Jim Shepard - Project X

No sleep.

In the middle of the night I remember a math test I forgot about. There’s still plenty of time to study before people get up. I know some of what I need to but just stare at the pages. I clear off the kitchen table and sit with just the hall light on. The house is quiet. My math book smells. The numbers and unknowns in chapter 3 jump from place to place after a while. On one problem I keep seeing a 5 where there’s an X. 120/3 = 40 miles—10/1 hr = 30 miles/ 1 hr 450/30 = 15 hrs. I shut my eyes for stretches. The refrigerator makes its little noise. Solve for X.

I read Isaiah in the Bible but don’t like it as much.

I nod out once it’s getting light and wake up in time to go upstairs before my mom gets up. I keep yawning and stretching my mouth to get some feeling back into it. “You’re dressed already,” she says when she opens my door to wake me.

I remember part of a football game I played in with some kids like a year ago.

“Eat something. Even if it’s candy,” my dad goes once he sits down at the table. I’m still staring at my eggs. It’s a weird feeling, like the right words or numbers are standing around just out of reach. My eggs look weird, too.

The meeting with Flake’s tonight. I’m thinking, if I could just close my eyes from now till then.

“Hey. The bus, ” my mom tells me. She’s leaning forward and has her hands on her thighs. Apparently she’s said this already.

On the bus for some reason I think about summer camp when I was little. We put on a play. 12 Angry Men .

“Seen Hermie?” Flake asks before homeroom. The ninth-graders are playing some kind of You’re It game with a willow switch. It looks like it hurts.

I shake my head.

“Can you talk?” he goes. I nod a couple times. “I gotta go to the dentist after school,” he says. “So just come over after supper.”

I nod again. My cheeks are numb.

“My mom thinks I gotta get braces,” he goes. He’s smiling because he’s thinking, Well, that’s not gonna work out.

The Kalashnikov’s heavy. I don’t know if it’s got a really big kick or if I can even hold it steady or what. Well, you’ll find out, I say to myself when the homeroom bell rings.

There’s an announcement about an assembly sometime this week. I miss when.

“When’d they say it was?” I ask the girl next to me.

She looks at me.

“When’d they say it was?” I ask her again.

“Mr. Hanratty, what is the problem?” my homeroom teacher goes. Everybody’s got their mouth open, with this look. I’m surrounded by fish.

She sends me to the vice principal. We should’ve tested the guns before we did this, I tell myself while I’m walking down the hall. Now we’re not going to have time.

I space out during my math test. Halfway through, the teacher stops in front of me and goes, “Mr. Hanratty, do you have something to write with?” “No,” I go, and he gets me a pencil.

“I got a question for you,” Tawanda says when we pass in the hall.

After fifth period I can’t get my locker open again.

Before seventh I go to the nurse and tell her about the headache. Almost nobody goes to the nurse seventh period because you’re almost home.

“What’s it feel like?” she asks, interested.

I make claws and put both of them up around my eyebrows.

She has me lie down on a little cot with a facecloth over my head.

While I’m lying there I hear the vice principal. He keeps his voice down but I can still hear him. “Our friend with the nose is having a tough day, isn’t he?” he goes.

“Headache,” the nurse tells him. She shakes me a few minutes before the end of the period so I can get to my locker and still make the bus.

“We don’t even know what we’re going to do about the doors,” Flake says as soon as I come into his room that night.

“I know,” I go.

He’s lying on his back in his underwear with his arm over his eyes. One of his bandages is soaked with dried blood.

“You bang your finger again?” I go.

He doesn’t answer. “I got the guns out by myself,” he finally says. “I think I know about the safeties and everything now.”

“Good,” I go. It’s nice to have some good news.

“Sit down,” he tells me.

There’s an open jar of peanut butter on the chair. I pick it up and ask where the top is.

“What is it with you and stupid questions tonight?” he goes.

I roll the jar under his bed. It keeps going until it hits the wall. “This place is a shithole,” I tell him.

“You mean this town?” he asks. He sounds worn out.

“You gonna keep your arm over your face all night?” I go.

“What do you care?” he goes. “You showing off your outfit?” It’s quiet. I move my feet back and forth while he lies there like he’s dead. “You gonna play one of your speeches?” I ask.

“No,” he goes.

His mom’s screwing around with the blender downstairs. She was setting it up when I came through the kitchen. Now it sounds like she’s trying to grind rocks.

“How was the dentist?” I go.

He grins without moving his arm off his eyes. “I need braces,” he goes.

“When’re you supposed to get ’em?” I go.

“Turns out I got an overbite,” he goes. He finally takes his arm off his face and sits up. His neck is against the headboard.

“Is that comfortable?” I go.

He looks away and shakes his head. “So did you see our friend today?” he asks. “Or that other fucking midget? Budzinski?”

“Nope,” I go. “But that doesn’t mean they weren’t there.”

He makes a face.

“So what’re we gonna do?” I go.

“First thing we gotta do is solve the door problem,” he tells me.

“When’s the assembly?” I go.

“Friday, fourth period,” he goes. “You finish the stuff we’re gonna bury?”

“Pretty much,” I go. “You?”

He gets up and roots around in his closet. There’s a little poop stain showing through his underwear. He throws shirts and shoes out into the middle of the room, then comes out with a pile of papers like a phone book.

“You’re gonna bury all that?” I ask him.

He looks proud.

“What is it?” I go.

“None of your fucking business,” he goes. The first page is all filled with writing. He holds the pile in front of me before he puts it back in the closet. He’s careful about how he hides it again. Then he throws the shirts and shoes back in over everything he’s arranged.

I had like five pages to bury, so now there’s that to feel bad about.

“A wedge, ” he goes. “Jesus Christ. A wedge.” He’s still standing next to the closet.

I don’t get what he’s talking about.

He bunches his fingers together and makes a little move with his hand to demonstrate. “To seal up the side door. We do it from the outside . From outside the gym, in the hall. One of us brings a little wedge and a hammer. Bang, you drive it in under the door. Nobody from the in side can open it.”

I’m still looking at him, trying to figure it out.

“We wait till everybody’s in the gym. Then one of us does that,” he goes.

“Where do we get a wedge?” I go.

“A wedge,” he goes. “Anywhere. You make one. It takes two seconds.”

I think about it. It makes sense. “So we gonna test it?” I go.

“We don’t have to test it,” he goes. “It’s a wedge . What’re we, testing to see if a wedge works?” He flops down onto the bed again, happy. “I can’t believe I didn’t think of it before. I can’t believe even you didn’t think of it.”

I have a new headache or else the same one that just keeps coming back. “So this means we can do it Friday?” I go. But he’s already thinking about something else. He’s excited again. “You gonna have trouble with your fingers?” I go. Meaning with the guns.