Jim Shepard - Project X

“What an asshole,” Michelle says, but when he turns on her she looks thrilled.

“What’re you gonna do about it?” he says to me.

“Oh, I got something in mind,” I go. I collect my other books and stand up.

“You got something in mind?” he goes.

“Mr. Lopez,” the vice principal says to him. “Come with me.”

Michelle and Tawanda make gloating noises. “Where you going, Edwin?” Tawanda says to me. “Don’t you be a stranger,” she calls when I’m almost at the other end of the hall, and Michelle laughs. “I got plans for you.”

Before third period I pass the gym. I pass the side door where we’re going to jam the wedge.

Before fourth period outside of math there’s a group of kids standing around laughing and making a lot of noise about a piece of paper. “Make Edwin take it,” one kid goes when I walk up. I can’t even get into the room.

This fat kid gets out of the way and Bethany’s behind him. “Here, Edwin,” she goes. She hands me a different piece of paper that’s folded into a thick triangle. On the outside somebody’s written Sex Test .

“Fischetti has the lowest score so far,” some kid behind her says.

“Let me see that,” Flake goes. He walks over from across the hall.

“No, no,” the fat kid says. “Don’t let him see it.”

Flake holds out his hand. Bethany smiles at him. “Roddy, tell Edwin we need him to fill this out,” she goes.

He looks at me like this is my fault.

“Hey, I don’t wanna do this,” I tell him.

He walks away. “Hey,” I call after him. The bell rings.

Bethany puts her hand on the sex test in my hand and leans closer. “This is for science,” she goes, and her friends laugh. Everybody heads to their classes. Some kids have to run.

We both go into math. I leave the sex test on my desk throughout the period. I don’t open it. The teacher comes down the aisle while somebody’s putting a problem on the board and scoops it up and looks at the title, then throws it in his waste-basket when he gets back to the front of the room.

Ms. Meier finds me in the lunchroom and hands me my copy of A Separate Peace . I left it in her classroom and apparently need it for the assignment tonight.

“How’d you know it was mine?” I ask her. I don’t remember writing my name in it.

“Who else would cross out the A and write No over it?” she goes.

“Mr. Hanratty,” the vice principal says, when I come out of the lunch line with my tray. “A minute of your time.”

“Now?” I go.

“You can eat while we talk,” he says.

We sit at a table full of sixth-graders, including Budzinski. He keeps his eye on us the whole time. I feel like making a gesture toward him, like we’re talking about him.

“I didn’t do anything,” I go. “I was just picking up my books and he kicked one down the hall.”

“Oh, this isn’t about Mr. Lopez,” the vice principal goes.

I offer him a boiled carrot.

He chuckles. “We’ll be sending a note home as well, but I just wanted to remind you that you’re going to be starting that socialization workshop next week,” he goes.

“Oh, God,” I go. I put down my Salisbury steak.

“It’s not going to be that bad,” he goes.

“When?” I go.

“It’s not going to be that bad, ” he goes. “You need to give it a chance.”

“Oh, God,” I go.

“Give it a chance,” he tells me.

I push my tray away. I can’t be in school one more minute. “Who else is in it?” I ask him.

He tells me. It’s even worse than I thought. Dickhead, Weensie, Hogan. Two girls I never heard of. Another kid I heard bit the head off a parrot.

“It’s after school,” he goes. “So you won’t miss any class time.”

“Oh, good,” I go.

“The feeling is that you can’t go on like this,” he tells me. “That something radical needs to happen.”

“I think you’re right,” I tell him back. I’m tearing up again. In front of him. In front of the lunchroom. “I think you’re right.”

I go to the nurse’s office. Another headache. I start throwing up, too. During sixth period there’s a knock on the door of the little room where they put me, and when I pull the facecloth off my eyes, Ms. Arnold pokes her head in and comes over to my cot.

“What’s the class doing?” I ask her.

“I gave them an assignment,” she says. She puts her hand on my leg. “Are you okay, Edwin?”

“I got sick,” I tell her.

“I see that,” she says. She smiles the way she did before. I think about her touching my cheek. I start to get a hard-on and pull a knee up to hide it. This is unbelievable.

“Is your stomach bothering you?” she asks.

“Why’re you visiting me?” I ask her back. She’s the last person I want there. When she touches me again I jump.

“Sorry,” she says. She looks embarrassed. “I was looking through your portfolio,” she finally adds.

We keep them in the room, in long narrow cubbies.

“I found the one you called Mental, ” she says.

“So?” I go.

“Want to tell me about it?” she asks.

“You saw it,” I go.

“How long’d it take you to do it?” she asks.

“I don’t know,” I go.

“It’s quite a piece,” she says.

It’s a big sheet and I filled it with half-inch marks. Sometimes the marks went through the paper. I did it to count minutes the way guys in prison count days. I kept it underneath other things I was working on. By the end it looked black, when you stepped back. There’s like eight million half-inch marks on it. I wrote Mental at the top of it as a joke, after Tawanda saw it.

“You mind if I show it to some other people?” she asks.

“Like who?” I go.

“Oh, I don’t know,” she says. “Like Mr. Davis. Maybe Mrs. Pruitt.”

“I just saw him at lunch,” I go. I close my eyes. I’m so tired. I spread out again on the cot. Big see-through plates bang around behind my eyelids.

“I’ll let you rest,” I hear her say. Then the door shuts behind her.

“Don’t call me, I’ll call you,” Flake goes when the buses are getting ready to pull out. He’s holding out his two bandaged fingers and flexing them, like he’s getting ready for action.

“More stuff to do, huh?” I go.

He heads off without answering. That’s all right with me. When I get home I get five dollars from my money dish and bike to the drugstore. They have Gus’s football but in a different color. I ask the guy and of course they don’t have one with his color in the back. I go back and forth about it. “Hey, kid, it’s a Nerf ball,” the guy finally goes. “You’re not picking a college here.”

When I ride back up the driveway Gus is playing in a scuffed-up area around some tree roots. He’s got a metal airplane without wings and he’s swooping it around and crashing it into the roots. “You get my ball?” he goes.

I pull it out of the cardboard inside my knapsack and hand it over. He looks at it. His was purple. This one’s pink.

“This one’s pink,” he goes.

“Yours was pink,” I go.

“Mine was pink?” he goes.

“Yours was pink,” I go.

“Mine wasn’t pink,” I hear him go as I head into the house.

“Oh boy, is your dad having a bad day,” my mom goes when I pass through the kitchen.

Gus follows me in. “Mine wasn’t pink,” he tells my mom while I head upstairs.

“What, honey?” my mom asks. I shut my door.

I sit on the bed. By this time tomorrow everything will be different. Everything will be over. It doesn’t feel like that.

I have to get stuff together. I have to get organized. I don’t even know what to organize. I should make a list, I think. I pull a piece of paper and a pencil off my desk and write on my thigh. I write: List: