Project X Read Free

class?”
    â€œThat’d be good,” I tell them.
    â€œHe’s not that funny,” Michelle says.
    â€œInka inka inka inka,” Flake tells her.
    They both get up, holding their trays. “Don’t forget,” Michelle says.
    â€œWe want
you
,” Tawanda says, pointing at me. “For our trio.”
    â€œWe want you,” Flake says after they’ve gone to sit at a table full of girls. All of them are talking and looking over at us. Michelle gives the back of her pants a tug.
    â€œYou da man,” Flake says. “Tawanda wants to touch your art.”
    The whole table’s still looking and laughing and Flake points at his crotch and then at them and then at his mouth. One of the girls nods and waves him over.
    â€œWouldja draw me a picture?” Flake asks me. Then he grits his teeth and acts sleepy. “Inka inka inka inka.”
    â€œSo I was thinking,” my mother says after school, standing in my room, on my clothes, waiting for me and Flake to stop what we’re doing. She just walks in whether I’ve got the door shut or not. The lock doesn’t work because I Jackie Chan-ed the knob a month ago when I was pissed and my dad said he wasn’t going to fix it.
    â€œGet off my clothes,” I go.
    â€œYou don’t want people walking on your clothes, get them off the floor,” she tells me.
    â€œOuch,” Flake goes. “Zinger, Dude.”
    â€œI don’t need smart comments from you either, Roddy,” she tells him, and Flake makes like he’s zipping his lip.
    She rubs her eyes with her fingertips. She takes her time doing it. Flake and I line up the fat girl in the plaid jumper and miss her but tip the frame, and the whole thing falls off the windowsill. Lately we’ve been aiming at my little brother’s preschool class pictures and seeing who we could hit from across the room with our potato guns. You dig the barrel into the potato before you shoot. We’re always arguing about who hit what, but what’s good is that the potato plug leaves a wet spot. So you can check.
    â€œYou’re going to have little bits of potato everywhere,” my mom says.
    â€œThis is really an outside kind of toy,” Flake agrees. It’s cracks like that that nearly get him thrown out of the house. One time my dad did throw him out.
    â€œSo you want to know what I was thinking?” my mom goes.
    â€œThe skinny kid with the glasses,” Flake says. He digs his barrel into the potato and points.
    â€œThe one with the nose?” I go.
    â€œNo, the one with the—whaddaya mean?” Flake goes. “They all got noses.”
    â€œSo go ahead,” I tell him.
    â€œMr. Hanratty,” my mom goes.
    â€œYou missed,” I tell him.
    â€œI know that,” Flake says.
    â€œI’m going to count to three,” my mom goes.
    â€œWhat?” I go. “What were you thinking?”
    â€œI was thinking you guys might like to go out for that martial arts team or whatever that they’re putting together,” she goes. “Who’s doing it, the soccer coach? It sounds right up your guys’ alley.”
    â€œWe don’t have an alley,” Flake goes.
    â€œYou guys could really use some extracurriculars,” she goes.
    â€œI know. We should be on the debate team,” Flake goes.
    â€œYou’d be great,” I tell him. “Whatever anybody said, you’d be like, ‘Yeah? Your mother.’ ”
    â€œWhat about you?” Flake goes. “Anytime anybody made a good point you’d be like—” He scrinches up his face like he’s gonna cry.
    â€œShut up,” I go.
    My mom rubs her eyes again. When she stops, she looks sad. “Well, the thing they sent home is on the kitchen table,” she finally says. “If you ever do decide you want to get out of this room.”
    She shuts the door and goes downstairs. I load up another round of