The Instructions (125 page)

‘Tonight, my place. Secret meeting for Israelites,’ lots of people, that night, said Shlomo was a self-hating Jew. That he didn’t come because he hated Israelites. But I told them no. I defended Shlomo.

I thought that was too much, them calling him that name. That’s a bad thing to call someone. It’s one of the worst things to be.

And, really, I thought Shlomo probably just didn’t want to hang out with us, but now you tell me what you’re telling me, and I’m thinking you’re saying maybe Shlomo Cohen is, after all, a self-hating Jew. Like, you know, like Noam Chomsky, or Philip Roth or whoever, so, I mean, is that what you’re saying?”

I said, Philip Roth’s not a self-hating Jew. I said, No one with half a brain even considers that a possibility anymore. It’s not 1178

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even a conversation. Shlomo Cohen, though—yeah, he must be.

I guess I’m saying he must be. It’s the only explanation, right?

Shlomo Cohen is a self-hating Jew, so when all of a sudden the Israelite Shovers start making a big deal out of being Israelites, he wants to distinguish himself from them, I’m saying. He wants everyone to know that even though his name’s Shlomo Cohen, he is not on the same side as you’d think—he is not on the side of starred scarves, loud Israeliteness, and—

“Except but then he’d attack Berman. Berman’s the one who started the scarf-starring.”

You’d think so, right? But Berman’s a big kid, I said, and Shlomo, as we all saw yesterday in the two-hill field, is a serious bleeder, and if all you thought you needed to do to get your message across was beat up a conspicuously Israelite kid at Aptakisic, a conspicuously Israelite kid who’s a known associate of all the other Aptakisic Israelites, and so a known associate of the Israelite Shovers, you wouldn’t pick Berman. Not if you didn’t know how to fight. And not if you were a giant coward.

If you didn’t know how to fight, and were a giant coward, you’d pick the smallest kid you could to inflict your message, the kid who’d put up the least resistance.

“Shpritzy,” said Ally.

The violin whiz himself.

“Okay. I’m sold. You’ve sold me on that. Shlomo’s a self-hating Jew and Berman starred the scarves, so Shlomo attacked Shpritzy, told him say hi to Berman, and that’s why the Five 1179

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came looking for you. Okay. We’re sold. Me and Googy the both.

But we’re still not sold on not attacking the Shovers, and—”

Googy grabbed hair from the back of his own head and smashed his face into the seatback in front of him.

“Exactly,” Ally said. “Why did you mess up Blake Acer so bad?”

Acer was writing WE DAMAGE WE bombs.

“You’re
against
the Side of Damage?”

I lead the Side of Damage.

“That’s what we heard, but—”

Acer’s not on it.

“But he’s not the only one not on it who writes WE DAMAGE

WE.”

You?

“Well… yes.”

Don’t worry, I said. I said, Write it all you want.

“I’m on the Side of Damage?”

You’re an Israelite, I said.

“Israelites are on the Side of Damage?”

Some are, I said, but that doesn’t matter.

“You’re really confusing me. If I can write WE DAMAGE

WE whether or not I’m on the Side of Damage, why can’t Acer?”

Israelites are my brothers.

“Acer’s not.”

Acer’s a Shover.

“So tell me again why we shouldn’t attack the Shovers.”

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Who said you shouldn’t?

“You said you didn’t have a plan.”

I don’t have a plan.

“And then you said they weren’t antisemites, the Shovers.”

They’re not, I said.

“But they’re dickheads, you’re saying.”

Total dickheads. Arrangement gizmos.

“So we should attack them for that?”

You’d have my blessing.

“But no further instructions.”

I said, I taught you how to build weapons and use them. I told you to protect each other. I’m telling you you’re Israelites. What better instruction do you need? Damage dickheads and gizmos whenever you get the chance, and protect each other while you do it. Adonai will take care of the rest.

“That’s all?”

What more do you want, Ally?

“Will you help us?”

I
have
helped you. I
am
helping you.

“But will you lead us?”

Am I leading you right now?

“I don’t know.”

Then neither do I.

“Riddles.”

I don’t speak in riddles, Ally. Riddles are for pagans. If you’re following me, I’m leading you.

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“I’m following you.”

Good, I said.

And I saw that it was.

The rest of the ride I sat by Dingle and Salvador. Dingle said, “Bro,”

and banged fists with me. Salvador offered me a lime-wedge. I sucked it and tried not to wince, but did. “Almost,” said Salvador.

“You almost had it,” said Dingle. “For real. You want to see me bleed? I won’t even charge you.”

That’s okay, I said.

“What’s your favorite Palahniuk?”

I’ve never read him.

“Bro,” said Dingle.

What? I said.

“Dude,” he said.

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The parking lot was thick with unfamiliar vehicles and non-scholastic personnel. Long-haired guys wearing leather eased a giant spotlight down an eighteen-wheeler’s trailer-ramp. Men chokered with chunky headphones erected broadcast dishes in the beds of tricked-out pickups. It wasn’t that cold outside, just a touch below freezing, but the air was damp from the morning drizzle, and the first breath I took after stepping off the bus gave me a one-shake chill and came out white.

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Main Man and Vincie played slapslap on the curb. Scott kept saying “Smack.” I didn’t see June anywhere.

“Smack,” Scott said, and Vincie pulled his hands away.

I came up beside them. None of us wore gloves.

“Smackattack,” said Main Man, and he scored again.

Vincie cocked his chin at me and winked ≠ “I am letting Main Man win,” though I thought it did, and I didn’t believe him—

his flinching seemed authentically defensive. He said to Mookus,

“Four–one you, but that’s the last time I fall for it.”

He fell for it once more, or seemed to, and then it was his turn to slap.

Main Man said, “Smack.” Vincie balked, lost the point.

“That’s cheap,” he said.

Haha, I said.

Main Man looked past me, saying nothing.

It would take him another minute to rout Vincie 13–5.

Between the clouds, strips of sky shone green. Wind blew low and hard and sudden enough to tousle the loops of our shoelace-knots. A shallow puddle on the pavement spread.

“Smack-ack,” said Main Man, and the game was over.

Vincie cocked his chin and winked.

He beat you sound, I said.

“Fuck does that have to do with anything?” Vincie said. He cocked his chin once more and I saw that his winking wasn’t conspiratorial. It was a blinker-action for the chin-cocking, which had, itself, been a brandishment: there was a mouth-shaped welt 1183

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near his collarbone. That’s what I was supposed to look at.

Nice hatermark, I said.

“It’s called a hickey when you’re in love.”

Wouldn’t that be when it’s called a lovebite? I said.

“If you’re some kinda gothy fucken sap, maybe,” said Vincie.

“You ever get one, though? You should really get one from June, man. Starla Flangent, I’ll tell you
what
. When Vincie held her hand she felt e lec tric ity.”

Benji, I said.

“Fuck does Benji have to do with anything?”

When
Benji
held her hand.

“I don’t think you’re right.”

I’m right.

“We’re talking about the same song?”

‘The Love You Save,’ I said. I said, Jackson 5.

“Whatever, Gurion. All I’m saying is getting a hickey like this one—I want to play drums for a Motown outfit. I want to rob banks. Listen—”

“No you
fucken
listen!” Scott said.

“Okay,” said Vincie.

Okay, I said.

We’d never heard Main Man curse before, and his eyeballs were trembling like Mr. Klapper’s, as if straining to take in a sight too large for Main Man’s field of vision to accommodate. He lifted his left foot a couple inches off the pavement, said, “I’m singing today?

I’m singing today,” then lost his balance and set the foot back down.

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What’s wrong? I asked him.

“I forgot,” he said. Then he did the foot thing again.

“He’s nervous,” Vincie said, “cause his parents aren’t coming.”

That true, Scott? I said.

Main Man wouldn’t look at me.

“His little brother Jimmy called me last night to tell me,” said Vincie. “I never even knew there was a little brother Jimmy. What a nice little brother. You got a nice little brother, Scott. Jimmy called and told me their parents had to go to some long-weekend Christian retreat thing in Wisconsin today, and Scott forgot all about it til they reminded him last night during dinner when he told them he was psyched for them to see him perform. But I say: So what? I say: So fucken what? I say: Better no parents, especially real Christian ones, since how many girls are gonna be in that audience, and girls are the ones that give hickies, not parents. So no parents isn’t something to be nervous about, right? So he shouldn’t be nervous about that, Gurion, should he?”

No, I said. You shouldn’t, Scott.

“If he’s gonna be nervous, he should be nervous cause he’s about to get famous, right?”

Right, I said.

“Why he should be nervous is cause, starting second period, every Jenny and Ashley at Aptakisic’s gonna chase him through the hallways
Hard Day’s Night
–style for the rest of his life just to touch his fucken shirt, right?”

Exactly, I said.

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“‘Scott Mookus! Oh my God! It’s Scott fucken Mookus! I want to touch his shirt! That’s a shirt he once sweated in! I want to touch his shirt and then suck on my hand and make him a part of me!’”

Vincie put his fist out, but Main Man wouldn’t bang it.

Main Man, I said, Vincie’s telling you—

“Am I still singing today?” he said. “Do I still get to sing?”

Yeah, I said. Of course, I said. I said, Don’t worry. What’re you worried about?

He handed me a letter in an unmarked envelope. I didn’t need to open it to know from who.

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11/16&17/06

Gurion,

For the past few hours, I’ve been thinking I’d call you as soon as I figured out what to say, but I haven’t been able to figure that out, and it’s almost ten, and I hate the phone anyway, so instead I’ve decided to write you this letter. I still can’t figure out what to say, though. I can’t figure out the right way to start. I know THIS
isn’t it, but I’m thinking: Well, at least it’s honest so far. At least you can be honest. Try and stay honest.

We’ve had about forty imaginary conversations since sundown, and none of them have gone the way I wanted them to. You call me one name then I call you the same name and then we start yelling, or I deliver some high-flown speech that explains pretty much everything but for what it’s supposed to. One’s about the meaning 1186

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of love. Another’s about the trappings of loyalty. A third’s about friendship, a fourth about enmity. You get the idea. Anyway, after each speech, you call me out. You say, “That’s all just great, Benji.

You’re a really smart guy, what a talent for discourse, what a way you have with words, but why the fuck did you stand there in the two-hill field, crying like a fucken baby instead of helping me?” And I tell you, “I thought I just explained that, man.” And you tell me I didn’t, and I see that you’re right, and then I launch into some other irrelevant soliloquy.

I’d like to tell you, “I froze,” but that sounds like I’m saying I didn’t have a choice. I did have a choice, I knowI had a choice, and what’s more is I knew I had a choice at the time. I chose at the time to stand there and watch. And I could say, “I wish I hadn’t made that choice,” but that doesn’t really hit the mark either. It’s more like I wish that I hadn’t been me, a person who’d have made that same choice every time. I might as well be wishing we lived on the sun.

So. What.

You ever know a kid who says he’s in love, and then a little time passes, maybe even a lot of time, and he tells you he’s fallen out of love? Instead of just saying, “Look, I thought I was in love, but it turns out I was wrong,” this kid twists the whole thing around.

Because you can’t fall out of love, right? You fall in love forever.

Any kid who says otherwise—he’s either a fool or a snake. He’s misunderstanding the meaning of the word, or twisting the meaning deliberately. I think usually the latter, he’s usually a snake. Either way, his word is worthless. And I don’t want to be that kid. I don’t 1187

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want to be anything like that kid. You don’t either. I know you that well, at least. We’re alike in that way.

With loyalty, it’s different, though. You and I, I mean. We’re different on that. Loyalty’s as permanent as being in love for me.

Not so for you, which is probably one reason why none of my imaginary speeches to imaginary Gurions were able to get across what needed getting across.

This morning, in C-hall, I asked you what would happen if a friend of yours got into a fight with someone you had given your loyalty but not your friendship. Your answer came fast and easy.

You said you’d side with your friend.

I don’t get that, though. For me, if you give your loyalty to someone once, you’ve given it forever. For me, in order to be truly loyal, you have to be loyal despite preference and hardship—even despite betrayal by the person you’ve given your loyalty to. Which means you can’t let your heart govern your loyalties, right? Your heart’s the first thing you have to lock down. Because your heart’s what bucks the hardest against the loyalties that are hardest to maintain; and those loyalties—the ones that are the hardest to maintain—their maintenance is the only real measure of your loyalty.