Adam Levin - The Instructions

Getting the widemouths out was easy. We threw our bodies at the front of the Coke machine and soon its plastic shell was pieces. We reached inside and took.

Bottles in their hands, the crying kids cried quieter.

I told everyone to set their spare change on the table. The pile they made was sixty coins tops, at least one fifth of which were dimes. While quarters were the best, and nickels were good — better than pennies if you ignored cost-efficiency — dimes were the least effective small currency. They weighed so little they’d tumble end over end when met by the smallest air-disturbance, and even when the tumbling didn’t bance your dime’s trajectory, your target got hit flat and round half the time, so unless that target was an open eye, there would be no damage, the shot would be wasted.

We needed to get a lot more ammo.

I pulled the Flunky and Nakamook aside, instructed the rest to unplug their balloons and empty their sodas in the sink. They got in line and started to verbalize.

“Pissbombs,” said the Janitor.

“Bullshit on pissbombs,” said Jesse Ritter. “We’re making truncheons. That’s what the coins are for — to add weight.”

Benji and the Flunky tipped the Coke machine north — the coinbox held.

“There’s barely enough coins there to weight even one of these things,” Mark Dingle said.

“We’ll use pebbles, too,” said Jesse. “And marbles. Coins, pebbles, and marbles.”

Benji and the Flunky tipped the Coke machine west, got it almost horizontal — again it yielded bubkes. Nakamook thought he could pick the coinbox lock. We gave up on tipping. He twisted a paperclip.

The Janitor said, “I’m sticking with piss. Uric acid. Cleanses. Stinks. Stings.” “Pissbombs or truncheons or macarena cocktails,” said Cody von Braker, “it’s gonna be all like, ‘Hey there, kiddies, hi there, Boystar: time to bleedalize! Time to fucken bleed alize!’” Christian Yagoda said, “Bleedalize — shit. ‘Hey there, Aptakisic, it’s time to explodalize!’” “We’re gonna fill these balloons,” Mark Dingle announced, “with hostile components. You put the soap in the red ones, the orange juice in the white ones, tie em off. You stick one of each in your bottle so they’re resting on top of each other. You drop a coin in there. Then you stick a pencil in your bottle, point down. Now you’ve got a grenade. Time comes, you pierce both balloons with the pencil, metallic properties of your coin catalyze the reaction, and you got three seconds to toss that badboy, and after that…” He slapped himself in the face. “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?”

“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 lip 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-roundhousealate,’” 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 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. 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.”