked. Behind the last one I can see the little red pilot light of the furnace. I can feel the heat on that side of the room.

“Hold this,” he says, handing me the flashlight. He squats and takes the saucepan and sets it on the floor and undoes his belt and slides out the canteen. I'm sweating and I'm not even doing anything. He pours the water into the saucepan and dumps the powder into the water. He reseals the baggie and stuffs it into his pocket, then sloshes the pan a little to stir things around. He stands up.

There's a pin like the thing you stick in a turkey in the biggest pipe leading into the furnace, at the part where the pipe's going sideways. He slides the pin out and shifts the pipe around until it moves. It opens, but not far enough for the saucepan to fit in.

“Shit,”
he says.

“It doesn't fit?” I go.

“Shit,”
he says. He wrestles with it for five minutes, with me holding the light on it. Then he kicks the side of the furnace and sits on the floor.

“How about we pour some of it in the baggie and just leave the baggie open in there?” I ask him.

He doesn't say anything. He's probably wondering if you could get enough stuff in the baggie to do any good.

“God
damn
it,” he finally says.

The furnace clicks on. The open pipe makes it sound louder than it probably normally would.

“Lemme think,” Flake goes. He stands up and walks over to the furnace. I zigzag the light around while he's thinking. “Shit,” he goes. He slides the pipe back where it was, then drops his pants and pisses on the side of the furnace.

Walking home he's mad because his piss ended up splashing around and got on his shoes.

“What're you looking at?” he wants to know.

“Absolutely nothing,” I go.

He squishes along. My feet are wetter than his, but his probably feel wetter. “Somebody's going to pay for this,” he finally says.

“Your mom, when she washes your socks?” I go.

An old guy in an SUV trails us all the way home. He has to go about a mile an hour to keep from getting ahead of us. We stay on the road anyway. It's a long walk and the guy never speeds up. It must be four in the morning by this point. We don't see a single other car on the road. When we get to Flake's street, he turns to the SUV and puts his hands on both sides of his crotch and moves them up and down his thighs and belly. “Oh, baby,” he says. “C'mon, baby.” Then he turns and heads down to his house.

3

There's this sixth-grader who's decided he can't leave us alone. He always wears the same black t-shirt that says SCREW THE SYSTEM under whatever other shirt he's got on. Flake gets a kick out of it when he first sees it.

“Your mother lets you wear that?” he asks the kid. We're standing in the lunch line and the kid has six chocolate milks and nothing else on his tray.

“Your mother,” the kid says back.

“He's not cracking on your mother,” I tell him. “He's asking you a
question
.”

“
Your
mother,” the kid goes to me.

“Oh my God,” Flake goes. “This little shit's crazier than I am.”

You can see it's made the kid's day. “I'll kick your ass,” the kid says. He's like three feet two. His hair sticks straight up.

Flake asks him his name.

“Herman,” the kid says.

“Hermie,” Flake says. “I like that.”

“Herman,” the kid says.

“Hermie,” Flake says.

“Herman,” the kid says.

“Well, I'm glad that's settled,” I go.

“Up yours,” the kid says.

Flake gives me a look. We both crack up.

“So can I sit with you?” the kid says, when we finally get through the line.

“No,” Flake goes.

We have combination locks for our lockers. Every day I get worried I'm not going to be able to open it. That's what kind of hopeless feeboid pussy
I
am—I worry about being able to open my locker. The lock's no good. You have like two seconds to open it between classes, and everybody else is opening theirs. Three straight days I can't do it. The first day I try it twelve different ways, getting sweatier and sweatier, while everybody else gets their stuff and slams their doors and takes off. I stand there, looking at my little slip of paper like I can't read three numbers. During study period I ask for another locker. The janitor comes over to check it out, opens it no problem, and walks away. The second day I bang the thing around, kick it. Knee it. Some of the kids around me cheer. The third day I try to pretend I've already gotten what I need.

“Where's your text, young man?” my English teacher wants to know.

“In my locker,” I tell her.

“What good is it doing you there?” she asks.

“Sometimes I wonder,” I tell her.

“Did you hear me?” she goes. “What's it doing in your locker?”

I just sit there. The kid across from me holds up his book, to show me what it looks like.

“Why is it in your locker?” she goes.

The second hand makes its little jerks around the clock on the wall. Under the clock there's a construction-paper sign that says WHO OR WHOM???

“Do you want to explain why to the principal?” she asks me.

“He can't get his locker open,” some kid finally says from the back of the room. Everybody laughs.

“Is that really true?” the teacher goes.

“Oh, fuck me,” I say under my breath.

When I look up she's got the kind of expression you get when somebody drops something huge on your foot.

Nobody says anything for a minute. A boy in the back coughs. There's a plant on her desk, and a picture of Paris. You can tell because of the Eiffel Tower. There's a carved wood sign like businessmen have that stands up facing us. The sign says YES. AND . . . ?

I have a headache that goes from one ear to the other and over the top and down my neck. I wipe and wipe and wipe my eyes. “I guess you heard that, huh?” I finally go.

“Ms. Meier says you're not to come back to her room until you're ready to act like a human being,” the vice principal tells me. He's a young guy and his jacket's too short for his arms. His shirtsleeves stick out like half a foot. I've got nothing against him.

I'm in his chair. He took the one that's supposed to be for the kids.

“When do you think that might be?” he wants to know.

I tilt my head and lift my shoulders.

“Can you use words?” he asks.

“I'm ready now,” I tell him.

He leans forward and looks sideways, like the room goes on a long way in that direction. Then he looks back at me. “Anything you want to tell me?” he goes. “You having trouble at home?”

I think about it. “Yeah, I guess,” I go.

“You want to talk to me about it?” he asks.

“I don't think so,” I go.

He starts looking sideways again. He's got Extreme Sports photos like parasurfing and heliskiing over his bookcase. “I have to tell you, a lot of us are starting to worry about you,” he tells me.

“A lot of us?” I go.

“Ms. Meier, myself, Mrs. Pruitt . . .” he goes. He makes it clear he could keep going. “So what happened today?” he asks.

“I can't get my locker open,” I tell him.

The period bell rings and there's the usual thunder in the hall. Kids are yelling and laughing and locker doors are banging and crashing. No other kid in the school has a problem with his locker.

He's holding up his thumb and scraping away at the top of it. “You can't get your locker open,” he finally says.

“Why does everyone repeat what I say?” I go.

“Is that what's supposed to've happened today?” he says.

“It's not
supposed
to've happened,” I tell him. “It
did
happen. I couldn't get my locker open.”

He keeps looking at me.

“I worry about it all the time. Getting up, getting on the bus, coming down the hall, I'm
worried,
” I tell him. “I don't sleep, thinking about it.”

“Why don't you get a new locker?” His voice is quiet, like I'm shitting him.

“The janitor wouldn't give me one,” I tell him.

He puts his elbow on his knee and his chin in his hand.

“It's embarrassing,” I tell him.

“Okay,” he goes.

“Kids my age hate being embarrassed,” I tell him.

The noise in the hall is pretty much gone by this point. Everybody's at their next class. He's got a framed list on the table next to me. It says,
Group Needs: Cooperation, Creativity,
Sensitivity, Respect, Passion, Freedom of Speech, Change of
Pace, Group Work, Clear Explanations, Fun.

“Am I gonna get a note for next period?” I ask him.

He puts his fingers together under his nose like he's praying.

“Because I'm gonna need a note,” I go.

He gets up from the kid's chair and comes around behind his desk. He picks up a framed picture of his dog. The frame has little plastic bones around the outside. All right, he finally says. Detention for a week. Starting today.

“I'm telling the
truth,
here,” I go.

“Yeah. Our interview's over, Edwin,” he goes.

“Whatever,” I tell him.

“Tell your parents I'll be in touch,” he goes.

My eyes feel like marbles they're so tired. I put my hands under my glasses and cover them up. My fingers feel cool on my eye sockets.

“You hear me?” he says.

“I may keep it a surprise,” I go.

He laughs and shakes his head. “God,” he says. “Kids like you used to get their butt kicked when I was a kid.”

“They still do,” I tell him.

There are four other kids in detention with me, two ninth-graders, and Tawanda, and another kid who always pulls his sweatshirt hood completely over his head and face. The monitor hasn't shown up yet.

“What're you doing here?” I go to Tawanda. The ninth-graders ignore us. One's cleaning his fingernails with a credit card. There's a photo on the wall of a kid staring into space. Underneath it says, THE MIND IS A TERRIBLE THING TO WASTE.

“You know,” Tawanda goes. “Just bein' my old self.”

The monitor comes in and gives us some rules and sits and starts doing his grade sheets. I pull out some homework. I'm the farthest back, near the window. The sweatshirt kid just sits there, a hood. One of the ninth-graders goes, “She took an entire grade off just for
that
?” There's a little scratching noise and when I look out Flake's doing his constipated monkey. I can't hear the inka inka inka through the glass. He makes a few signals that I can't figure out and then loses interest and leaves.

I'm behind on what I'm supposed to do for the World of Color project. There's paper and markers in my pack, so I could do that. I can't tell if Tawanda's working on it or not. She's too far up front. The idea sucks but it's our fault. Michelle wanted to do a poster of a rainforest tree with people of all different colors as fruit. Tawanda made a face and wanted to know if she meant heads hanging down like apples. They didn't have to hang like apples, Michelle told her. I asked if they could be severed heads. Michelle asked if we had any better ideas. Tawanda said she didn't. They both looked at me. “You tell me what to draw, I'll draw it,” I told them. So we're supposed to be doing the apples.

We already started it. Some of the heads are already on the tree. My red Indian looks like Lava Man.

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.