Project X by Jim Shepard

“Asshole,” he whispers.
    â€œNo talking,” the monitor says.
    â€œAsshole,” the kid whispers again, after a minute.
    â€œMr. Hanratty,” the monitor says. “What did I just say?”
    â€œ
I
didn’t say anything,” I go.
    â€œCan I move my seat?” the ninth-grader asks.
    â€œLeave him alone, Mr. Hanratty,” the monitor says.
    I’ve still got the sheet of
assholes
in my hand. It’s a pretty amazing thing, when you think about it.
    The ninth-grader raises his hand.
    â€œWhat is it, Mr. Sfikas?” the monitor wants to know.
    â€œHe’s swearing at me,” the kid goes. “Can you tell him to stop?”
    â€œHe keeps putting his hand down his pants and grabbing himself,” I go. “He keeps doing this thing with his hand.”
    The kid turns around with his mouth open.
    â€œHis whole chair moves,” I go. “It’s gross.”
    The other ninth-grader’s laughing. Tawanda’s turned all the way around in her chair. The kid gets a megadeath look on his face. “I’m gonna fucking kill you,” he whispers. He says it like he can’t really believe it himself.
    â€œHe’s doing it again,” I tell the monitor.
    We get put into separate empty classrooms and told to not move. Mine has a big sign that says BLACK AND WHITE AND READ ALL OVER and has reviews of books by sixth-graders pinned up on the walls all around the room.
    The monitor looks in every ten minutes or so. When he lets me out at four-thirty, the kid’s waiting on the side steps with his friend. One of the custodians breaks it up. But before he gets there my shirt’s torn off and one of my teeth gets knocked through my lip.
    â€œSo I know where that kid lives,” Hermie tells me a couple days later between classes. He’s wearing black-and-white camo pants. I didn’t even know they made them that small.
    â€œCan I help you?” I go. I’m wrestling with my combination lock. I’m in no mood for anything.
    â€œSpin it all the way around three times before you start,” he tells me.
    I spin it once and then give it a yank. The whole locker shakes.
    â€œYour mouth looks all fucked up,” he says.
    â€œUp yours, midget,” I tell him. The hall’s starting to thin out. The few lockers that are still open get shut.
    My lower lip’s so swollen that it feels like I could touch my nose with it. When I pass down the hall, kids look at it. The nice girls flinch and the mean ones talk about it.
    â€œYou are such a tube steak,” he goes. He takes off to make it to his class. I make a caveman noise and bang my head against the locker and try it once more. It doesn’t open. I leave my head against it. The bell rings. I spin the thing three times and try again, and it pops right open.
    Before detention that afternoon he sticks his head into the detention room and gives me a little wave.
    â€œYou seen Freddy Budzinski?” he goes. His hair’s a rat’s nest on top but crew-cutty on the sides. It makes his neck look like a stick.
    â€œYou seen him or not?” he goes.
    â€œWhat do you want?” I ask.
    â€œI’ll go slow,” he tells me. “Have you seen Freddy Budzinski?”
    â€œI have no idea who you’re talking about,” I tell him.
    He looks around like he’s thinking about buying the place, and then checks down the hall to see if the monitor’s coming. “This your last day of detention?”
    I take out my math book and flop it open.
    â€œI’m gonna kill Freddy Budzinski when I see him,” he goes.
    â€œIt’s very hard to concentrate with all the noise in here,” I tell him.
    He flops in a chair next to me and sits still for a minute, spreading his legs as wide as he can. He starts drumming on the desktop with his thumbs.
    â€œI really like that sound,” I tell him. “Keep making that sound.”
    He stops and