Project X by Jim Shepard Read Free Book Online Page B

don’t you get a new locker?” His voice is quiet, like I’m shitting him.
    â€œThe janitor wouldn’t give me one,” I tell him.
    He puts his elbow on his knee and his chin in his hand.
    â€œIt’s embarrassing,” I tell him.
    â€œOkay,” he goes.
    â€œKids my age hate being embarrassed,” I tell him.
    The noise in the hall is pretty much gone by this point. Everybody’s at their next class. He’s got a framed list on the table next to me. It says,
Group Needs: Cooperation, Creativity,
Sensitivity, Respect, Passion, Freedom of Speech, Change of
Pace, Group Work, Clear Explanations, Fun.
    â€œAm I gonna get a note for next period?” I ask him.
    He puts his fingers together under his nose like he’s praying.
    â€œBecause I’m gonna need a note,” I go.
    He gets up from the kid’s chair and comes around behind his desk. He picks up a framed picture of his dog. The frame has little plastic bones around the outside. All right, he finally says. Detention for a week. Starting today.
    â€œI’m telling the
truth,
here,” I go.
    â€œYeah. Our interview’s over, Edwin,” he goes.
    â€œWhatever,” I tell him.
    â€œTell your parents I’ll be in touch,” he goes.
    My eyes feel like marbles they’re so tired. I put my hands under my glasses and cover them up. My fingers feel cool on my eye sockets.
    â€œYou hear me?” he says.
    â€œI may keep it a surprise,” I go.
    He laughs and shakes his head. “God,” he says. “Kids like you used to get their butt kicked when I was a kid.”
    â€œThey still do,” I tell him.
    There are four other kids in detention with me, two ninth-graders, and Tawanda, and another kid who always pulls his sweatshirt hood completely over his head and face. The monitor hasn’t shown up yet.
    â€œWhat’re you doing here?” I go to Tawanda. The ninth-graders ignore us. One’s cleaning his fingernails with a credit card. There’s a photo on the wall of a kid staring into space. Underneath it says, THE MIND IS A TERRIBLE THING TO WASTE.
    â€œYou know,” Tawanda goes. “Just bein’ my old self.”
    The monitor comes in and gives us some rules and sits and starts doing his grade sheets. I pull out some homework. I’m the farthest back, near the window. The sweatshirt kid just sits there, a hood. One of the ninth-graders goes, “She took an entire grade off just for
that
?” There’s a little scratching noise and when I look out Flake’s doing his constipated monkey. I can’t hear the inka inka inka through the glass. He makes a few signals that I can’t figure out and then loses interest and leaves.
    I’m behind on what I’m supposed to do for the World of Color project. There’s paper and markers in my pack, so I could do that. I can’t tell if Tawanda’s working on it or not. She’s too far up front. The idea sucks but it’s our fault. Michelle wanted to do a poster of a rainforest tree with people of all different colors as fruit. Tawanda made a face and wanted to know if she meant heads hanging down like apples. They didn’t have to hang like apples, Michelle told her. I asked if they could be severed heads. Michelle asked if we had any better ideas. Tawanda said she didn’t. They both looked at me. “You tell me what to draw, I’ll draw it,” I told them. So we’re supposed to be doing the apples.
    We already started it. Some of the heads are already on the tree. My red Indian looks like Lava Man.
    The ninth-grader in front of me tears the piece of paper he’s been working on from his binder and passes it back. I’m so surprised that I take it and look at it. It says, “Asshole asshole asshole asshole asshole asshole asshole asshole asshole asshole asshole asshole asshole asshole asshole,” all the way down the page. The whole thing is filled.