Project X

11

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 inside 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.

He shakes his head, still thinking about whatever the other thing is.

“Roddy? Homework?” his mom calls up the stairs. We both jump.

“He’s just going,” Flake calls.

We listen for her leaving the bottom of the stairs.

“Do we know how much kick these guns have?” I go.

“Listen to you: Joe Pro,” he says. “How much kick.”

“Well, who knows,” I tell him. The headache makes me squint.

“Just hold on to it,” he tells me back. “Don’t hold it like a faggot and you’ll be fine.”

“I’m not gonna hold it like a faggot,” I tell him.

“Then we’ll be fine,” he goes. “Look, you better go.”

I get out of the chair. “What about the thing with Hermie?” I go.

He does a thing with his hand like bugs are around his head. “We gotta stall him for a week,” he goes. “Lemme think about it.”

“You think about it, too,” he tells me, after I say I’ll see him later.

I don’t come up with anything that night. Instead I spend a lot of time thinking about Bethany. I make up this little scene where she comes over and I go, “Hi. What are you doing here?” and she doesn’t say anything but she pulls me into my garage and then puts her hand on my face.

I whisper to myself. A hard-on that’s so hard it hurts comes and goes. We haven’t figured out what we’re going to carry the guns in, either.

When I get off the bus at school I’m so tired I have trouble focusing.

“What’s the matter with you?” Flake goes.

“Your mother kept me up,” I go.

“Your mother kept my dog up,” Flake goes. He puts his arm around me like we’re the best of pals and walks me over to the steps where we broke in.

“What’s the longest anybody ever had a headache?” I go.

“So listen,” he goes. “I think I solved the Hermie problem.”

“What’d you do?” I ask.

“Stop yawning,” he goes.

“I can’t help it,” I go.

“What if we tell him we’ll get him something supercool that he can fight Budzinski with?” he goes.

“Like what?” I go.

“I don’t know. Something supercool,” he goes.

“Like what?” I go.

“How should I know,” he goes. “Like nimchucks.”

“Nimchucks,” I go, thinking about it.

“We don’t have to actually get any,” he goes. “We just say we will.”

“Why can’t Budzinski take his nimchucks away from him and beat on him like he did with the stick?” I go.

“Ah, shit,” Flake goes.

“That’s what Hermie’ll say,” I tell him.

“Well, you come up with something, then,” he says.

“I’m just saying what Hermie’ll say,” I tell him.

The homeroom bell rings. “So come up with something,” Flake says again. We walk over and shove into the group that’s heading in. “I’m doing all the work here.”

When I see Hermie in the hall between first and second period he’s got a black eye.

“Shit,” Flake says when I see him before third period. “You talk to him?”

“I just saw him,” I tell him.

“We gotta find him at lunch,” Flake says. “And we gotta talk to him after school.”

I get my math test back.

“Hi, Edwin,” Bethany goes as I’m turning a corner. I almost go back.

My locker flies open like I never had any trouble with it in my life.

At lunch Hermie’s standing there with a tray by himself like he already knew what we wanted.

“Hey there, Herman,” Flake says. “Long time no see.”

“Hey,” Hermie goes.

“What happened to your eye?” Flake goes. “Walk into somebody’s boner?”

“No,” Hermie goes.

“They got brownies,” I tell him.

“I saw,” he goes.

“Wanna sit with us?” Flake asks.

Hermie shrugs. While we’re standing around looking for a place, Dickhead goes by and dumps an apple core on my tray.

There are no completely empty tables, so we sit with some ninth-grade girls. “Do you mind?” one of them says when Flake’s pack leans on her feet under the table.

“Wanna do my hair?” she asks another girl at the table.

“Yeah, maybe in French,” the girl tells her.

“So did we tell you we talked to Budzinski?” Flake says to Hermie.

“He told me,” Hermie goes.

“He do that?” Flake asks, about the black eye. Hermie eats his mac and cheese and looks like he wants to drop the subject.

“Son of a bitch,” Flake says, like there’d been some agreement. “I’m gonna talk to that little prick.”

“Don’t talk to him anymore,” Hermie tells him. He touches his eye with his fingertip and eats more mac and cheese with his other hand.

“Well, he can’t just keep beating on you,” Flake goes.

“Don’t worry about me,” Hermie says.

Flake gives me a look. “So listen,” he says back. “We got some good news. We’ll tell you after school.”

“Why can’t you tell me now?” Hermie asks.

Flake nods at the girls.

“What do they care?” Hermie wants to know. It’s a good question.

Flake holds up his hand like we’ll all just have to wait. Hermie gives up and finishes his lunch.

“So what’s your good news?” he says after school. He doesn’t seem so thrilled just to be hanging out with us.

I haven’t talked to Flake since lunch so I don’t know. I haven’t come up with anything.

He looks at me and sees how much help I’m gonna be. He says to Hermie that we came up with the perfect thing to get even with Budzinski. It’s gonna really screw him good.

“What is it?” Hermie wants to know. He doesn’t sound excited.

“I don’t want to give it away, completely,” Flake tells him. “It’s pretty complicated to set up.”

Hermie just keeps looking at him.

“Anyway, it’ll take like two days,” Flake goes. “And it has to start on Monday. You in?”

“In what?” Hermie finally says.

“On this thing?” Flake goes. “You wanna get back at him or not?”

“Yeah,” Hermie says.

“All right, then,” Flake goes.

“That’s your good news?” Hermie asks.

“That’s our good news,” Flake says, frustrated.

“Why’s it have to start on Monday?” Hermie asks.

Flake makes a face. “I’ll tell you then,” he goes.

“Whatever. See you later,” Hermie goes. He waves to me and takes off. We watch him walk down the street by himself. He doesn’t look up once.

“Shit,” Flake says.

“Maybe I’ll talk to him again,” I go. “I don’t think he’s gonna do anything.”

“Shit,” Flake says.

I look at the phone so much after dinner that my dad finally congratulates me on my new hobby. I look at it all night but never call Hermie. Once it’s quiet, I go to bed and fall asleep and wake up after twenty minutes. Twenty minutes. I pick up the clock and hold it close to my face because it seems hard to believe.

I leave the light off. I go around the room looking at all the stuff like I’m deciding what to take on a trip. Some stuff it takes a while to figure out with only the light from the window. It’s like it becomes itself while I stare at it.

Then I go across the hall and check on Gus. The floor’s cold. His foot’s sticking out from under the blanket. I stand in my parents’ room and look at them. Birds that sing at night make noise outside their window.

I read the newspaper downstairs in the living room with one light on. There’s an article on chicken. The front page has a picture of some old guys in suits and ties running from something.

We’re going backwards, I realize sitting there. Now even midget sixth-graders think we’re assholes.

Back up in bed I watch the ceiling get brighter.

“Good morning,” my mom says when I come downstairs.

“Good morning,” I go.

“What do you want for breakfast?” she asks.

“The usual,” I go. She laughs.

She spends time trying to get me to eat something. I end up with a buttered English muffin on a dish in front of me. I ask for some orange juice, which cheers her up.

“Where’s Dad?” I go.

“Office,” she goes. “He’s got a big lecture he’s nervous about. Faculty lecture.”

I ask her what a faculty lecture is. It’s a lecture for the whole faculty, not just people in economics.

I pick up the English muffin, put it back down again, and drink some orange juice instead. “When is it?” I go.

“Friday,” she goes. She pours some beans into the coffee grinder. “I don’t know why, but I haven’t been feeling like coffee lately.”

“Where’s Gus?” I go.

“Being a sleepyhead,” she goes.

She drops into a seat across the kitchen table and nudges my dish closer to me. “Why do you always pick at your hand like that?” she goes.

“I don’t know,” I go. I stop doing it.

“So you want to hear my plan?” she asks.

She imitates me, with my mouth open.

“What’s your plan?” I ask.

“We go to the beach this weekend,” she says. “It’s supposed to be in the seventies. The water should still be warm enough for you guys to swim.”

“That’s a good idea,” I tell her.

“You’re still sleepy, too,” she says.

“What beach?” I ask.

“That one you like,” she tells me.

“By Grandma’s old place?” I go.

“That’s the one,” she goes.

“It takes like four hours to get there,” I go.

She holds my hand and turns it over and looks at the palm. “This is part of the surprise,” she goes. “I say we pick your father up and we’re all ready to go right after his lecture. Let ’im throw his tweed jacket in the trunk.”

“When’s his lecture over?” I go.

“Ten or so,” she goes. “It’s reading period.”

Little areas of my head feel cold, then tingly. “This Friday?” I go. “I got school.”

“We’ll take you out early,” she goes. “Get Out of Jail Free.”

“Unless you’re dying to stay in school,” she says when I don’t say anything.

Gus calls down the stairs, wanting to know where his sippy cup is.

“I don’t know, hon,” she calls back up to him. “What’d you do with it?”

I should say I have a test. Or something. My shoulders start bobbing like I’m using them to think.

“You’re gonna be late,” she goes. She tips her head at the clock. When Gus calls her again I get my pack and go.

When I see Flake I tell him that my mom wants to take me out of school on Friday to go to the beach. He nods. He’s excited because he had the idea of scratching You’re Next on the mirror in the boys’ bathroom. He did it with a roofing nail. He says it looks cool. “Check it out,” he goes. “It creeps you out. You look at your face and that’s what’s written over it.”

It would creep me out, I tell him.

“So you talk to Hermie?” he goes.

He doesn’t look fazed when I shake my head.

“I don’t think he’ll do anything before Friday,” he says. “If he does anything at all.”

The bell for homeroom rings but neither of us gets up off the step for a minute. The sky’s a nice blue and there’s a breeze. Off on the monkey bars a squirrel’s sitting on his hind legs and has his head up like he’s sunning his face.

Nobody seems like they’re in a hurry.

Weensie’s in our way on the stairs. “Hey,” he says to me, before going up ahead of us.

“What was that about?” Flake asks.

“You got me,” I tell him.

Before third period I go look at Flake’s You’re Next on the mirror. It does look cool. But while I’m washing my hands in front of it, a kid comes and goes without even noticing it.

When I come out of the bathroom, Tawanda waves me over. She’s with a group of black girls who think the whole thing’s funny. They stand there talking trash to each other while I walk over.

“Michelle talk to you?” she goes.

“About what?” I go.

“Ms. Arnold talk to you?” she goes.

“Nobody talks to me,” I tell her.

“You don’t have conversations,” one of the black girls says.

“I don’t have conversations,” I go.

“I’m talking to you,” Tawanda goes.

“She’s talking to you,” the black girl says.

I wish I could think of something funny to say back. “Uh,” I end up saying.

“So turns out Ms. Arnold loves our World of Color thing,” Tawanda says.

“Yeah, she said,” I go.

“So you did talk to her,” Tawanda goes.

“She said it a while ago,” I tell her.

“No, she really loves it,” Tawanda goes. “She’s entering it in the regional fair for the art prize.”

“The tree with the heads in it?” I ask. Some of the black girls laugh.

“She wants to call it The Fruit of Human Endeavor,” Tawanda goes.

“I know,” she goes when she sees my expression. “They always do something queer at the last second so you can’t enjoy it.”

A small kid walks on his knees from one classroom across the hall to the other. We all watch.

“This is a weird fucking school,” one of the other black girls says.

“She said she especially liked the heads with the helmets and the Fish-Man head,” Tawanda tells me.

“I did those heads,” I go.

“I know,” Tawanda goes. “That’s why I’m telling you. You’re a star.”

The other girls are talking to each other by this point.

“Thanks for telling me,” I go.

“No problem,” she goes.

“See you,” I go.

“So I don’t wanna hear about you working with other people,” she tells me. “On projects. Just remember who knew you when.”

“C’mon,” I go, and she turns back to the other girls. All through third period I’m surprised to find myself smiling about it.

Ms. Arnold catches me in the hall before lunch and says that if we win the regional prize, I get my name in the paper. “You ever wonder what it’d be like to see your name in the paper?” she asks.

“Yeah,” I go.

“Did you ever think it might happen?” she asks.

“Yeah,” I go.

She smiles, like she wasn’t expecting that. “Well, you tell your parents,” she goes. “It’s already a big honor, you know, just to get this far.”

“I know,” I tell her.

“It’s great that it was a cooperative project, too,” she goes.

“I guess,” I go.

She seems like she wants to say something else. If she does, she doesn’t say it. She runs her fingernail along the edge of her lipstick.

“Well, thanks again,” I tell her.

She puts her hand up to my cheek, just like I imagined Bethany doing it.

“Edwin Hanratty,” she says, like I was a place she used to love to visit. “What a strange little guy you are.”

“What happened to you?” Flake says when he sees me in the lunch line. “Why’re you holding your cheek?”

In social studies they’re doing the Anasazis. When the period’s over I have one sentence written in my notebook: “The Anasazis had their own religion, but it wasn’t that complex.”

After school I don’t take the bus and look for Flake instead. When I see him he’s already a block down the street. I call him and he stops and scratches his head so hard I can hear it from where I am.

“What’re you doing?” I ask when I catch up.

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

“You gotta lot of things to do?” I go.

“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?