Project X Read Online Free PDF Page A

explains.
    â€œA severed head,” I go. “A dying weasel. Four tickets to the Super Bowl.”
    â€œA pile of human—poop,” she finally says.
    My dad laughs.
    â€œEncourage him,” my mom goes.
    â€œWhat do you, think I did it?” I go.
    â€œYou or your friend,” she says.
    â€œBecause I didn’t do anything,” I go.
    â€œDid you or did you not have some words with Mr. Pengue when you were playing out there?” she asks.
    â€œWe didn’t have words with anybody,” I go. Meanwhile the pizza’s cold again.
    â€œI don’t need you all sullen. I’m asking you a question, is all,” she says.
    â€œIt’s cold again,” my dad goes, dropping the pizza back onto the dish we warmed it up in, like that’s the perfect end of a perfect day.
    My mom stands up. She wasn’t annoyed before, but she’s getting there. “Give me your pizza, hon,” she says to Gus. “I’ll warm it up.”
    â€œIt’s warm,” he says. He’s still holding his head where he hit it.
    â€œNo it isn’t.” She puts her finger in it. “See?”
    â€œThere she goes again with the finger,” my dad says.
    â€œIt’s warm,” Gus says. His other hand’s got his sippy cup in his mouth, and he’s talking around it.
    â€œNo it isn’t,” she says.
    â€œI want noodles,” he says.
    â€œWe’re not having noodles,” she says. “We’re having pizza.”
    â€œPizza?” he says.
    â€œPizza,”
she says. “This. Right here. With the cheese and the sauce.” She takes the dish over and slides it into the microwave. There’s a big clatter. She cranks the thing.
    â€œI think we’re gonna have soup when that’s finished,” my dad says to me.
    She looks at him like if she had a fork, she’d pin his hand to the table.
    Gus is watching us, still sipping away.
    â€œYou take a dump on Pengue’s table?” my dad asks. He doesn’t seem amused.
    â€œ
No
,” I go.
    â€œYour friend the Nightrider?”
    â€œNo,” I go.
    â€œDon’t lie,” my mom says.
    â€œHe may have,” I go.
    Gus’s cup makes little noises.
    â€œWhat do you
want
from me?” I finally go.
    â€œRe
lax
,” my dad says, and Gus starts to cry.
    â€œ
Stop
it,” my mom tells me. “What’s the
matter
with you?”
    My head feels like the main parts of it are blowing in different directions.
    Gus wipes his eyes with the side of his sippy cup. He can stop crying like on a dime.
    They’re both just looking at me, because that’s how it is: everything’s my fault. If anything goes wrong anywhere, I’m to blame. Keep that in mind. My dad’s giving me his I-maybe-a-cool-dad-but-that-doesn’t-mean-I’m-a-pushover face. My mom’s giving me her I-try-to-understand-can’t-you-meet-me-halfway face. I have to book. I have to get out of there. I have to get out of my chair and up the stairs at a high rate of speed. At least I don’t break anything on the way out. “Come back here!” my dad yells.
    â€œWhat’s the matter with him?” I hear my mom ask again, scared. I slip taking the turn in the upstairs hallway and end up in my room on my hands and knees.
    â€œHe doesn’t even like music,” I hear her say, after a minute. “What kid his age doesn’t like music?”
    Gus says something. I get off my hands and knees.
    â€œHe’s not mad,” my dad tells him.
    â€œDo you know anybody his age who doesn’t like music?” my mom asks.
    I can’t hear what he answers.
    I shut the door and get in bed with my clothes on. Now I’m sweating. I’m sweating through my pants. My body’s all haywire. I pull the covers over my head. It’s daylight out and I’ve got the covers over my head. What
is
wrong with me?
    â€œYou’re fucked