Jim Shepard - Project X

I give it back to her when I go to bus my tray. In line I can see her and her friends leaning over it like it’s a treasure map.

“You are so weird,” she says to me later in the hall.

In seventh period the teacher’s late and all the guys sitting around me are talking about hard-ons.

After school when I get home I call Flake again. This time he answers the phone.

“We got a problem,” I tell him after he says hello. He hangs up.

I look at the phone and beat on the cradle part of it with the receiver.

“What’s going on down there?” my mom wants to know. She’s up in Gus’s room getting him up from his nap.

I wait another day before calling again. “Don’t hang up, fuckhead,” I say when he says hello. I don’t hear anything after that. “Hello?” I go.

“I’m still here,” he says.

“We got a problem,” I tell him.

“So I hear,” he goes.

“You already know?” I ask.

“You just told me,” he goes.

I’m quiet, thinking about hanging up myself.

“So what’s the problem?” he asks.

I imagine pulling the phone off the wall and beating it flat with the mallet my dad keeps in the basement. Living by myself for the rest of my life, and having no friends. “Our pal Hermie says he’s getting a gun to go after that kid he hates,” I go.

Flake laughs.

“I don’t think he’s just bullshitting,” I tell him. It sounds like I just wanted an excuse to call, which pisses me off more than it should. “He had a knife in his pack on Thursday,” I add.

“What kind of knife?” Flake wants to know.

“A big one,” I go. “The kind you use on fish.”

“On fish ?” he says.

“His dad does have a gun,” I tell him. “And Dipstick knows where it is. And he’s a crazy fuck.”

“Well, that’s true,” Flake admits.

“I’m thinking he’d screw it up for us,” I tell him.

Flake’s quiet, thinking about it.

“Hello?” I go.

“Maybe he would,” he goes. “That’s certainly the kind of shit that always happens to us,” he adds after a minute.

“So?” I go.

“So what’d you tell him?” he asks.

“I told him not to talk stupid,” I go.

He sneezes. “What else you tell him?” he asks. I hear him wiping his nose.

“I told him he couldn’t just get a gun,” I go.

My mom comes into my room and sits down. No knock, nothing. I wave her out. She shakes her head. “We have to talk,” she whispers, exaggerating her mouth movements, I guess so I can read her lips.

“What’d he say?” Flake wants to know.

“He didn’t say anything,” I tell him.

“Hmm,” he goes.

“Who’re you talking to?” my mom mouths.

“I think we gotta talk to him,” I go.

“I’ll talk with him, all right,” Flake goes.

“I gotta go,” I tell him.

“Think he’d really do it?” he asks.

“I gotta go,” I tell him again.

“What’s the matter?” he goes.

“Is that Flake?” my mom asks in a regular voice.

“Is that your mother?” Flake goes.

“Yeah,” I go, to both of them.

“She been listening this whole time?” he asks.

“No,” I tell him.

“Jesus Christ,” he goes, like there’s no end to my stupidity. “Call me back, asshole.” He hangs up.

It turns out my mom wants to talk about my dad. She’s worried about him because he’s worried about me.

I listen to her outline the problem for a while. The whole thing depresses me.

“You have anything to contribute?” she finally asks.

I shrug, which is not what she was looking for. She gives me a look and tells me more stuff about how sad he’s been. He hasn’t been sleeping either, or working on his book.

“I’m sorry about that,” I tell her. Because I am.

“I realize it feels like you have a lot to deal with right now,” she goes.

Feels like? I think: I shouldn’t get mad.

She says she has a proposal. The family should go somewhere for Thanksgiving, somewhere cool. Have Thanksgiving somewhere else, for once.

“Does that sound like a good idea?” she wants to know. She pulls her hair back behind her head and holds it tight with both hands. She doesn’t let go.

“It sounds good,” I tell her. She asks where we should go.

I don’t have a lot of ideas right there and then.

“Where would you like to go?” she asks. “Wherever it is, it’d be nice to surprise your dad.” She has this look on her face like she’s carrying something that already spilled.

“The beach,” I tell her. “Somewhere warm.” I have no idea where that came from.

“The beach,” she says, surprised. I can see her already thinking about it. “All right, the beach.”

I’m still amazed by what comes out of my mouth sometimes, but it doesn’t matter. By Thanksgiving, everything’ll have changed.

“We had a good talk,” I hear her tell my dad. They’re downstairs with the TV on, and she keeps her voice low.

“Remember the summer we went to Six Flags?” Flake says, instead of hello, when he calls back. “My parents took us?”

“Yep,” I go. It’s eleven o’clock on a school night, and I’m dripping. I was taking a shower because I was bored. I can’t decide whether to wash the rest of the soap off or consider the shower over.

Toward the end of the day we got stuck on the Ferris wheel about twenty feet off the ground. It just stopped turning. Some guys came to work on it below us. We were up there so long the sun started to go down. We could see some girls from our grade, including Bethany, in the car across from us. Flake had had a shitload to drink and had to piss superbad. He waited as long as he could and then grabbed a big cup on the floor of the car and let go. The cup filled up and he was still pissing. “Take it, take it,” he said to me. “No fucking way,” I said back and finally he had to stand up, still pissing, and throw the cup. It got all over both of us. The people in the car below us screamed. The guys working on the Ferris wheel yelled up at us that they were going to kill us once they got us down. The girls told everybody they ever knew once we got back, and then those people told everybody they ever knew.

“Why you bringing that up now?” I go.

My dad comes up the stairs and looks at me in the hall. He turns around and goes back down. “Your son’s standing around balls naked dripping on the carpet,” I hear him tell my mom.

“What were we, in fifth grade?” Flake asks. “I always think about that day.”

“Why?” I go. I can think of lots of days that were equally bad.

“I don’t know,” he goes. “I don’t know what it is about it.”

My mom comes to the bottom of the stairs and looks at me for a while. “Your brother’s sleeping, ” she tells me.

I don’t know why I’m still in the hall. I go into my bedroom and shut the door.

She comes upstairs and opens the door a crack. “Get something on,” she says. “You’re gonna catch pneumonia.”

“Is it because Bethany was there?” I ask Flake.

“Nah,” he goes. It sounds like it hadn’t occurred to him.

“Get something on, ” my mom goes.

“Hey, did Bethany give you something today?” I ask. “Like a note?”

“No,” he goes.

“Yesterday?” I go.

“No,” he goes.

He doesn’t ask what I’m talking about.

My mom opens the door wider and comes in and drags a sweatshirt out of my dresser and pulls it over my head. I have to switch hands with the phone when she stuffs my arms in the sleeves. Then she goes downstairs and leaves me there, in a sweatshirt and no underpants.

The next morning Flake finds me before I’m even completely off the bus. “Let’s go talk with Tiny Tot,” he says.