The Instructions (95 page)

And something else was good, too—maybe even as good as the show of esprit de corps. Up until the moment the doorbell had rung, I’d almost forgotten that Botha was in the Cage. He’d been so quiet. Silent, even. How many
fuck
s and
shit
s had he let go unanswered? On countless occasions, he’d stepped kids for
bastard
s and
damn
s and
wang
s, for
hell
s and
jerkoff
s,
dickhead
s and
pussy
s; twice I’d witnessed him stepping for
suck.
And he had to have heard them—those
fuck
s and
shit
s of our Thursday lunch.

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It’s true he may have failed to identify who’d spoken them, but in the past, swears whose speakers he couldn’t identify had garnered a “Quoydanawnsinz” at the least. But not anymore.

Or at least not right then, at Thursday lunch. Then again, this
was
lunch, and at lunch the rules slackened—but no, not this much; they hadn’t ever slackened quite this much. The hyperscoot had scared him into choosing his battles. At least that’s how it seemed. At least for the moment. Even if just at least, though, I saw it was good.

“Hyperscoot, hyperscoot, motherfucken hyperscoot,” Vincie, writhing in wrist-grip, told Benji. “No one listens to you, anyway,” Nakamook said. “No one listens to
me
,” said Main Man.

“I don’t want any pudding,” said Jelly. “I’ll have your pudding,”

Mangey said. I said, I listen, Scott.

“You listen but you don’t hear,” said Main Man. “Tomorrow I’m gonna sing. Listen to them!” he said. He pointed at the doorway of the Cage. All the kids from the cafeteria were coming in with their hotlunch, Ronrico and the Janitor in front.

“Slokum told me to tell you a bunch of Fridays have passed and he doesn’t feel too dead,” Vincie said to Nakamook.

“And what did you do, Vincie? You just listened to him, didn’t you? You just nodded and smiled and listened,” said Benji, “like a whiny basketballing messengerboy wannabe Shover who’s had a crush on the same girl since kindergarten and never spoken to her.”

“Cold,” said Vincie. “Fucken cold.”

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“Don’t kill the messenger,” Main Man said. “Just hear what he had to listen to.”

“You gonna let go of my wrist?” said Vincie. “Not yet,” said Benji.

I smelled Chunkstyle.

“You would hurt a friend over a message?” said Eliyahu. “He’s not hurt,” said Benji. “No I’m not!” yelled Vincie.

“Quoydanawnsinz,” Botha said from the doorway, but no one seemed to hear him, and he seemed to be content with that; he stared at his clipboard, looking busy.

Benji doesn’t hurt friends, I told Eliyahu.

“What do you call a cow that’s…?” said Ronrico, laughing.

“What?” said the Janitor. Ronrico kept laughing.

“There’s props on the stage for a play we never heard of—

smashed!” said Chunkstyle. “Smashed to pieces,” said Anna Boshka. “The set-designers: they glue them.”

“He would humiliate a friend, though?” said Eliyahu. “He would make a friend powerless at his whim and then expect us to trust him?” “They’re playing,” said Jelly. “Vincie ain’t powerless,” said Benji. “It’s just his right hand. He’s got another hand.”

“I’ve got another one on the left, Eliyahu! And I’m about to use it! As soon as I figure out how!” “Use it, Vincie,” said Benji. “I got no leverage!” “You can’t reach anything vital on me anyway.”

“What do you call a cow that’s playing with himself?”

“Quoydanawnsinz!” shouted Botha.

“The rules change at lunchtime, Australian!” yelled Vincie.

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“Australian!” yelled many. “Australian!” yelled more.

Botha went to his desk, but we all got quieter—a ceasefire feeling, grudging but practical.

“What already?” said the Janitor. Ronrico kept laughing. “It pains me to see others experience pain,” said Eliyahu. I’m telling you they’re just playing, Eliyahu. It’s okay. It’s how they play, I said. “And suddenly there’s these new tags everywhere of ‘Boystar Emotionalize Boystar,’” said Chunkstyle. “I asked Chunkstyle,

‘What is it, a Boystar?’” said Boshka. “This is no way to play,”

said Eliyahu. “And Chunkstyle, he told me, ‘The Boystar is a brownstar.’ Very clever.”

“Beef strokin’ off,” punchlined Ronrico to the Janitor.

The Janitor instantly dropped his foam lunchtray. Carrots spilled on his khakis, and Stroganov his Sambas. He did a panicked little dance and it flung the debris.

With his left hand, Vincie finally grabbed the wrist of the hand with which Nakamook held Vincie’s right hand. Vincie dug his thumb in. Nakamook let go of him.

“I got it?” Vincie said.

“Yeah,” said Benji, “but you gotta get it quicker next time.

A hell of a lot quicker. You wasted your flood on knocking that pudding out of my hand, and then you were still in my hold, all stunned and smack-talky, trying to figure out what to do next.

You can’t miss when you flood, Vincie, you know that. I could’ve pulled the teeth from your head one by one in all the time it took you to get your snat back up. If you have no leverage and you 891

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can’t get to your enemy’s vitals, you have to dig in to anything you can reach. That’s the rule. Ill-targeted flooding is the way of the dead, flinchy Vincie, okay?”

“Okay,” said Vincie, hanging his head.

“Don’t act all defeated, it’s weak,” Benji said. “You have a gift for flooding. You’re the only person I know like that. You’re the only flooder I’ve ever taught to fight who I haven’t taught not to flood, and that’s because you’re able to harness sick-high volumes of snat, way higher volumes than me or Gurion, for example. It’s good that your first instinct is to hit, man—it’s a good instinct, unless there’s nothing you can get to worth hitting. Then, like I said, you gotta dig. So you just have to get a better sense of what’s possible. It’ll come with practice. You’re really tough, Vincie. If I was anyone but me, I’d think twice before fucking with you.”

“Thanks,” Vincie said.

They banged fists. Leevon grabbed each of their wrists as the fists touched, and did the thumbing action and the fists opened involuntarily.

“You’re a scary kid,” said Nakamook.

Leevon did a pantomime of Nakamook telling Leevon he was a scary kid.

Then he did a pantomime of himself pantomiming Nakamook telling Leevon he was a scary kid.

Then he snatched a cheesepuff off my brown paper bag-plate and got it in his mouth before I even knew he’d snatched it.

Leevon was a scary kid.

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“Can I have my pudding back?” said Vincie.

Mangey coughed on Vincie’s pudding.

The Janitor limped away from the germs rapidly, dragging his sullied foot as far behind him as possible.

Ansul Entsry handed Vincie his apple, and when Vincie thanked him, Ansul blushed and seemed to bow.

“Now where were we?” Benji said to me. “Right. I remember.

Riot
’s a tougher word than
hyper
.”

But the action’s already called hyperscoot, I said. I said, The action already has a name. I said, You can’t just change the name of something because—

“I’m not changing the name of anything. Riotscoot isn’t the same phenomenon as hyperscoot. The intention makes it different, no matter what you say. Anyway, even if I
was
changing the name of something—aren’t you the guy who calls Jews ‘Israelites’?”

I said, We were Israelites first, Benji. I said, And what about explosions? If a gas main accidentally blows up and kills twenty people, it’s called an explosion. If I blow up a bomb that kills twenty people, that’s also called an explosion.

Eliyahu was tugging on my sleeve.

“But it’s also called terrorism,” Ben-Wa piped in. “Because you did it on purpose.”

Not if it’s on a battlefield, I said. I said, If I use a bomb to blow up twenty enemy soldiers on a battlefield, it’s called heroism, not terrorism. In all three instances, though, it’s an explosion.

“Please stop,” said Eliyahu.

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“Yeah, quit it already,” said Vincie. “You’re both right, or both wrong, and it’s totally fucken boring, so why don’t you just slapslap for it?”

“No way I’m gonna slapslap with Gurion,” said Nakamook.

Why not? I said.

“Why don’t we arm wrestle?”

No way, I said.

“Why not?” said Nakamook.

I said, How about the Electric Chair?

“What’s the Electric Chair?”

It’s what you called I’m Ticking the other day, I said.

“You can’t change the name,” said Benji.

It was the Electric Chair first, I said. I said, Actually it was the anti–Kathryn TeBordo, then the Electric Chair, but the girl who invented it changed the name of it, so we should honor that.

“You just call me a girl, man? Like as an insult? That’s sexist.

And also kinda pussy.”

You didn’t invent it, I said.

“I invented it Monday night,” Benji said.

I said, June invented it years ago. She had a fever. You’re just a Tesla.

“I fucken hate Tesla,” said Vincie. “What was that song? ‘Love Song’? ‘So you thi-ink that it’s o-vah-ah.’ Why can’t he pronounce his fucken r’s, that guy? I hate when they don’t pronounce their r’s. It’s only the singers with hairstyles that don’t pronounce their r’s. Hairstyles are fucked.” “Is that true about the r’s?” said 894

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Chunkstyle. “Vincie likes sweeping statements,” said Mangey.

“This is a rhetorical trick characteristic of many tyrannical world leaders,” said Anna Boshka. “Rhetorical trick? You’re so smart, Boshka.” “You are a nice boy, Remus,” said Boshka, “and if you were to ask me to go walking with you, I would not refuse the request.”

You’re that Indian calculus kid, I said to Benji.

“Now Gurion speaks of Srinivasa Ramanujan.” “Sriniwhatta Whosajon? You’re so smart!” “Soon your surprise at my wit will begin to sound like contempt, sweet Chunkstyle. Tell me about my eyes.” “You’ve got the most beautiful hazel eyes.”

“You couldn’t even I’m Ticking for a second on Tuesday. I’ll have a contest with you. Winner names both actions.”

Bring it, Ramanujan.

“You want to count us down, Vincie?”

“Don’t you even worry pretty darling. I know you’ll find love again,” Vincie half-sang. Then he said, “Three.”

And Benji and I faced off.

Then Vincie said, “Two.”

And the Cage got quiet.

Vincie said, “One.”

And we inhaled deep.

And Vincie said, “Go.”

We started to tremble.

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Ten seconds into the contest, a bright white flying-saucer shape bloomed from a silver dot in the center of Nakamook’s forehead.

I was sure I had one on my own forehead, and I wished there was a mirror. I tried Nakamook’s pupils, but they didn’t reflect me; they were aimed at the ceiling. The ticking of my brainblood wasn’t very loud yet at all, and although they were muted as if they had to pierce fuzz first, voices from the Cage filled those spaces of the soundscape that the ticking didn’t occupy. “Look at how red they’re getting!” “This is not a thing I like.” “It’s just a contest, Eliyahu of Brooklyn.” “…a grand-mal—” “The nasty way their jaws are bulging.” “…don’t pop a filling.” “I hope their tongues are safe.”

At the thirty second-mark, Benji’s eyes began to wobble in their sockets, and the saucer started throbbing. With every throb, the saucer expanded a little, covering more and more of Nakamook’s face. The ticking’s rhythm stayed steady, matched the throbbing’s beat for beat, and each drop of brainblood whacked the backs of my eardrums louder than the last.

I thought: The decibals are mounting at an incremental ratio equi-valent to the one by which the saucer expands, and language is turning weird on me.

The fuzz between the ticks thickened, and the voices of the Cage began to blot out. “Looks bad like____or a seizure.”

“My uncle____and got comatose.” “___long?” “___til today.”

“Youth______merciful thing.” “_______orkian.”

By sixty seconds, I wouldn’t have been able to see myself even 896

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if I was nose-to-glass with a mirror—Benji’s face was obscured to the neck and the hairline by bright white throbbing light. I couldn’t even see the corners of the saucer anymore. I felt good, though. Warm.

I thought: You need to breathe.

I breathed.

The saucer kept throbbing, growing. The brainblood whacked harder, the fuzz between the ticks became impenetrable. I lost count of the seconds at ninety, gave up tracking time. Breathe, I thought.

I breathed.

There was no more Nakamook. Only bright white light. Not even the saucer’s outline remained within my field of vision. There was throbbing, ticking, breathing, and me. Breathe, I thought.

I breathed.

A silver dot appeared in the center of the whiteness. It bloomed into a brighter, whiter flying-saucer shape that began to throb in time with a new ticking of blood against a less taut part of my eardrum. This ticking was basser than the first one.

I thought: I am making this happen. I don’t know how, though.

And then I thought: How do you make anything happen, like—?

Breathe, I thought.

I breathed.

How did you make yourself breathe? I thought.

You
didn’t
make yourself breathe, I thought. You
let
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self breathe, I thought, and barely even that. You can
slow
your breathing—you can halt the in- and exhalations of your lungs temporarily—but you cannot halt them indefinitely. Eventually your lungs will inhale and exhale, whether or not you want them to. Eventually you will be breathing.