Adam Levin - The Instructions

I was crying pretty hard. I kept imagining my father telling me to wash my clean face. I needed to say something to Eliyahu, and I didn’t know what to say, so I said the first thing I thought of:

You knew I was in the nurse’s office.

But when I said it, I was wiping my nose off, and the words went into my sleeve. When I said it, Eliyahu didn’t respond, and I thought he hadn’t heard me, that I had a second chance, and I said what I should have said:

I said, I wasn’t joking on you.

And he said, “Someone is.”

And that was when GlassMan whispered, “Kill.” He’d spotted their guy.

Thursday, November 16, 2006

5th–6th Period

And GlassMan jumped up, shouting, “There!” The guy was way up at the front of the crowd, looking around for who he should sit with. The guy was Shlomo Cohen.

There was something very wrong with that. Something didn’t make sense, or at least didn’t seem to, but struggling as I was to keep my gooze in my face, while trying, with my hands, squeezing his shoulders, to help Eliyahu keep his gooze in his, it took me longer than normal to figure out what. Shlomo, I thought. Cohen, I thought.

Shlomo Cohen, Shlomo Cohen.

Why should Shlomo Cohen care about Berman and his scarf, let alone care enough to harm Bernard “Shpritzy” Shpritz? Shlomo Cohen was an Indian, a B-team Indian; what concern of it was his? What was the angle? Neither side of the Shover schism had beef with the Indians; and not just no beef; it went well beyond beeflessness = they were, the Shovers, schisming over who had the right to be the Indians’ semi-official humps and lackeys = both sides of the schism were on the Indians’ side = there wasn’t any reason for an Indian to choose sides. If anything, you’d’ve thought that Shlomo Cohen, the one Israelite Indian, would’ve sided with Berman and the Israelite Shovers, unless — but no… but then again I remembered when he brought me to Bam and Maholtz, on Tuesday’s intramural bus, recalled my disappointment in him for taking me back there without his even knowing why he was taking me back there, how it wasn’t very Israelite a thing for him to do, but that didn’t mean… at least not necessarily it didn’t…Was he — was it even possible? — could Shlomo Cohen be a self-hating Jew ? Was there really such a thing outside of fiction? Maybe, I thought. Maybe, maybe. My mom believed there was, and had, on occasion, convinced me there were self-hating Jews in universities — Noam Chomsky, say, or that Finkelstein guy — except that was universities…

But even if there was such a thing as a self-hating Jew who was not a professor, and even if Shlomo was one of those — even if, say, he didn’t want to be thought of as an Israelite by others (which, fat chance, Shlomo Cohen ); even if he felt some need to distinguish himself from the Israelite Shovers, or maybe just the Israelites (the Israelite Shovers as proxies for the Israelites?); even if Shlomo, when the scarves got starred, believed it necessary to demonstrate that he wasn’t on the side of those who had starred them, that he wasn’t one of them, or anything like them — why should he attack Shpritzy? Why not go after Berman? Because Berman was big? Sure, Berman was big — and there he was in the field, on the fringe of the crowd, among ten or so other Israelite Shovers — Berman was big. He was really big, actually, June’s ex was, huge, June’s huge ex-boyfriend who didn’t kiss her so there was no reason to picture it, to picture her tilting her head with her eyes closed, under the moon, in front of a door on a concrete stoop, not a stoop but a porch, stoops were for cities, a front-door porch in Deerbrook Park, no reason to think of her up on her tiptoes to meet him halfway as he leaned down and—

Shlomo Cohen found a spot in the center of the crowd, revolved to face the school, and sat where he’d stood, and Berman was huge was the point to keep focused on, while squeezing Eliyahu’s shoulders continually — squeezing them hard , squeezing them firmly , a steady squeeze, and not one you pulsed like I’m comforting you , not like Here is an armless hug for you, a boy who needs to be hugged , but firm and steady like My hands are strong, and my hands, like yours, are capable of smiting, I have strong, smiting hands, and I’m on your side, and we will smite, with ferocity, will face down our enemies —Josh Berman was huge. Not Bam-huge or Flunky-huge, not overactive-glandular-huge, but reasonably huge, Co-Captain Baxter-size, really big for a kid who was in junior high, and so maybe Shlomo Cohen, who was maybe, it seemed, a self-hating Jew, attacked Shpritzy because — but no, because Shlomo wasn’t small. He wasn’t hardly small. Even if it made sense for a self-hating Shlomo to go after someone other than Berman, someone smaller than Berman, a proxy for Berman the Israelite Shover, there were no few potential proxies who fit that bill— all the Israelite Shovers were smaller than Berman, for example — and Shlomo could have attacked any one of those guys, any one of these smaller-than-June’s…

If he didn’t have the snat to pick a fight with Berman, Shlomo could’ve attacked any of these smaller-than-Berman-size Israelite Shovers to make his point. None were so small as Shpritzy, true, but the kind of coward you’d have to be to go after a kid so much smaller than you when there were bigger ones available, ones your size or even just four-fifths your size — because Shpritzy was what? two-thirds Shlomo’s size? maybe even just four-sevenths his size? — that kind of cowardliness was — what? Akin to the cowardliness of hating your own people? Of being so ashamed of where you came from that you’d attack your own people in order to show others that you had overcome your origins? Well, actually…

“There!” the Five said. They passed the word around their circle like a stolen cigarette. “There!” said Mr. Goldblum, blinkering with his finger. “There!” said Pinker, who jumped in place. The Levinson said, “There!” and bounced fists on his thighs, and Shpritzy cracked his knuckles on his temples, saying, “There!”

And then the Five were streaking down the hill’s western slope, each one’s bare hand open in front of him, each one’s gloved hand balled at his side.

They had to slow their advance when they came to the crowd, and as they made their way through, high-stepping laps and legs and heads, June came across the street, into the field. She held her hand above her eyes as if to block the sun, but there wasn’t any sun, the sun was in clouds, and I thought to wave, but I didn’t want my girlfriend to see my face tear-streaked, and my hands were still busy with squeezing Brooklyn’s shoulders.

As the Five closed in on him, Shlomo revolved. It was hard to imagine how he couldn’t have spotted them, but the way his head was tilted, like the head of a squirrel, a squirrel being fed in the park by a stranger — he could not have known the Five were after him. And how could he not have known that they were after him? For the same reason he’d thought to attack Shpritzy in the first place: he couldn’t believe — refused to believe? — failed to believe who he actually was.

I kept my eyes on Shlomo, my hands on Eliyahu.

The Levinson yelled something. Then all the Five yelled something:

“Death to the Jew!”

I knew what they meant. Still, it signified wrong.

Eliyahu took off first; shook my grip and bolted. I followed him, shouting, Don’t hurt them, Brooklyn!

We were ten yards away when they fell upon Shlomo — Pinker, Shpritzy, and The Levinson. Shpritzy pulled the head back by the hair both-handed, The Levinson pinned the wrists, and Pinker stood the hips, crouching, jumping, landing where he’d started. Shlomo screamed. And then Mr. Goldblum and GlassMan arrived. GlassMan dropped all his weight on the crotch, elbow-first. Mr. Goldblum reared back and kicked Shlomo’s jaw in.