Adam Levin - The Instructions

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 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 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.”

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.

“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.

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.

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 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.