Jim Shepard - Project X

“Was his ball pink?” my mom calls up the stairs. “He says it wasn’t.”

“It was,” I call back down. “He’s losing his mind.”

“He says it was, honey,” I hear her tell Gus in a low voice. He starts whining. “I like the pink,” I hear her say. “You don’t like the pink?”

“Jesus God Almighty in Heaven,” my dad says from his room. He must have his laptop in there.

I can’t sit still. I get off the bed, walk around the room, sit on the bed again.

I call Flake. His mom says he’s out. “Hold on,” she says. “He just came in.”

“You’re blowing me off?” I say when he gets on the phone.

“What do you want?” he goes.

“I wanted to know if you wanted to come over,” I tell him. I look out my window. Gus is booting the Nerf around the back. Over in our neighbor’s yard their golden retriever is standing at their fence, watching him like he’s dinner.

“Maybe we could have one more game of mosh volleyball,” I go.

“Mosh volleyball,” he goes, like he’ll never do that again. Then I think he probably won’t.

“You all right?” he asks. “You’re panting. You sound like a dog.”

“I’m scared,” I finally tell him.

He’s quiet a second. “Don’t wuss out on me,” he goes. “ You hear me?”

“I’m not wussing out on anybody,” I go.

“Are you crying ?” he goes.

“No,” I go.

“Jesus,” he goes.

“What?” I go. My mom comes up the stairs and into my room. She sits on the bed and puts a hand on my side.

“Are you gonna make it?” he goes. “Do I have to come over there and sit with you?”

“No,” I go. “I just wanted to see if you wanted to play volleyball, that’s all.” I look at my mom. She looks sympathetic.

“We got a lot to do tonight,” he goes. “How soon can you come over after everybody’s asleep there?”

My mom still has her hand on my side. She smoothes it up and down like she’s rubbing a dog’s coat.

“I don’t know,” I go.

“One? One-thirty?” he goes.

“Yeah,” I go.

“Which?” he goes. “One?”

“No,” I go.

“One-thirty?” he goes.

“Yeah,” I go.

“All right. Come to the garage,” he tells me. “Don’t forget your stuff for the capsule.”

“The what?” I go.

“The thing we’re gonna bury,” he goes.

My mom smiles at me. She notices the piece of paper with List: on it and smiles again.

“You gonna be all right?” he goes.

“Yeah,” I go. He hangs up.

“You having a fight with Roddy?” my mom asks when I hang up.

“Sort of,” I go.

“It’ll be all right,” she says.

“Thanks,” I go.

She gets off the bed and opens my dresser drawers.

“What’re you doing here?” I ask her.

“I’m helping you pack for tomorrow,” she tells me.

Around midnight Gus has a bad dream. I creep out of bed with my clothes on and stand by his door.

“ Ed win,” he moans.

I wait, in case he’s going to wake up. I go back to my room and get under the covers in case my mom comes up to check on him. He doesn’t make any more noise. Across the room on my chair is the little suitcase she packed for the beach.

At one-twenty I go down to the living room and listen. The stairs make noise but my mom and dad don’t. I give it a minute and then leave.

There’s nobody on the streets. Suppose you disappeared? a voice goes. Suppose you never made it to his house? My sneakers make rubbery noises on the pavement the whole way over.

“In here,” Flake says, in one of those whispers you can hear a block away when I turn into his driveway. He’s standing in the garage in the dark.

“What’re you doing with a hockey stick?” I ask when my eyes get used to the dark.

“My dad’s taping up his team’s sticks,” he goes, like that answers my question. He puts the edge of the stick under my chin and flips it up.

“Ow,” I go.

“Shhh,” he goes.

“What’re you doing ?” I go. I’m holding my chin with one hand.

“Imagine when a real hockey player does it,” he goes. I hear the clunk when he sets it back against the wall with the others. The dog next door starts barking even though he’s in the house.

“Asshole dog,” Flake says to himself.

He leads me into the house. At the back door he turns and puts his finger to his mouth, like otherwise I’d go in talking. On the stairs we try to walk together so it sounds like one person.

We’re halfway up when his father goes, “Roddy?”

We both freeze.

“Yeah?” Flake goes.

“What’re you doing?” his dad goes.

“Getting some water,” he goes.

“The water upstairs no good?” his dad goes.

We look at each other. “It doesn’t get cold enough,” Flake tells him.

We don’t hear anything for a minute.

“Don’t get up again,” his dad finally says.

After we shut the door and turn on his desk lamp he widens his eyes and tilts his head, like, that was close.

He’s got the gun duffels from inside the cases under the bed. He pulls out the edge of one to show me. Then we sit facing each other on the blanket without saying anything. He watches the clock. I get sad thinking about the little suitcase my mom left on the chair.

When he’s satisfied with the time, he gets on his hands and knees and pulls out the duffels and zips them open. We start with mine. I show him I can release the safety.

“The clip release is this thing here,” he whispers.

“How’d you get them out of your dad’s closet?” I whisper back. “Aren’t you worried he’s gonna see they’re missing?”

He shakes his head. “I locked the cases back up,” he says. “I left the pistol.”

The release is a black metal thing in front of the trigger and behind the clip. Neither of us can work it.

“You’re supposed to use your thumb,” he goes.

“I’m using my thumb,” I tell him.

He takes the gun out of my hands and braces the stock against his belly and works his thumb up under the thing. It’s hard with his bandaged fingers. There’s like a flange that’s bent at a right angle. That’s the release.

“When’re those going to come off?” I go, meaning the bandages.

“The guy said he’d look at them next Thursday,” he goes. He wedges one thumb behind the other and pushes.

“I think they made this with a pair of pliers,” I tell him.

“Well, the Russians. You know,” he says. He turns it to try to get more leverage.

“No, I don’t know,” I go. “I don’t know any Russians.”

“Ha ha,” he goes, and there’s a snap and the clip falls onto the bed.

We snap it back in and try it again. We pretty much get the hang of it.

“How much is in a clip?” I go.

He peers inside one.

“You can’t tell like that,” I go.

“When did you become the expert on automatic weapons?” he goes.

“I know that much,” I go.

“Shhh,” he goes.

I ask how we’re going to carry the extra clips. It turns out that his plan is to have them in the duffels with the guns in our lockers.

“You got pants with pockets big enough to hold a few of these?” he asks.

“I don’t know. Cargo shorts,” I tell him.

“There you go,” he says.

I measure the clip width with my finger and thumb and try to remember how wide the pockets are. I heft the gun. “This is heavy,” I tell him.

“Yeah, it’s really heavy. Hold it farther up with that hand,” he tells me.

I swing it back and forth around the room without the clip in it.

“Wanna trade?” he asks.

“Lemme see yours,” I go, and he hands over the carbine. It feels much lighter. “Maybe,” I go.