The Instructions (145 page)

ADAM LEVIN

THE INSTRUCTIONS

I abhorred Chunkstyle’s, and if Chunkstyle then left his table join us, I’d have certainly welcomed it. And I figured the same would’ve gone for the soldiers; that the only suck thing was that none had behaved like their Chunkstyle analogue—that no Israelite who wasn’t Jelly or Eliyahu moved to my left to be nearer the Side; that no soldier on the Side had moved to my right to be nearer the Israelites. This seemed like a fairly easy thing to repair and I was planning on doing just that in a moment, but standing where I was, amid this thick huddle, I started feeling warm—too warm, too crowded, all too breathed on—and I found myself looking through a gap between torsos to get some relief, some sense of greater space, and my eyes fell on Main Man, sitting on the floor, alone with no soundgun.

I said, Where’s Scott’s megaphone?

“Exactly,” said Nakamook.

Immediately I saw that I’d made a mistake.

“One of them has it,” Jelly said, chinning air at the Israelites.

“Them?” came a voice from among the ex-Shovers. “Who’s this
them
?” another voice said. “One of
us
says
them
!” “Well look who she’s dating.” “What’s one of us
doing with someone like
him
?”

“Come again?” Benji said.

No
don’t
come again, I said.
Don’t
come again. First thing’s first: whoever has the megaphone—

Ally handed it over. I brandished it at Main Man. He wouldn’t come and take it.

“He insulted him,” Jelly said.

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“I didn’t mean to insult him!” protested Berman. “I just didn’t think he should sing what he was singing.”

You didn’t think he should—

“No one did, Gurion. None of us, at least. He was singing some slow thing by Radiohead. That’s no kind of Israelite victory music.”

So you took his megaphone?

“He
gave
it to us.”

“
After
you insulted him,” Nakamook said.

Eliyahu put a hand on Benji’s shoulder. “In fairness,” he said to me, “I don’t think Aleph meant to insult Main Man. He said he didn’t like the songs and, yes, it’s true, he might have been a little nicer about it, but—”

Wait, I said.

At least I thought I’d said it. Maybe I hadn’t. If I had, no one heard me; no one was waiting.

“Who’s Aleph?” said Berman.

“You,” said Eliyahu.

“My name’s Josh Berman.”

“You want me to call you Josh Berman, it’s done—calm down.

Calm down, Josh Berman.”

“What’s Aleph mean, though?” Josh Berman said.

“Yeah, what the hell’s it mean?” voices on my right said.

“What’s it mean?” “What’s it mean?”

Wait, I said.

“What’s it
mean
?” said Eliyahu. “It’s a letter. First letter of the 1376

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Hebrew alphabet, the aleph-bet—like an A, but silent.”

“That wasn’t my question.”

“That wasn’t his question.” “Answer his question.” “Don’t dodge the question.”

“Pipe the fuck down,” Vincie Portite told them. “He was trying to explain,” another voice to my left said. “Just let him talk.”

Wait wait, I said.

“Why’d you call me Aleph?” Berman said to Brooklyn.

“Josh Berman, please. Don’t be so testy. I’m not your enemy.

Prior to this I’ve only seen you in the hallways, maybe once or twice on the late-bus too. I didn’t even know you were an Israelite, you know? Let alone a Josh Berman. So I called you Aleph. Like an A. Like a variable. That’s all,” he said.

“Oh,” Berman said. “Like an alpha,” he said.

“Sure. Like alpha,” Eliyahu told him.

“You know? I like that,” Berman said. “I like it a lot. Sorry I got all—”

“No, forget it,” Eliyahu said. “We just took the school down together, yes? Anything lousy between any of us here—it needs,”

he said, “to be forgiven.”

And at the sound of those words,
to be forgiven,
nearly every single person in our fifty-head huddle grew visibly relaxed—

shoulders falling, face muscles slackening, bodies leaning forward,
toward
each other… there’d even been an audible collective sigh. And I, to my own great surprise, sighed along.

Finding out that Berman—ex-Shover leader, June’s ex-boy-1377

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friend, maker of nasty remarks to Jelly’s sister, shooter of nibs into Nakamook’s neck, basher into floors of Nakamook’s face, inadvertant insulter of Main Man’s repertoire… The information that Berman was the same boy as Aleph had performed on me in ways that I couldn’t have predicted. I pictured the following in rapid succession: Berman watching Baxter knock Brooklyn’s hat off; Berman crawling the floor beneath Benji’s legs. But then, instead of thinking: Here’s the mouse who stood by doing nothing while his brother got humiliated, or, Here’s the coward who’d rather crawl on his belly than stand up and fight, what I thought was: Poor Berman, poor Josh Berman.

Not poor
Aleph
—Poor Josh Berman. Coward Aleph had been faceless, scholars. Poor Josh Berman had Berman’s face. And maybe it was just as simple as that: his having a face. Or maybe it was even simpler than that: poor Josh Berman’s face wasn’t just any face; poor Josh Berman’s was an Israelite face. Here the face of an Israelite crawling on his belly, there the face of an Israelite avenging himself. I’d’ve probably done the same, had I been him. Had I crawled on my belly before Benji or anyone, I’d avenge myself too—take the first shot I could, and the second, the third. And I saw that what I’d done was forgiven him.

I’d forgiven Berman for having been Aleph and forgiven Aleph for having been Berman. Just like that. And I saw it was good.

And it was true that Benji had long been despised by most of Aptakisic, and that Vincie had long been despised as well, and the others on the Side by association, and true the ex-Shovers 1378

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hadn’t themselves been so beloved either, neither by their fellow Israelites nor by the Side, and it was true, finally, that I had been wrong—that there
was
, at present,
animosity here, enmity even—but I nonetheless believed what Eliyahu believed: Because all those soldiers on the Side were my brothers, and because all the Israelite soldiers were my brothers, and because I had led them and because I was leading them, and because we had, all of us, fought together, I believed that they could—I believed that
we
could—dissolve any and all enmity between us.

And I saw that the others believed it too. Brooklyn had said,

“To be forgiven,” and all of us leaned and slackened and sighed.

All except for Benji, who made the noise “Tch.”

To which Josh Berman responded with “Tch.”

And everyone stiffened, postures adversarial, their collective intake of breath a long hiss.

And I saw that one of them had to be removed. It didn’t matter which—at least it didn’t seem to. I watched Berman’s eyes go to Nakamook’s hand, which was visibly throbbing. Berman, no doubt, saw an exploitable weakness. I saw my out: Nurse Clyde’s Office to get fixed up. Benji’d go quiet. He’d lose no face, nor would the Side—no one would.

Yet I couldn’t take Benji away just yet—he’d see right through me if I just said: Benji, your hand needs attention. I needed a spoon to replace the baby’s knife. Something needed to happen to change the subject. Something relevant, preferably urgent. An act 1379

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of God. The ceiling falling in. An earthquake. A fire. Something that didn’t emanate from me.

Brooklyn, baruch Hashem, was aware of this.

“Gurion,” he said. “Any word from the scholars?”

“What scholars?” said Berman, eyes off Benji’s hand now.

And I realized the Israelites didn’t know about the scholars—

I hadn’t told them. They’d helped attack the school without any assurance they’d get away with it. And then they must have become afraid, and gathered together on the bleachers afraid, which must have made the Side afraid of
them
—for the Side was greatly outnumbered by them—and sensing the Side was afraid of them, the Israelites must have grown afraid of the Side, and by the time I’d returned from the firemen to the gym, the 64

I’d left behind were but 44 and 20.

That the Israelites didn’t know about the scholars—this was a good thing. A great thing, even. For not only
could
I tell them, which would quell their fears, but I
needed
to tell them. It was urgent I tell them. And anyone could see that, Benji included.

“What scholars?” they said. “Which scholars?” “Who scholars?”

An army of scholars is coming, I said.

“When?” they said.

Soon, I said. They’re supposed to arrive at eleven o’clock, but the el’s moving slow and the weather’s probably delaying them, too, plus they might have missed all the rush-hour Metras. They’ll get here, though, they’ll take us out of here, you’ll all be safe, and you’ll blame this on me.

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“Who will believe us?”

Who
won’t
believe you? Isn’t it true?

“In a
way
it’s true.”

A way that everyone’ll want to believe, I told them. It’s never the rioters who go to prison—it’s only the guy with the megaphone inciting them. Who’s got the megaphone?

“You’ve got the megaphone.”

All of your parents will be dying to believe you. All of our teachers will be dying to believe you. Nobody will want to believe anything else. Not even Brodsky, who’s sitting there, bound, hearing us conspire.

“All due respect,” an ex-Shover said. “How do we know that you’ll fess up to everything?”

You don’t, I said, but that doesn’t matter. I don’t need to fess up to anything to protect you. There’s seventy-nine of you and one of me. What’s anyone’s word against ten contradictions, let alone nearly eighty? This school is dead, I said, and we’re the ones who deaded it. Now we just have to hold it til the scholars arrive. Do what I say, and that won’t be a problem, but we have to move fast, and we can’t fight each other. We are, every one of us, brothers.

No one disagreed, at least not aloud, and Josh Berman said,

“So what should we do?”

First of all, I said, you should give me some room here. I’m breathing more brotherly breath than I’d like to.

Laughing much harder than the comment warranted, the soldiers all back-stepped and opened up the huddle. They stretched 1381

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and they yawned and they cracked their knuckles.

I asked which ones had their cellies on them. Seven Israelites raised their hands. I told six of them to call their mothers and repeat the following: “Mom, this is [insert soldier’s name]. I’m calling to tell you two things. First of all, I’m safe. Secondly, Gurion ben-Judah says to tell you we’ll all be safe as long as the authorities stay fifty yards back. I have to go now.” I programmed Botha’s number into the seventh soldier’s phone and handed the phone to Eliyahu.

That’s the only number you answer, I told him. And that’s the only number you call, okay?

“Okay,” he said. “Look.” He pointed over my shoulder.

Boshka and Chunkstyle were entering the gym, pushing television carts.

“Where’s the outlets?” said Chunkstyle.

Find them, I said.

Once the callers finished calling, I had them turn off their phones. I gave the phones to June and she put them in her bag.

“Hi,” June said.

Hi, June, I said.

She leaned in close. “I’m worried,” she whispered.

We’ll be fine now, I said.

She squeezed my hand.

A phone started ringing.

“That’s mine,” said an Israelite. “The power button’s jiggly.”

I took out its battery.

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“But what if that was my mom calling back?”

“What
if
?” said Eliyahu.

“She’s worried,” said the kid.

And the rest of the callers said the same of their own moms, and many of the non-callers asked why they couldn’t call their moms.

I said, There’s no way to make it so your mothers don’t worry.

All
of your mothers. We’ll be on TV soon if we aren’t already.

Word will spread. They’ll be worried either way.

“That is suck.”

Less suck, I said, than if the cops come in here. You’ve called your moms, you haven’t told them any lies: you’re safe and you’ll stay safe as long as the cops stay back. Your moms will make it known to the cops that you’re safe. Your moms will make it known that your safety’s conditional, and your moms and the cops will think you’re hostages. With me so far?

They all seemed to be with me.

Soon, I told them, the cops’ll get their numbers straight.

They’ll figure out exactly how many people are in here. If I let everyone call and you all talk like hostages, the cops will come to suspect we have a lot fewer soldiers than we want them to think.

They’ll be quicker to enter. That’s why the rest of you can’t call your moms.

“When do we get our phones back?” said the callers.

Later, I said.

“What if we promise—”

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“Enough already!” Eliyahu shouted. “You believe in Gurion, or you—”

And Berman cut him off, shouting even louder, and although he spoke toward the same end as Eliyahu, Eliyahu’s eyes flashed, burning for a second. “Are you nice little Jewish boys missing your mothers, or soldiers of Israel!?” Berman yelled.

They said they were soldiers and stopped asking questions, and they even seemed to forget about the phones, but Chunkstyle and Boshka had turned on the news, and what passed for their forgetting was at least as much caused by that.

“All we get is NBC,” Anna Boshka announced. “Everything else is the snow of purest static.” No one seemed to mind. Each screen was split between footage of the battle, and a shot of the bus circle filled with flashing lights. Along the bottom, crawled STUDENT UPRISING CLAIMS AT LEAST ONE LIFE…