Free Project X by Jim Shepard Page B

it.”
    â€œI don’t know,” I go.
    â€œWell, then come up with someplace else,” he says, like it’s settled.
    I don’t like it but it’s the best plan we’ve got right now. “What’d Charles Lindbergh do?” I go.
    â€œWhy don’t you read a book and find out?” he goes.
    â€œI just told you about Ed Gein,” I go.
    â€œEver hear of the
Spirit of St. Louis
?” he goes.
    â€œYeah,” I go.
    â€œSo there you go,” he says.
    â€œSo I don’t like sports,” I go.
    â€œGod, help me,” he goes. “Mother of God, help me.”
    â€œOh, yeah. Poor you,” I go.
    When his dad drives off to pick up some takeout we head into the garage to investigate his tools.
    We start with his big red toolbox. He keeps it locked, but even I’ve seen where he hides the key. We root around in it. Everything’s big and heavy, so digging around makes an unbelievable amount of noise.
    â€œWhat’re you boys doing out there?” his mom calls from the kitchen window.
    â€œMaking trouble,” Flake calls back.
    â€œYou better not be in your father’s things,” she calls.
    He stops rooting for minute, to let her wander into another room.
    â€œWhat is this?” I ask. I hold it up.
    â€œI have no clue,” he goes. “Put it back.”
    There’s nothing it looks like we can use. Needle-nose pliers, regular pliers, a big red wrench I can barely lift, two hammers, two measuring tapes. Little plastic boxes of screws. Rubber gloves.
    He grinds his teeth like he does when he’s starting to get pissed. I barely get my fingers out of there before he slams the top shut.
    â€œWhat about up here?” I point at the particleboard his dad hung on the wall. It has holes for hooks and big stuff hanging from the hooks. Oversized scissors, a T square, an old hand drill, electrical tape, duct tape. Bungee cords. I take one down. “What about this?” I go.
    â€œHow long’s it take to take off bungee cords?” he goes. He makes a disgusted noise that sounds like a push on a bicycle pump. “How about Scotch tape?” he goes.
    â€œOkay. It was just a question,” I go.
    â€œYou could slide like a rake handle across the door and through the bar,” I tell him a minute later.
    â€œI thought of that,” he tells me. “You can also just slide it right back out again.”
    â€œYeah,” I go.
    He sits on the cement, checking for wet spots from oil or antifreeze or whatever else is leaking out of his father’s car. I squat next to him.
    â€œWorried about your pants?” he goes.
    â€œI got like one nonqueer pair of pants,” I go. “I’m not getting shit all over them for no reason.”
    â€œWhat’s up with that?” he goes. “Why can’t you buy another pair a pants?”
    â€œRoddy?” his mom calls. It sounds like she’s farther away than the kitchen.
    â€œRight here,” Flake calls back.
    We look up at the particleboard and all around the rest of the garage.
    â€œI was always jealous of kids who could take like two sticks and build something that would catch a raccoon,” he goes.
    I know how he feels. “It sucks that we can’t think of anything,” I tell him. It really does.
    â€œAll we’re trying to do is keep a lot of people in one place while we shoot at them,” he goes. “Why’s it have to be so hard?”
    His dad’s car pulls into the driveway. He accelerates when he sees Flake sitting in the middle of his garage and then he brakes before he reaches us.
    â€œSuppose your brakes didn’t work?” Flake goes when his dad gets out of the car.
    His dad hefts the takeout bag onto his shoulder like he’s starting a long hike. “My point entirely,” he goes.
    â€œWhat’s that mean?” I ask once his dad’s in the house.
    â€œWho knows, with him?”