Jim Shepard - Project X

“Well, decide,” he goes. “I don’t want us arguing about this tomorrow.”

I take the Kalashnikov in one hand and the carbine in the other. I can’t decide. I start sweating all at once. “I can’t believe we’re really going to do this,” I go.

“I know,” he goes. He locks a clip into the carbine and then ejects it. He sights down the barrel and then lays the gun down on the bed. “You want a Go-Gurt?” he goes. “I brought two up.” I shake my head. He tears off the corner of a Go-Gurt and sucks on it. We have to stay close on the bed so we can hear each other whispering.

“We’ll probably shoot all the wrong people,” I go. I try to make it sound like a joke.

He slurps his Go-Gurt and lays his hand on the barrel of the Kalashnikov.

“You worry about that?” I go.

He does his constipated-monkey thing. Inka inka inka inka.

“Guess you don’t,” I go.

“Oh, I almost forgot,” he says. He pulls out two packages of little rubber plugs. “Earplugs. My dad says you can’t believe how loud they are.”

He wants to play something from his Great Speeches CD that he says will psych us up, but he has to keep it turned down so low that I can’t make out what the guy’s saying even when we have our ears right up to the speakers. He keeps asking if I can hear it and finally gets mad and turns it off.

“You know what I think about?” he says once we’re back up on the bed.

There’s a noise downstairs. We both stop.

After a minute, we gather all the clips and slide them into the duffels, then angle the guns in after them and slide both duffels under the bed.

We listen again. A car goes by.

“You know what I think about?” he asks again.

I shake my head.

He rubs his face. “The way when something terrible happens somewhere there’s all these flags and flowers and candles, pictures of the people who died and pages of sayings and poems. I don’t think about my picture in the papers or on TV. I think about that stuff.” He’s looking down at his crotch. “What’re you looking at my dick for?” he goes.

“That’s where you were looking,” I go.

“You ever think about stuff like that?” he goes. “All those flowers and shit lined up for months and months?”

I shrug. “I guess,” I go.

He gives me a look.

The look gets me pissed off. Why am I always the pussy? I think.

“Let’s do it,” he tells me.

It’s easier if we put one duffel on top of the other and grab both handles. It takes us about a block and a half to figure this out. We lug the things along worrying about cars, but we only see one that’s heading in the wrong direction.

We circle the school out in the athletic fields to avoid the lights on the building, then hustle the bags over to the back stairs and dump them underneath where it’s dark. We both stand around with our hands on our thighs, breathing hard.

I can hear Flake feeling around in the dark. “They never fixed this?” he goes. The window opens and I hear him sliding through.

He calls for the bags. I pull them over and he drags them through. When I climb in I forget how far the drop is and lose my balance and knock him over against the bags.

“It’s all right,” he goes.

The corridors are narrow so we each have to carry our own. We put them on our backs and hunch over while we walk. We sling the handles over our shoulders. He gets out his little flashlight and holds it in his teeth. We go through some doors and then up the stairs. The door at the top is locked.

He sits down. He’s still got the flashlight in his teeth, and it’s shining on part of the stair railing.

“What do we do now?” I go.

He sits there. A minute goes by.

“Remember that guy in the SUV?” he goes.

It takes me a second to figure out who he’s talking about. Plus it’s hard to understand him with the flashlight in his mouth. “The old guy?” I go.

“Yeah,” he goes. When he nods the light slides up and down the railing. “The guy that followed us.”

The cement’s cold on my butt. He’s waiting for me to say something. “I know who you mean,” I tell him.

“He followed me again last week,” he goes. “At like four in the morning.”

I slide my duffel around so it’s not hurting my hip. “What were you doing out?” I go.

He ignores the question. “I got in his car,” he goes. I can see him watching me. “He gave me a blow job.” The light in his mouth moves a little. “You hear me?”

“Yeah,” I go. “Why’d you let him?”

He shrugs. “I wanted to know what it felt like.” Then he gets up and hoists the duffel higher on his back. “Come on.”

“Where’re we going?” I whisper.

We go back down the stairs and along some corridors and turn a different way. That leads to another locked door. We turn back and go up some other stairs. The duffels are heavy.

At the top there’s another door. He hesitates, and then puts his hand on it. It opens. “The door down to the art storeroom,” he goes. “I figured they’d leave it open.”

It’s two hallways to Flake’s locker. He opens it and stuffs the duffel in standing up. It barely fits and we have to tuck in part of it so it doesn’t catch on the door. The next hallway over we find mine. Flake holds the flashlight while I work the combination. Of course I can’t get it to open.

“Gimme that,” he finally says. “What’s the combination?”

It works on the first try for him. We go back out the way we came.

We don’t talk until we’re off school property. “You forgot your shit for us to bury,” he tells me.

“Yeah,” I go.

“I won’t bury mine, then, either,” he goes after a minute. “They’ll find it anyway.”

When I get home I stand outside my house in the front yard and look at it. The moon’s out. The trees make black patterns over one side with their shadows.

It’s four o’clock. I think about Flake in the car with the old guy.

I head down my driveway. My sneakers are still making those rubbery sounds on the pavement. I look at our bushes. I look at the garage. I look at our mosh-volleyball court.

I stand in the back porch for a minute, getting used to the indoor darkness. My feet are wet from the grass. I get a drink of water and go upstairs. I stand around in the upstairs hallway and then peep into Gus’s room. He’s on his back with a hand above his head. He’s holding his new Nerf against his side with the other hand.

I put a finger near his face on the pillow. When I go to leave, he says, “What’re you doing?”

“Shhh,” I tell him. I come back to the bed and get down on one knee beside his head.

“Is it dark out?” he wants to know.

“Yeah, it’s still dark,” I whisper.

“Is Mommy up?” he goes.

“Mommy’s sleeping,” I go.

“What’re you doing?” he goes.

“I’m just going to sleep,” I tell him. “You go to sleep, too.” I pull the covers up to his chest. “You like your Nerf ball?” I go.

“Yeah,” he goes.

“This one’s pink,” he tells me.

I clear my throat. One of his shoes is on the windowsill for some reason.

“Don’t be sad,” he tells me.

“That’s what everybody says,” I go. “Why does everybody say that?”

“I don’t know,” he says.

“I just get so mad sometimes,” I tell him. I get mad just thinking about it. I make a fist and push it as hard as I can into my hip.

He holds up his ball and I tuck it back under the covers. “How’s your ear?” I go.

“It hurts,” he says.

“Does it hurt now?” I ask him.

“No,” he says.

We don’t say anything for a few minutes. He rolls onto his side. He’s starting to get drowsy again.