Jim Shepard - Project X

“Yeah. I gotta lot of things to do,” he goes.

I stop walking. He keeps going. Well, fuck you, too, I think. By the time I get back to the parking lot, the buses are gone. I end up walking home.

There’s a note on the counter that Gus has an ear infection and my mom’s taking him to the doctor. My dad must be off working on his lecture. I have to get out of the house. I change into shorts to save my pants. I hold the pants up after taking them off and can see my hand where the butt’s starting to wear through.

I have skinny legs.

I go out the back door and wander over to our mosh-volleyball court. I don’t see the volleyball in the garage.

The sun goes in and it’s cooler out. Gus’s Nerf football is at the end of the driveway. I pick it up to wing it back into the yard, but then keep it. I walk toward the JV practice fields like I’m heading for a big pickup Nerf game. I try to hit squirrels or birds with ambush lobs on the way.

The practice fields are empty. I don’t know why. I climb the fence and sit on the grass with the Nerf. A pigeon wanders by out of range.

A tan dog with floppy ears and white paws is sniffing and taking a dump in the middle of the field. I can’t tell what kind it is.

A kid a little older than Gus who’s wearing a towel like a cape comes through the gate at the other end. He has a Styrofoam glider. His dad trails after him, dragging a knapsack. The kid’s hair is short on the sides and sticks out on top like a patch of dandelions. He throws the glider a few times straight into the ground and then gives up. He heads over to me and his dad gets the glider and takes it apart and puts the pieces into the knapsack.

The kid stops a little ways away. He’s got his eye on the Nerf. “Throw,” he goes.

The dad comes up behind him. He’s got an expression like he just found out I screwed him over.

“Throw,” the kid goes.

“Am I gonna have to worry about your dog?” the guy says.

“Throw,” the kid goes.

“Are you deaf?” the guy says.

“No,” I go.

“So do I have to worry about your dog?” he says.

“No,” I go.

He looks over at the dog like I’m not very reassuring. The dog looks at him. “Get outta here,” he says to the dog, though it wasn’t heading towards him.

“Throw,” the kid goes.

I throw him the Nerf. He fumbles around with it for a while. His towel gets in the way. He kicks the ball back and forth. He runs with it under his arm. He asks his dad to catch it. His dad drags the knapsack farther away from me and then lets it go and puts his arms out. The kid can’t throw at all.

The dad troops after it all over the field and then the kid picks it up and stuffs it in the knapsack. He pulls his glider out and his dad puts it back together for him and the kid throws it into the ground for a while. Then he says something and his dad picks up the pack and the glider and they both head for the gate across the field.

“Hey,” I go. They keep walking. “Hey,” I call. I get up and follow them. “Hey!”

The dad turns around. The kid keeps going.

“You got my ball,” I go.

“What?” the dad says.

“The Nerf ball,” I tell him.

“That’s his,” the dad goes. “We brought it here.” He waits for me to say something and then starts walking again.

“I don’t fucking believe this,” I go.

He turns around again. “What’d you say?” he goes. He walks back towards me. “What did you say to me?”

“That’s my ball,” I go.

“What did you say to me?” he goes.

“I said I don’t fucking believe this,” I tell him.

He gives me a two-handed shove and I go flying.

“You’re just gonna steal my fucking ball?” I yell when I get up.

He comes at me again and I take off. When I get a little ways away, I yell back at him, “It’s not even mine. It’s my little brother’s .”

They keep walking. The kid looks like he’s asking his father something. His towel’s covering his back and trailing in the grass.

“You hear me, you fuck ?” I scream.

They keep walking.

I run after them, to follow them home and break every fucking window in their house. But they get into a station wagon outside the gate and drive away. I try to read the license plate and then fall on my butt after they take the corner. I wipe my eyes and kick my feet out, like I’m having a tantrum.

What were you gonna do? I think to myself. Report them to Motor Vehicles?

“You’re eating again,” my dad says to me at dinner. “He’s eating again,” he tells my mother when I don’t say anything.

“I see that,” my mom tells him back. She’s made pork chops and a salad and I’m even eating the salad.

“I’m eating, too,” Gus volunteers.

“So you are,” my dad tells him.

“So you almost finished?” my mom asks my dad. Gus spills his milk. My dad lifts his plate and my mom goes to get a sponge.

“Maybe I picked the wrong topic,” he says. “Who really cares about the World Bank?” He turns to me. “You care about the World Bank?”

“Not right this second,” I tell him.

“There you have it,” my dad says.

“Well, Edwin’s going to be in school,” my mom tells him. She finishes mopping the table and squeezes the sponge out in the sink. “So he’s not going to be able to make it anyway.”

My dad puts his plate back down. “What’s the matter with you?” he asks me.

“What do you mean?” I go.

“You’re making little noises,” he says.

“I am?” I go.

He imitates one.

“I’m doing that?” I ask.

My mom nods. Gus makes the sound, too.

“Something on your mind?” my dad asks.

“I don’t know,” I tell him.

“The old glass head,” he goes.

I put my elbows on the sides of my dish and hold my head steady with my hands. I don’t look at either of them, or at Gus.

“After dinner, you have to have your medicine,” my mom reminds Gus.

“No,” Gus goes.

“Is that for his ear?” I ask, and she nods.

Gus complains for a while and we all finish eating.

“So you don’t want to talk about what’s bothering you?” my dad asks me.

“Maybe in a little while,” I tell him.

“Mom?” Gus asks.

“Something at school?” my mom asks me. She’s got her back to me because she’s carried her dish to the sink.

“I don’t know,” I tell her. “We’ll see.”

“Mom?” Gus asks.

She looks over her shoulder at me and makes an exaggerated disappointed face. My dad gets a pencil from the counter and writes some notes on his paper napkin.

“I think your father’s working too hard,” my mom says to me when she comes back to the table.

“Hard but not well,” my dad goes. He draws a line on his napkin from one note to another.

“Mom?” Gus asks.

“Your ear hurt?” I ask him.

“Yeah,” he goes. He tilts his head and puts his hand on it. His hand’s still holding his fork.

“You’re getting pork in your hair,” my mom goes. She clears my plate, and my dad’s.

Gus has to finish before he gets dessert. I sit upstairs on my bed with my hands back on the sides of my face. I can hear my dad talking to himself in the downstairs bathroom. “Nobody flushes in this house,” he says. Gus is singing to himself instead of eating. His new favorite song is “I’ve Got the Whole World in My Pants.”

He quiets down. My dad turns on the TV. Down the street a dog starts doing the same bark for ten minutes in a row.

I find myself squatting over by the bookcase. I stopped flipping through the serial killers book when I got to the picture of Richard Speck. He doesn’t look like anybody I know.