Jim Shepard - Project X

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.

“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.