“Fuck you,” Hermie goes.
My dad’s car pulls in and almost runs over our feet. My dad gets out. He stands there with his hands on his hips. He’s got his jacket and tie on.
“Your dad’s here,” Flake goes.
My dad locks the car and walks over to us.
“Nice ride, Homey,” Hermie tells him.
“Who’s this?” my dad asks. He points at Hermie.
“Friend of ours,” I tell him.
“He have a name?” he asks.
“Hermie,” I go.
“Herman,” Hermie says.
My dad heads into the convenience store, shaking his head. He must’ve just gotten out of class. We all watch him do his thing inside. When he comes out he’s got a gallon of milk. “Now you’re hanging around parking lots?” he asks me.
“Library’s closed,” Flake goes.
“Get in,” my dad says. “I’ll give you a ride home.”
“I just ate,” I go. I show him the Slim Jim wrapper behind me.
“Get in,” he says.
“We get a ride, too?” Hermie wants to know.
“Say good-bye to the boys,” my dad goes.
“So what’ve you two been up to?” my mom says at dinner. She’s glopping out mashed potatoes onto everybody’s dish.
“Nothing,” I tell her. “Can I have more?”
“You’re always planning something,” she says.
I look at her. “Why’d you say that?” I go.
“I don’t know,” she says. “I hear you up there in your room, murmuring away. Planning on getting even with this guy or that guy.”
“We’re not planning on getting even with anybody,” I go.
The bell rings and she gets up and takes the corn bread out of the oven and brings it to the table. We have to let it cool.
“Or doing your photosynthesis project,” she goes. “Roddy’s mother told me about that.”
“It’s a real project,” I tell her.
“Well, I look forward to seeing it,” she says.
We eat our dinner. Gus sings a song to himself.
“What’ve you learned so far?” she asks. “About photosynthesis?”
“Some strange shit,” I go.
“Don’t swear in front of your brother,” she says.
“Sorry,” I tell her.
“He can swear,” Gus goes.
“No, he can’t,” my dad says.
“Can I swear?” Gus asks.
“No, you can’t,” my dad goes.
My mom’s looking at me like we’re sharing a secret. It weirds me out. She looks tired and worried.
“We got a nice call from the vice principal,” my dad goes.
“Mom?” Gus goes.
“What’d he want?” I go.
“He wants us all to meet,” my dad goes.
“Mom?” Gus goes.
“So we’ll all meet,” I go.
“I thought we talked about this,” my dad goes. My mom remembers the corn bread and starts cutting it up and dishing it out.
“Mom?” Gus goes.
“You have a headache again?” my dad goes.
“Yeah,” I tell him. I must’ve been rubbing my forehead.
“You’ve been getting a lot of those lately,” my dad goes. “Maybe we’ll have to have that looked at.”
“Somebody should look at something,” I go.
“Mom?” Gus goes.
“Yeah, honey?” my mom goes.
His little brain locks. You can see it. He smiles at having everybody’s attention, and tilts his head to get the thought to roll from one end to the other. “Don’t look at me,” he goes.
“We’re not looking at you,” my dad tells him.
“Mom?” he goes.
“Yeah, honey?” my mom says. She really is a good mother.
“Do I have to go to school tomorrow?” he goes. He calls preschool school.
I’m sadder than usual for some reason. “Now what’s the matter with you?” my dad says to me. It makes me jump.
“Do I just have like a sign on my face today?” I go.
“You have a glass head,” my dad says.
“Remember when we used to tell you that when you were little?” my mom asks.
“I have a glass head,” Gus goes.
“You sure do,” my dad tells him.
I do remember when they used to tell me that, when I was little. I remember one Easter and a guy in a rabbit suit, but I don’t know why. “So what am I thinking right now?” I ask them.
“What’re you thinking right now,” my dad says, giving it some thought. “You’re thinking, ‘Why don’t they leave me alone?’ ” Gus takes a bite of mashed potatoes and holds his mouth open so I can see. “That’s it, isn’t it?” my dad goes.
“No,” I go.
“That was it,” he goes.
“What am I thinking now?” I go. I think: Kalashnikov.
“You’re thinking, ‘Why do I have to eat with them?’ ” my mom goes.
I laugh, and it cheers her up, but it makes me sadder than ever. Gus is still smiling. I’m pretty sure the world would be a better place if I was dead.
“Glass head,” my mom goes.
“I don’t know how you guys do it,” I finally go.
“There’re six doors in and out,” Flake tells me. We’re in our fort under the underpass. It’s raining and the dirt smells wet. Every so often he ducks his head out to make sure nobody’s around. “Four double doors and the two side doors near the fences.”
“Six?” I go. That doesn’t sound right.
“Yeah, six,” he goes.
“Not eight?” I go.
“No,” he goes. “Six. I counted.” He goes back to drawing in the dirt.
“The two in the front,” I go.
“Right, I counted those as one,” he goes.
“Two in the back,” I go. He stops talking and gives me his slit-eyed look. “Four the bus side,” I go. “And then the two single doors.”
“That’s six,” he goes, after I stop. He taps his stick on the drawing.
“I thought there were more,” I go.
He looks at me the way he looks at kids who volunteer to be crossing guards.
“Sorry,” I go.
“How do you even find the bus in the morning? Can I ask you that?” he goes.
“Like you never made a mistake,” I go.
“You’re a mistake,” he goes.
“Your mother’s a mistake,” I go.
“God, I wish I could do this by myself,” he goes.
“Why don’tcha?” I go.
We both shut up for a few minutes. It’s raining harder and water is leaking in in little streams. I make a dam with my sneaker and keep one from getting to my butt.
Flake scratches the back of his head and looks at his drawing.
“So we try to seal up all the doors somehow?” I go.
“That’s the problem,” he goes. “We gotta get from there to there to there to there.” He bounces his stick around the drawing. “We got to do it pretty fast, and we got to do it so they can’t be opened that fast.”
We both look at the outline in the dirt: a big box of an L with little slashes for the doors.
“We could split up,” I go.
“Yeah, well, even then,” he goes.
We get discouraged, sitting there. Flake shifts around and stares at the thing with his arms on his knees and his fists on both sides of his face.
“Where’s the gym?” I go.
“Over here,” he goes. He leaves the stick on it. He yawns. It makes me yawn. He farts. I make a face and he waves his arm to move the air. “What do you care where the gym is?” he goes.
“The gym only has two sets of double doors and that little door,” I tell him.
He’s still got his fists on his face. His head starts moving, up and down. “During assembly,” he goes.
“Maybe we could do something with the little door ahead of time,” I go.
He keeps nodding, looking at the dirt.