Read Online Project X by Jim Shepard - Free Book Online Page A

see it. He smiles at having everybody’s attention, and tilts his head to get the thought to roll from one end to the other. “Don’t look at me,” he goes.
    â€œWe’re not looking at you,” my dad tells him.
    â€œMom?” he goes.
    â€œYeah, honey?” my mom says. She really is a good mother.
    â€œDo I have to go to school tomorrow?” he goes. He calls preschool school.
    I’m sadder than usual for some reason. “Now what’s the matter with you?” my dad says to me. It makes me jump.
    â€œDo I just have like a sign on my face today?” I go.
    â€œYou have a glass head,” my dad says.
    â€œRemember when we used to tell you that when you were little?” my mom asks.
    â€œI have a glass head,” Gus goes.
    â€œYou sure do,” my dad tells him.
    I
do
remember when they used to tell me that, when I was little. I remember one Easter and a guy in a rabbit suit, but I don’t know why. “So what am I thinking right now?” I ask them.
    â€œWhat’re you thinking right now,” my dad says, giving it some thought. “You’re thinking, ‘Why don’t they leave me alone?’ ” Gus takes a bite of mashed potatoes and holds his mouth open so I can see. “That’s it, isn’t it?” my dad goes.
    â€œNo,” I go.
    â€œThat was it,” he goes.
    â€œWhat am I thinking now?” I go. I think: Kalashnikov.
    â€œYou’re thinking, ‘Why do I have to eat with them?’ ” my mom goes.
    I laugh, and it cheers her up, but it makes me sadder than ever. Gus is still smiling. I’m pretty sure the world would be a better place if I was dead.
    â€œGlass head,” my mom goes.
    â€œI don’t know how you guys do it,” I finally go.
    â€œThere’re six doors in and out,” Flake tells me. We’re in our fort under the underpass. It’s raining and the dirt smells wet. Every so often he ducks his head out to make sure nobody’s around. “Four double doors and the two side doors near the fences.”
    â€œSix?” I go. That doesn’t sound right.
    â€œYeah, six,” he goes.
    â€œNot eight?” I go.
    â€œNo,” he goes. “Six. I counted.” He goes back to drawing in the dirt.
    â€œThe two in the front,” I go.
    â€œRight, I counted those as one,” he goes.
    â€œTwo in the back,” I go. He stops talking and gives me his slit-eyed look. “Four the bus side,” I go. “And then the two single doors.”
    â€œThat’s six,” he goes, after I stop. He taps his stick on the drawing.
    â€œI thought there were more,” I go.
    He looks at me the way he looks at kids who volunteer to be crossing guards.
    â€œ
Sor
ry,” I go.
    â€œHow do you even find the bus in the morning? Can I ask you that?” he goes.
    â€œLike you never made a mistake,” I go.
    â€œYou’re a mistake,” he goes.
    â€œYour mother’s a mistake,” I go.
    â€œGod, I wish I could do this by myself,” he goes.
    â€œWhy don’tcha?” I go.
    We both shut up for a few minutes. It’s raining harder and water is leaking in in little streams. I make a dam with my sneaker and keep one from getting to my butt.
    Flake scratches the back of his head and looks at his drawing.
    â€œSo we try to seal up all the doors somehow?” I go.
    â€œThat’s the problem,” he goes. “We gotta get from there to there to there to there.” He bounces his stick around the drawing. “We got to do it pretty fast, and we got to do it so they can’t be opened that fast.”
    We both look at the outline in the dirt: a big box of an L with little slashes for the doors.
    â€œWe could split up,” I go.
    â€œYeah, well, even then,” he goes.
    We get discouraged, sitting there. Flake shifts around and stares at the thing with his arms on his knees and his fists on