Project X by Jim Shepard

Flake goes. He gets off the floor and wipes his hands.
    It’s a nice day so his dad and mom come back outside with the takeout and a half-gallon of ginger ale and some plastic cups. They spread out on the picnic table. They don’t ask if we want anything, so we sit in the grass and look over at them. Flake chews on individual blades and then a dandelion stalk. The sun feels good on my back.
    â€œYour parents ever try and get you interested in sports?” his dad calls over to me.
    I shrug.
    He shakes his head. It looks like they’re having quesadillas. “Music?” he asks.
    My mom got me an acoustic guitar one year for Christmas. Gus used to fill it with dirt and drag it around the yard on a string. “Nah,” I go.
    â€œWe tried to get Roddy excited about music,” his dad goes.
    â€œYou got me one of those pianos for like one-year-olds,” Flake goes.
    â€œYou want a real piano?” his mom asks.
    â€œNo,” Flake goes.
    â€œWe’ll get you a real piano if you want one,” his mom says.
    â€œI don’t want one,” he goes.
    â€œAll right, then,” his dad says.
    â€œGod,” Flake goes, under his breath.
    â€œRoddy’s grandmother was a wonderful musician,” his dad goes.
    Flake’s looking off into the neighbor’s yard.
    â€œWas she?” I finally go.
    â€œShe could’ve been a professional,” his dad goes.
    â€œAll she ever did was complain about her health,” Flake goes to me. “And she lived to be like a hundred and two.”
    â€œWhat’d he say?” his dad goes.
    â€œWhat do you care?” Flake goes.
    â€œWhat’d you
say
to him?” his dad goes.
    â€œHe was telling me about her,” I go.
    He looks skeptical but keeps eating. Flake’s mom is off in her own world, looking at her ginger ale.
    â€œHow did I end up with a kid with no ambition?” his dad finally goes. His mom shakes her head, like she doesn’t know.
    â€œDon’t worry about the no ambition part,” Flake tells him.
    â€œYou got some?” his dad asks.
    â€œI’m working on it,” Flake goes.
    â€œYou don’t look like you’re working on it,” his dad says.
    â€œI’m working on it right now,” Flake goes.
    I whack his leg to shut him up. He tears up more grass and won’t look at me.
    His dad spreads out the quesadilla’s wrapping with the palm of his hand. “Glad to hear it,” he finally goes.

6
    I come over to Flake’s the next day after school and he’s in his garage sitting on the floor doing something with his hand. He doesn’t answer when I say hey from the driveway.
    I ask what he’s doing. Coming in out of the sunlight it’s hard to see at first. He’s holding a can of spray paint an inch from the back of his hand and spraying the same spot. The paint’s blue. It’s dripping onto the cement under his hand.
    â€œWhat’re you
doing
?” I go.
    He keeps spraying. The smell’s making his eyes water.
    â€œWhat’re you
doing
?” I go.
    He stops and looks at the spot he’s been spraying.
    â€œYour dad’s gonna be pissed about the paint on the floor,” I tell him.
    He looks at it. It’s not a very big puddle, but still.
    â€œA few years ago I was trying to make a model,” he tells me. He’s got his eye right up to the part of his hand where the paint is. “When I was spray painting it, I found something out.”
    â€œSo?” I finally go. “What’d you find out?”
    He puts the nozzle up against the part he’s already painted on his hand and sprays again. “You can fuck up your skin like this,” he goes. “If you do it long enough.”
    I crouch next to him. Like that’ll help me figure out what he thinks he’s doing. Up close, the smell from the paint’s so intense that I feel like I’m squinting when I’m