Project X by Jim Shepard Read Free Book Online Page A

looking at my little slip of paper like I can’t read three numbers. During study period I ask for another locker. The janitor comes over to check it out, opens it no problem, and walks away. The second day I bang the thing around, kick it. Knee it. Some of the kids around me cheer. The third day I try to pretend I’ve already gotten what I need.
    â€œWhere’s your text, young man?” my English teacher wants to know.
    â€œIn my locker,” I tell her.
    â€œWhat good is it doing you there?” she asks.
    â€œSometimes I wonder,” I tell her.
    â€œDid you hear me?” she goes. “What’s it doing in your locker?”
    I just sit there. The kid across from me holds up his book, to show me what it looks like.
    â€œWhy is it in your locker?” she goes.
    The second hand makes its little jerks around the clock on the wall. Under the clock there’s a construction-paper sign that says WHO OR WHOM???
    â€œDo you want to explain why to the principal?” she asks me.
    â€œHe can’t get his locker open,” some kid finally says from the back of the room. Everybody laughs.
    â€œIs that really true?” the teacher goes.
    â€œOh, fuck me,” I say under my breath.
    When I look up she’s got the kind of expression you get when somebody drops something huge on your foot.
    Nobody says anything for a minute. A boy in the back coughs. There’s a plant on her desk, and a picture of Paris. You can tell because of the Eiffel Tower. There’s a carved wood sign like businessmen have that stands up facing us. The sign says YES. AND . . . ?
    I have a headache that goes from one ear to the other and over the top and down my neck. I wipe and wipe and wipe my eyes. “I guess you heard that, huh?” I finally go.
    â€œMs. Meier says you’re not to come back to her room until you’re ready to act like a human being,” the vice principal tells me. He’s a young guy and his jacket’s too short for his arms. His shirtsleeves stick out like half a foot. I’ve got nothing against him.
    I’m in his chair. He took the one that’s supposed to be for the kids.
    â€œWhen do you think that might be?” he wants to know.
    I tilt my head and lift my shoulders.
    â€œCan you use words?” he asks.
    â€œI’m ready now,” I tell him.
    He leans forward and looks sideways, like the room goes on a long way in that direction. Then he looks back at me. “Anything you want to tell me?” he goes. “You having trouble at home?”
    I think about it. “Yeah, I guess,” I go.
    â€œYou want to talk to me about it?” he asks.
    â€œI don’t think so,” I go.
    He starts looking sideways again. He’s got Extreme Sports photos like parasurfing and heliskiing over his bookcase. “I have to tell you, a lot of us are starting to worry about you,” he tells me.
    â€œA lot of us?” I go.
    â€œMs. Meier, myself, Mrs. Pruitt . . .” he goes. He makes it clear he could keep going. “So what happened today?” he asks.
    â€œI can’t get my locker open,” I tell him.
    The period bell rings and there’s the usual thunder in the hall. Kids are yelling and laughing and locker doors are banging and crashing. No other kid in the school has a problem with his locker.
    He’s holding up his thumb and scraping away at the top of it. “You can’t get your locker open,” he finally says.
    â€œWhy does everyone repeat what I say?” I go.
    â€œIs that what’s supposed to’ve happened today?” he says.
    â€œIt’s not
supposed
to’ve happened,” I tell him. “It
did
happen. I couldn’t get my locker open.”
    He keeps looking at me.
    â€œI worry about it all the time. Getting up, getting on the bus, coming down the hall, I’m
worried,
” I tell him. “I don’t sleep, thinking about it.”
    â€œWhy