Jim Shepard - Project X

“What’s a stair-luge thing?” she finally said. She still had the mug up by her chin.

Like luge, like the Olympics, I told her.

Of course I couldn’t explain so they both had a cow and a half though they tried not to show it. My mom spent the next week telling me how much everybody loved me and my dad dropped by my room every night before dinner to see how things were going. When they moved Gus into his own room that summer I’d go in there when I couldn’t sleep. They had a big chair with a hassock next to his crib, and I liked to sit in it and stick a hand through the bars. My mom caught me in there once, in the middle of the night.

“You scared me,” she said. Then she got all teary. She got a blanket and tucked me in. “I just wanted to sit in here,” I remember telling her. I found out later that after I fell asleep she came back and took my picture.

Or maybe it’s this: I remember we hiked up to this park on the top of a hill one Saturday in October when all the leaves were down. It was hot and we all had our sweatshirts piled on the back of Gus’s stroller. We took turns pushing him up this steep path. It was so steep he was almost lying down. My dad joked about us getting nosebleeds. At the top there was this great view but a storm was coming so we couldn’t stay long. Going back down I jumped on this tree branch to swing on it but slipped off and hit my head. I landed on the grass but it felt like cement. Everybody asked if I was okay and I thought I was. But later I kept feeling like I had to open my eyes wide and squeeze them shut. And when I shook my head it was like I was still shaking it when I stopped. I got more headaches after that, too. I was talking to Flake about it once when he complained that I got a lot of headaches and I told him about falling. I made it sound like I’d been higher up than I was. I told him I thought I might’ve really fucked up my head. I expected him to make a joke but instead he asked me all these questions like he was a specialist. He asked if I got dizzy for no reason. He asked if I saw all right. He asked if I got extra horny.

“What’s that got to do with my head?” I asked him.

“You’re fucked up normal,” he said. “I don’t think you’re fucked up abnormal.”

I knew what he meant, but since then I asked him if he sleeps all right and he does. I think it depends on what day you catch me.

“You know what a clit is?” Weensie asks Flake out on the playground. We just got off the buses and it’s raining a little, but everybody still wants to hang around outside.

Flake stands there strumming the seam of his pants with his thumb.

“I think he does,” I go.

“You think he does?” Weensie goes.

“Duh,” I go.

Dickhead wanders up. The two of them are wearing T-shirts with the same cartoon guy’s face on them. Neither of us know what show it’s from. Flake’s eating a Go-Gurt, which is his breakfast.

“You know how many holes a girl’s got?” Dickhead asks. I can’t tell if he heard Weensie’s question or not.

“Yeah,” Flake goes.

“You do?” Dickhead says.

“Yeah,” Flake goes. He squeezes the yogurt up into his mouth while he watches Dickhead.

“So how many?” Dickhead says.

“I know,” Flake goes.

“So how many?” Weensie says. By this point three or four other kids have drifted over, thinking there may be a fight.

“Fuck off,” Flake goes.

“He doesn’t know,” Weensie says.

“I think he does,” Dickhead says. “I think he’s got ’em himself.”

I’m worried somebody’s going to ask me.

Flake’s maybe waiting for the bell, but if he is, it doesn’t ring. “Three,” he finally goes.

“Where are they?” Dickhead asks.

“He said three,” I go.

“Where are they?” Dickhead asks.

“One in the front, and one in the back,” Flake goes.

We’re all standing there. He wraps the flattened Go-Gurt tube around his fingers.

“Where’s the other one?” Dickhead goes.

“One on the side,” Flake goes.

“The side?” Dickhead goes. “The side?” Weensie goes. “The side?” the other kids go. It starts raining harder. Flake goes for Dickhead’s throat and knocks him onto his back on the pavement. Weensie takes a swing at my head, and when I grab his hair and pull him over me I can feel some of it tearing. He’s screaming in my ear and the other kids stop saying “The side ?” and start saying “Fight! Fight!” and Weensie and I try to kill each other until adults come along and break us up. “He pulled out some of my fucking hair,” he screams at the vice principal, who’s wrestling to keep him off of me. Flake and Dickhead are already gone, or I can’t see them because of everybody else. Somebody’s got me around the neck and it turns out to be the new gym teacher. He’s got me so I can’t breathe, and when I struggle he squeezes tighter.

“Well, this morning’s episode will help focus our discussion,” the vice principal says at the parent-teacher conference that afternoon. I’ve been suspended for a day and my mom’s crying. My dad says her name and she stops. Gus’s birthday party has been postponed. Gus is with a babysitter.

“His mother’s upset,” my dad tells the vice principal.

The vice principal moves the Kleenex box closer to her on the desk. He tells us that one of the teachers, Ms. Meier, wanted to be here as well and should be coming through the door momentarily. “As you can see, things aren’t getting better,” he says.

My dad nods like he can see that and would like to move things along a little faster. “Is he unusually problematic, or middle of the pack in terms of your experience with these kinds of problems?” he goes.

“Call me Justin,” the vice principal goes.

“All right, Justin,” my dad goes. “Is he unusually problematic, or kind of middle of the pack in terms of these kinds of problems?”

The vice principal gives him a smile. “I’m not sure I’m ready to handicap him like this is the Kentucky Derby,” he goes.

“I thought I asked a straightforward question,” my dad goes.

My mom asks if he could please stop it, and he apologizes. Maybe because he teaches in a college, you can see that he thinks that people who teach in junior highs are probably not all that smart.

“Can I ask what you’ve been noticing at home?” the vice principal asks. “In terms of behavior, in terms of the way he’s been feeling?”

My mom talks for a while. My dad adds things in here and there. When they’re finished they ask me if I think they left anything out.

“Sounds about right,” I go.

Ms. Meier comes clumping down the hall and opens the door like she expected somebody was holding it shut. “Hello, hello, everyone,” she goes. She asks to be called April.

“April Meier,” my dad goes.

“That’s it,” she says.

“Nice to meet you,” my mom goes. She sounds miserable.

“And you,” Ms. Meier says. “What have I missed?”

The vice principal repeats what they told him about the home situation. He leaves a few things out and screws one or two things up. “Is that about right?” he asks me.

“Yep,” I go.

“Well. Here’s what we’ve been noticing around here, ” Ms. Meier says. “May I start?” she asks the vice principal.

He makes a little after you gesture.

“Edwin acts like he’s under constant pressure,” she says.

“My little spray can,” my dad goes, almost to himself.

“Is that a joke?” my mom goes.

“No,” he tells her. She looks at him.

Ms. Meier waits for everybody to finish. “He’s either very very quiet or acting out in various antisocial ways,” she says. Everybody sits and looks at each other for a minute.