Jim Shepard - Project X

“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.