Project X (5 page)

“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 stings 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.

“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.

“The two in the front,” I go.

“Right, I counted those as one,” he goes.

“Two in the back,” I go. He stops talking and gives me his slit-eyed look. “Four the bus side,” I go. “And then the two single doors.”

“That's six,” he goes, after I stop. He taps his stick on the drawing.

“I thought there were more,” I go.

He looks at me the way he looks at kids who volunteer to be crossing guards.

“
Sor
ry,” I go.

“How do you even find the bus in the morning? Can I ask you that?” he goes.

“Like you never made a mistake,” I go.

“You're a mistake,” he goes.

“Your mother's a mistake,” I go.

“God, I wish I could do this by myself,” he goes.

“Why don'tcha?” I go.

We both shut up for a few minutes. It's raining harder and water is leaking in in little streams. I make a dam with my sneaker and keep one from getting to my butt.

Flake scratches the back of his head and looks at his drawing.

“So we try to seal up all the doors somehow?” I go.

“That's the problem,” he goes. “We gotta get from there to there to there to there.” He bounces his stick around the drawing. “We got to do it pretty fast, and we got to do it so they can't be opened that fast.”

We both look at the outline in the dirt: a big box of an L with little slashes for the doors.

“We could split up,” I go.

“Yeah, well, even then,” he goes.

We get discouraged, sitting there. Flake shifts around and stares at the thing with his arms on his knees and his fists on both sides of his face.

“Where's the gym?” I go.

“Over here,” he goes. He leaves the stick on it. He yawns. It makes me yawn. He farts. I make a face and he waves his arm to move the air. “What do you care where the gym is?” he goes.

“The gym only has two sets of double doors and that little door,” I tell him.

He's still got his fists on his face. His head starts moving, up and down. “During assembly,” he goes.

“Maybe we could do something with the little door ahead of time,” I go.

He keeps nodding, looking at the dirt.

“Break the lock or something,” I go.

“Right before,” he goes. “Then you come in this double door.” He puts his finger in the dirt. “And I come in this one.” He's still nodding, picturing the whole thing. He looks at me, happy for the first time all day. “This is a good idea,” he goes. “This is a good idea, Edwin.”

“What'd you teach today?” I ask my dad. Dinner's late because the sweet potatoes are taking forever. He and Gus are hanging out on his bed watching TV. He's lying on his back with his head on the headboard, and Gus is sitting on his chest. He has to tilt his head to the side to see.

“Wanna see my wicked face?” Gus asks. When I tell him sure, he pulls his lower eyelids down and grimaces.

“Macro,” my dad goes.

“Was it fun?” I ask him.

“I like macro,” he says, then looks at me sideways. “You looking for something?”

I wander into the kitchen.

“What's everybody up to?” my mom wants to know.

They're watching TV, I tell her. She's cutting up an avocado for a salad.

“Are there any other kids at school who don't watch TV?” she asks.

“Besides me, you mean,” I go.

“Besides you and Roddy,” she says.

“Not that I know of,” I tell her.

“Don't kids talk about shows and stuff that're on all the time?” she asks.

“All the time,” I go.

“Don't you feel left out?” she asks.

“All the time,” I go.

She washes her hands and dries them and checks the sweet potatoes in the oven. They must be done because she sticks each of them with a fork and then pulls them out and dumps them in a bowl.

“I think Gus is going to turn out to be normal,” I go.

“Oh, Edwin,” she says. She acts like the potato bowl is too heavy to lift. “Don't say that.”

“He is,” I tell her.

“You're not abnormal,” she says.

“I'm not?” I go.

She starts putting stuff on the table.

“I'm not?” I go.

“Look, I don't have the energy to fight about this right now,” she goes.

“I'm not fighting,” I go. “I'm asking a question.”

“What's the question?” she asks, sitting down alone at the dining room table.

“I'm not abnormal?” I go.

“Let's
move,
” she calls to everybody else. “Dinner!”

I sit and take a sweet potato and cut it open. It's like lava inside. “I'm glad to know I'm not abnormal,” I go.

“Edwin, please,” she goes.

“Edwin please what?” my dad goes. He's in charge of drinks, so he hits the fridge and brings over a pitcher of ice water for them and a carton of milk for us.

“Turns out I'm not abnormal,” I go.

“Well, let's not rush to judgment on
that
one,” he goes.

“Honey,” my mom goes.

“What?” he goes. “I can't kid around with him?”

She shakes her head and starts dishing out the meat.

“You're fine,” my dad says to me. “I grew up with kids who make you and Flake look like Archie and Jughead.”

Everybody eats for a while. I'm mad I got into this.

“I got a rash on my butt,” Gus says.

“Does it still hurt?” my mom asks.

“Wanna see?” Gus says to me.

“Maybe later,” I go.

He gets up on his chair and drops his drawers. The rash doesn't look so good.

“Whoa,” I go. It's just what he wanted to hear.

“You remember when I was six and there was that huge birthday party, pool party?” I ask my mom and dad. “And I didn't want to go?”

Gus pulls up his pants and sits back down. “We remember,” my mom says.

“How come you made me go to that?” I ask.

“You told that little boy you were going to go at least a dozen times,” my mom says. “Remember how he kept calling to make sure you were still coming?”

“I really didn't want to go,” I tell them. “I
really
didn't want to go.”

“Well, maybe we shouldn't've made you go,” my dad says.

The kid's older brothers had all their friends there. They took my bathing suit. They locked me in the pool shed. When I got out I had to run around trying to get my suit back, covering myself with a Frisbee. Two kids took my picture.