The Instructions (134 page)

“KABLAM! KABLAM! KABLAM! KABLAM!” Fingershapes

darkened his pitted, mottled cheeks.

The paperclip snapped and jammed the keyhole. Nakamook punched a hole in the wall. My A was going D. We needed projectiles. The pep rally would end in thirty-five minutes. I nearly yelled for everyone to quiet down so I could think, but I saw that all the talk of make-believe weapons and targets of vengeance was good for morale. The louder the fight-ready among us planned and speculated, the more distracted the crying kids were getting from their lingering regrets about Monitor Botha—most of them weren’t even crying anymore—so I didn’t yell at anyone. I just tried to think. A lever, I thought. A lever, a lever. I looked for a lever.

Salvador Curtis chucked a spent limewedge. “We’re acting symbolically,” he said to everyone. “We’re here to dump the favored beverages of our oppressors on the floor of the tyrannical gymnasium of their palace.”

Dingle slapped himself more.

“Why you slapping yourself?”

“Gets my blood up quick. Why you always suck limes?”

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“Builds tongue-strength,” said Salvador.

“Well maybe you should save those limes,” Dingle said.

I found a metal yardstick on a shelf in a cabinet.

“‘We’ll rightcrossalize, and you… and you… and you fat
li-p
alize!’” shouted Forrest Kenilworth, smacking the table. “We will crippleize all of you demonizing kaisers!” squealed Anna Boshka. “Why I’m saying you should save those limes is cause we could probably use those limes for the citric acid in case we don’t have enough orange juice,” said Dingle, “cause it’s the citric acid that—” “Shut up about it already,” Jenny Mangey chimed in. “That movie’s bullshit.” “Total bullshit,” said Ronrico. “Brad Pitt’s a limp sister.” “And explosives are beside the point,” Salvador said, “because we’re doing Sag Harbor all over again, but on land, in this very building.” “
Boston
harbor, numbtongue, and we’re spilling our Cokes in the sink. Not in the gym. Not even on the carpeting,” said Jelly Rothstein. “We’re not doing
anything
symbolic,” Ben-Wa said. “That’s right,” said Vincie. “We’re gonna
hurt
some people.” “
Hurt
some people,” Ronrico said, “and I’m calling dibs on funny Blonde Lonnie friend.”

The yardstick bent in the coinbox doorgap. I chucked it aside.

In the Flunky’s back pocket was Botha’s prosthesis. I snatched it out, wedged the tip of the claw where the yardstick had been, pushed it hard, then pushed it harder; I got a little give but the lock wouldn’t bust.

“Call dibs on Blonde Lonnie all you want,” said Vincie,

“but that guy’s Big Ending’s.” “When I flying-roundhouseal-1264

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ate,’” Chunkstyle offered, “‘you guys blackeyealize.” “What’s Big Ending?” Ronrico said. “Five nice chubbos with auto-dibs on Lonnie.” “Why,” said Mangey, “do chubbos got autodibs?”

“Isadore Momo,” Vincie told her. “Isadore Momo?” Ronrico said.

Benji and the Flunky turned the machine onto its side while I dragged the table a couple feet closer.

“Isadore Momo. Remember? In gym?
You
were there.

Hermaphrodite? Nippo? Big Ending’s Momo’s gang.” “Oh! Fair enough! Didn’t know he had a gang. But then I got Co-Captain Baxter then.” “You gotta be kidding me. Baxter’s Eliyahu’s. Don’t get in his way.” “Vincie’s right. Baxter messed up dude’s hat.”

“So then how about this: BryGuy Maholtz.” “Maholtz is mine!”

“Get over it, Throop,” Jenny Mangey said, “cause Ronrico just called dibs on Maholtz for both of us.” “And I called dibs on Maholtz two minutes ago.” “No one heard you, Fulton. Plus I called Maholtz
three
minutes ago.” “No one heard you either, Stevie.” “That’s what I’m saying. If your quiet dibs count, you
don’t
got dibs because
I
got dibs.” “Painalize!” “Best of luck to all of you on BryGuy Maholtz.” “Why you being sarcastic?”

“Cause half the country’s after Maholtz.” “That’s why I called dibs!” “Half the country’s not here, man. They can’t hear your dibs.” “So dibs then on Slokum.” “You’re kidding me, Ronrico.”

“I call dibs on Boyst—” “Really?
Really?
You think Gurion gives a fuck about your dibs on that guy? You think
I
give a fuck about your dibs on that guy? Not to mention Benji?” “But Benji’s got Slokum dibs.” “I don’t think he’ll feel the need to 1265

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limit his dibs.” “Beatassalize!” “Maimalize!” “Maim works fine, I think.”

Benji jammed the claw in the coinbox doorgap, wiggled and angled it until it caught stiff. “Flunky,” Benji said. The Flunky got on the table. He jumped up high, came down heavy on Botha’s claw’s arm-part.

Something groaned but it wasn’t quite enough.

“Shlomo Cohen dibs!” “Shlomo Cohen’s the Five’s.” “And what is the Five?” “Those kids from the field.” “They’re on our side?” “I think so—yeah.” “I want a piece of basketball.” “Try to think bigger.” “‘Bigger,’ she says. Think bigger like
how
?”

“Like how we got
the whole Arrangement
in one single place.” “I should call dibs on teachers? Is that what you’re telling me? We’re gonna get teachers?” “Teachers, whoever. Whoever whoever. We just beat Botha’s ass and tied him to a radiator.” “Right! You’re right.” “I know I’m right. So like how about, say then, Jerry, for instance?” “Jerry’s a wang, but I’d rather get Floyd.” “Too late to get Floyd. I’m getting Floyd.” “I just called dibs, though.” “Put your dibs in your hat and then shit in that hat. Floyd’s for me.”

“Jesus, Vincie!” “Jesus Vincie fucken what? I said Floyd’s mine.

I’ll
show
him my pass. I’ll show him
his
pass. His pass to the hospital! Like, ‘Here’s your fucken pass, Floyd! Come get your fucken pass, Floyd.’” “Whatever, Floyd’s yours then. I’m saying Desormie.” “Desormie. Sure. Desormie. Go ahead.” “Scare-ize!”

“Really? Desormie? Desormie’s all mine?” “
Scare
-ize?” “Scare-alize! I mean.” “How about
scare
, dog?” “Sure, Desormie’s yours.

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And why the fuck not? Gurion probably isn’t interested at all in fucking up Desormie, himself. Great pick. Deep cut. One from the vault. You’re the only one here who ever hated the guy. The only one in all the school—” “You shoot down everything! What the fuck? I mean what’s the point of even calling dibs if you shoot down everything?” “No one said there was a point. You just kept calling dibs.” “Well that’s not—” “Don’t be a baby. You’ll get to get someone. We’ll all get at least someone.” “Yeah, don’t be a baby. The quiet middle’s over. We’re in the fucken
end
, man.”

“So who, then, who? Who’ll we get?” “We’ll get whoever Gurion tells us to get.”

The Flunky and I climbed onto the table. He bent his knees and scooped me up. He counted to three. On three he jumped.

We came down hard.

“Horror-alize!” “Crushalate!” “But who else is there to get?

Like specifically, I mean.”

The coinbox popped and change gushed forth.

“Quarters and nickels like mad here,” said Benji.

Baruch Hashem.

“Horror-alize? No. Horror-
orize
…? No.” “‘Who else
specifically
?’ How about the basketballers who no one knows the names of?” “And how about a million jerkstore Shovers?” “Horrorize!

Yes! Horrorize! Horrorize!” “All the teachers who sent us to the Cage in the first place!” “Smackalate!” “Jackilize” “Ripalate!”

“Tear-… Tear-o—no. Tear-alate? Tearalate? Tearalate!” “How about
the whole motherfucking Arrangement
!”

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I was splayed on the floor, next to the Flunky. The claw had come down right next to my head. Its shape had held—a well-made claw. Maybe stainless. Maybe even titanium. I stood up and banged it like a gavel on the table.

I said, Everyone get in line for coins. Ten apiece. Forsake the dimes.

It was twenty after ten = thirty minutes til the end of the pep rally. While the Side got their coins, I called 911 on Botha’s celly to report an explowsion et Deh Franteah Maytelle. The operator asked if I was safe, and I told her I was; I was in my car at Kilroy and Rand. She asked my name and I told her it was Victor Bo—

then pretended to lose the signal and turned the phone off.

“They’ll call your friend at the motel before they go there,”

Benji told me.

That’s fine, I said.

“You think they’ll send people anyway?”

Maybe, I said. It doesn’t matter.

“Oh,” said Benji. “Oh!” he said. “We’re crying wolf?”

For now, I said. Is your mom at work?

“Yeah.”

Call from Jelly’s phone and tell them there’s a fire in the basement—your mom locked you in there and went to work and now there’s a fire in the basement.

“We don’t have a basement.”

Even better, I said.

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COACH RONALD DESORMIE

(AT HALF-COURT MICROPHONE, USING OWN

MEGAPHONE)

Thank you. I’m glad to have your guys’ ears because we need to talk, you and I, cautch to student-body. We need to talk about the elephant in the room. Can anyone tell me what that elephant is?

10:10 AM: C3 (
C1
; C4; C6;
C9
)

BLEACHERS

(STUDENTS FIDGETING, TEACHERS SHUSHING

STUDENTS)

10:11 AM: C1 (C4;
C3
;
C6
;
C9) COACH RONALD DESORMIE

(AT HALF-COURT MICROPHONE, USING OWN

MEGAPHONE)

I know it’s hard to talk about, so I’ll just say it. That elephant is the scoreboard in this very gymnasium. The scoreboard and what’s been done to it. The world-class Aptakisic Indians scoreboard which was just Monday in perfect working order only to have the H and the V knocked out of it on Tuesday and how that was disrespectful enough to everything we stand for and was going to be embarrassing already this afternoon, when the Twin Groves Eagles are coming for the
opening game
versus our Indians, without how on Wednesday it got totally destroyed so it’s not in any kind of working order and there’s 1269

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unsightly dings in the floor that came from some of the pointier rocks as an outcome of those rocks making contact with the floor after they got thrown at the scoreboard, too. I’m here to tell you disrespect and embarrassment will not stop the Indians, who have worked hard for me, ladies and gentlemen. Hard for
us,
our fighting Indians, hard for this
school
, people. In practice is what I’m talking about, hours and hours of practice over the last nine weeks to really come together as a team who will dominate so as to bring this school and all of us that kind of glory known as opening-game-of-the-season glory, which is a kind of glory you only get a chance at once per academic year because there’s only one opening game per year isn’t there? Yes there is just one, and how often does that opening game take place at
home
? And I’ll tell you how often because how often is
every other year
, meaning last year it was away, and though last year, yes, we dominated that opening game, it was not as effective a brand of domination in terms of the glory I spoke of as it was gonna be this year in terms of the glory I spoke of. And then next year it’ll be away again, and though I have to believe we will dominate next year, it will, again, be that same kind of less-effective domination that we had last year that I just described. And since this year our world-class scoreboard’s been destroyed for the opening game, which is the kind of thing that diminishes the kind of domination I’m talking about here, can we go three years in a row without that kind of domination and still hold our heads up? is what I was asking myself yesterday. The way in which I was answering was: no, I don’t think we can, I really don’t think we can because I think we’ll be lucky to
survive
after three years without that kind of domination, let alone survive with our heads up.

That kind of domination at an opening game at home is
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in its potential to boost spirits and bolster our feelings of general confidence, not just at school I’m talking, but also at home and in our personal relationships to people who we spend time with and so on. And maybe some of you are thinking that when I was asking that question and answering how I was answering it, I was being too, how should I put it? Overdramatical. Maybe some of you are thinking:

“Jeez, Cautch, a couple years ago we didn’t even have a world-class scoreboard, and a couple years ago we survived just fine with our heads up.” But you see this isn’t like a couple years ago, people, because now we not only don’t have a world-class scoreboard, but we
do
have a world-class scoreboard that has been vandalized and doesn’t even work, which is worse than no world-class scoreboard at all is what I’m telling you. In fact it’s worse than having no
any
-class scoreboard at all because of how a gym with no scoreboard at all could at least possibly indicate that that gym is part of a school with so little funding it can’t afford even a low-class or no-class scoreboard, and that would set the stage for the kind of underdog story where the poor kids from the poor school and their poor cautch who should be coaching pros but can’t because he’s too passionate a man to coach pros who do it for money that isn’t pure instead of the glory that these poor kids do it for, and who was booted permanently from the NCAA for losing his cool on a player who wasn’t toeing the line and maybe even got a little violent with that player, and publicly, and that player whined and sued like the spoiled-rotten player for money who doesn’t care about glory that he was, much less teamwork, and the public knew it and stood behind the coach who was, of course, a foot shorter and about a buck lighter than the player who whined and sued, but rules were rules said the bigshots who ran the NCAA and that coach got 1271