Adam Levin - The Instructions

“Kape it,” Botha said.

Coming through the door, I slapped the pass on the wall over the lightswitch and it stuck.

I heard Vincie whisper, “I told you he was alive,” and I revolved to wave at Eliyahu, who blushed.

“Gurion. Yo!” Mark Dingle said.

“Yo, Gurion,” said Dingle’s friend, Salvador Curtis, who was sitting at the carrel to Dingle’s right.

“Quoydanawnsinz!” snapped Botha. “Face ford!”

Both Dingle and Salvador showed me a power-fist.

Dingle’d been in the Cage since the very beginning, and we rode the same bus but didn’t speak. He was one of those guys who was always reading Fight Club . I’d never heard of him fighting anyone, though. He’d probably never had to. He was the scariest-looking kid at Aptakisic. He might have been the scariest-looking kid in America. It’s true he was taller than most other eighth-graders, and nearly as wide and muscley as the Flunky, but his height and build weren’t what made him scariest. His homemade tattoos — lopsided black aces on three of his knuckles and a stick-figure hangman on the light side of his forearm — weren’t it either. In the fang-shaped shadow of his super-lubed pompadour, behind his masking-taped, shop-teacher glasses, Dingle’s face — every centimeter of it that wasn’t teeth or eyeballs — was gruesomely deformed. The first and only time I’d gazed directly at the face, I bit my cheeks raw and gave away my lunch. You’d guess Dingle’s leprosy’d contracted the mange before infecting him through lesions in his acne vulgaris, but according to Vincie no disease was the cause. All those swollen cross-hatches and discolored volcano-shapes, every gouge and slash and shiny pouch: they’d all been self-inflicted with razor-blades and cigarettes, pushpins and paperclips, at least twice a pencil-lead dipped in hydrochloric. Each of his scars had won a small-stakes bet for him. “If you don’t believe me,” Vincie’d said, “go up to him at lunchtime and tell him you got three dollars says he won’t rip a new hole in its bottom part’s ass-thing.” That’s a chin-cleft, I’d said. “Whatever keeps your nightmares at bay, young man.”

The other guy who’d yo’d and powerfisted at me, Salvador Curtis, was the only kid who ever talked to Dingle, and he was known in the Cage for his uncommon talent: he could suck whole limes with no facial puckering. Every day he brought a baggieful to school. Once, on a bet, inspired by Dingle, he squeezed a lime dry on a freshly bleeding knee-wound he’d gotten at recess and didn’t wince once. Three guys paid him a dollar apiece. The next morning, on the bus, he squeezed limes in Dingle’s eyes. That time it was Dingle who paid him a dollar.

I chinned air at both of them.

Benji said, “Tch.”

The Cage, that day, was at full capacity, a beautiful thing; I’d have kids on both sides of me. The carrel that was open was between Scott Mookus and a sixth-grade guy called Chunkstyle Heany, who was regular-sized but smelled of canned tuna. Chunkstyle’s real first name was Remus. He got sent to the Cage after the third time he gently cupped the cheeks of his Social Studies teacher, Mrs. Mingle.

Cheek-cupping a teacher — especially with gentleness — is surely pervy, but Remus Heany hadn’t meant it that way. Third period on Mondays and alternate Thursdays, Mrs. Mingle was assigned to the Cage, and every single Monday and every other Thursday, at some point near the end of third period, Chunkstyle would push his glasses up his nosebridge and stand to recite a lengthy apology that Anna Boshka — who was put in the Cage because she’d only address her teachers in Russian — helped him write in the perfect, formal English of an eager new immigrant. The apology always began the same: “Barbara Mingle, my love for you is a powerful thing that drove me to behave in a manner I do not quite understand and so cannot honestly account for. However—” We never got to hear the rest of it, though. Botha’d always shut him down before he could finish.

I barely knew Remus, but I assumed he was a good person because he never made fun of My Main Man Scott Mookus. Plus, the t-shirts and folders of Anna Boshka all had dolphins on them, and if she loved dolphins even half as much as it seemed, she had to have been very impressed with Remus’s kindness to befriend him despite all the Starkist he ate.

He pitched a note over the wall we shared. It said:

We the undersigned want to join the Side of Damage.

Tell us how. We will do anything. We are:

1. Ben-Wa Wolf 2) Mark Dingle 3. Chris Perrot 4. Cody von Braker 5. Stevie Loop 6) Exar Tea 7. Flunky Bregman 8 Casey Sabado 9. Jackie Friday 10 Summer Weekint And) Winthrop! 12. Miles Minton 13. Clive Spearmint 14 Renee Feldbons (15) Paulina Mulvina 16; Jerry Throop 17: Fulton Market 18 Casper Lunt 19 Ansul Entsry 20. Janie Glencoe 21, Forrest Kennilworth 22. Derrick Winnetka 23) Rick Deerfield 24! Jesse Ritter 25: Glen Murphy 26) Aarron Worley 27) Anna Boshka 28. Christian Yagoda 29 Salvador Curtis 30. Remus Heany

I thought: Me + Benji + Mookus + the Janitor + Ronrico + Vincie + Mangey + Jelly + Leevon + Eliyahu = 10.

And: 10 + 30 = 40.

Vincie’d been right. Every student in the Cage — we were all on the Side of Damage. And that wasn’t the only thing Vincie’d been right about: on the desk of my carrel, near the Remus-side wall, someone had planted a WE DAMAGE WE. It was thin-lined enough that I’d missed it at first. It was bombed with a ballpoint in the hand of a girl, the hand of a Cage girl who must not have had a Darker, a girl who was neither Jelly nor Mangey. I looked around the carrel, found another on the facing wall, and another one yet right under my elbow. Same ink, same size, same feminine hand. I’d forgotten to check the other carrels when I’d entered, but if a girl who didn’t even have a Darker was willing to bomb, then the rest of the kids…

The chair of Scott Mookus groaned the floor.

“Gurion,” he whispered. He was leaning into my carrel and no one was stopping him, so after a two-count, I broke the face-forward rule. The teachers at the cluster were working with students. Botha shuffled papers at the monitor’s desk.

I leaned toward Mookus = Go.

“Plans to lay well-laid plans are best laid to rest,” he whispered, “for their very scripting would tire the fingers that need grip steady so many disguised bodkins we shall launch into the thrumming parts of tomorrow’s bancing, fleshy targets. Lord, get we simple enough to be earnest, and stealth enough to be harrowing in our damage-making. Let our laces outlast the soles of our Chucks and Sambas. We would never order hamburger buns without something between them. It’s not nutritious and it might feel like slavery. We want to find props on our feet that help us pretend to be superheros but we can’t have new kicks til we need them. We can’t just put some butter on salt-crackers and call that dinner, either. We can’t stuff up on bread, skip the meat, and expect dessert. How can you have any pudding if you don’t eat your meat? We’re not gonna take it. The words of the prophet were written on the studious crowd noise. All the world’s indeed a page and we must loudly tear it. May our disarrangement be a joyous and brutal project. May The End come once and pretty, Gurion, and once and for all. Your sons’ mother’s love shines blinding off your skin like the light of God off Adam’s at Creation’s apex, and I pray you do not lock us up but give us tomorrow our daily guns, and today bind us safe inside your danger. Never forget to protect me.”

I squeezed his shoulder.

“I believe you,” he said, and ducked back into his carrel.

It felt good and strong having people on both sides of me. It had been over two months.