Adam Levin - The Instructions

“Also,” said Vincie, pulling something from his backpack, “I’ve been stashing these away for a present for your birthday or Chanukah or something.” He dropped a second baggie on the table and the baggie clunked and glinted. It was filled with wingnuts and hexnuts and washers. “I started thinking how if you’re saying pennies’ll…”

I grabbed his head by the ears. I said, You’re smart, Vincie.

“Tch,” Vincie said, and tried to shrug from my grasp.

I pulled his head down close so our foreheads touched. No, I said. I said, Listen to me. I’m not trying to have an emotional moment with you here. When we get to the gym, you’re gonna be making some decisions and you’re not gonna be able to ask me or Benji if they’re good decisions. You’ll be in charge of people, and if you think you’re dumb, you’ll second-guess yourself and slow us down, and if we’re slow we’ll suffer for it. You know what you’re doing. You’re smart. So be fucken smart.

“I will,” he said.

I mashed our foreheads.

“For serious,” he said.

I let him go with a backslap and he waved his pennygun. He told me, “I need one for Starla.”

I gave him the weapon I’d made for her.

Ronrico asked if he should pass out the nibs.

Just the washers and fasteners, I said. Nibs’re for us.

“I’m honored,” said Ronrico.

Sorry, I said, I didn’t mean you.

Ronrico made a whiny noise.

“We’re the best shots,” Benji told him. “We’ve been practicing for months. Here’s some coins.” He gave Ronrico some coins.

There were thirty nibs. I divided them five ways.

“Who’re—” said Benji.

I said, June and Eliyahu.

I swept three portions into my bag.

When I looked up, there was a new pile of give-back coins on the table, and some kids were still digging in their pockets, making it larger.

“Should we go?” asked one of the pocketdiggers.

Not yet, I said. I said, We don’t know for sure where Floyd is and we have to stay stealth. I said, Stay here til the attack’s in progress, then go out the side entrance.

“How will we know when it’s in progress?”

I said, Just wait for the end-of-class tone or the fire alarm — whichever comes first.

Other kids started digging in their pockets.

Last chance to go home, I told everyone.

Another two flopped coins into the pile. And then another three. More were lining up.

I called in a murder, Mangey a flasher, Vincie a bank heist, Benji a crazy-eyed man in a quiet cul-de-sac.

“We’re in,” Benji told me.

How do you know?

“The dispatcher told me, ‘Yeah, yeah, yeah, kid.’”

Good, I said. I said, Keep making calls. If they yeah-yeah-yeah you, act incredulous and tell them you’ll sue them if they don’t respond. Tell them you know the laws and they’re being racists and your dad’s a civil rights lawyer and just because you’re black doesn’t mean they can treat you like a second-class citizen.

“Should I do a gangsta voice or something?”

No, I said. Talk like a news anchor.

“Shouldn’t we stop?” Vincie asked us. “Aren’t they gonna think we’re crying wolf?”

“That’s the whole idea,” Benji told him.

“No,” said Vincie, “that’s not what I fucken mean. I mean aren’t they gonna start thinking that we’re crying wolf on purpose — like for a strategy?”

Yes, I said.

I dialed Information, asked them for the number for Stevenson High School.

COACH RONALD DESORMIE

(AT HALF-COURT MICROPHONE, USING OWN MEGAPHONE)

Co-Captain William “The Co-Captain” Baxter!

10:21 AM: C1 (C3; C4; C6 ; C9)

WILLIAM BAXTER

(RISES FROM CHAIR NEAR HALF-COURT, STRAIGHTENS TIE, SALUTES BLEACHERS)

10:21 AM: C3 ( C1 ; C4; C6; C9 )

BLEACHERS

(FIVE BOYS GRASPING THE SLEEVES AND SHOULDERS OF A SIXTH BOY IN A BLACK HAT WHO APPEARS TO BE STRAINING AGAINST THEM; VIRGINIA PINGE, SITTING BEHIND THE SIX, LEANS IN STERNLY, GESTICULATES WITH HER ARMS.)

10:21 AM: C1 (C3; C4; C6 ; C9)

WILLIAM BAXTER

(BOWS AT WAIST, SITS)

COACH RONALD DESORMIE

(AT HALF-COURT MICROPHONE, USING OWN MEGAPHONE)

And finally, the best of the best who’s been saved for last, and for that very reason. The all-time high-scorer in the Western Division of the North Shore Conference. Averaging twenty-nine points per game last year, this player had a regular-season high of thirty-six points and a playoff high of forty-three. He triple-doubled in ten of twelve regular season games. He’s made team Illinois for two years running and was the first seventh-grader in America to ever start at center on a state team at the junior-high varsity level. He’s never flubbed a tip-off. He’s never blown a dunk. He’s ninety-three percent at the line. When the clutch is on, this one goes to eleven. And that’s just the numbers. He’s got what’s known as touch. He’s got what’s referred to as drive. Whistle blows, he enters an atemporal and totally nonspatial area that we in the coaching profession like to call the zone. And he stays there. He’s an athlete with more gumption than a locomotive, a born leader with more leadership skills than all the Ghandis and Reagans to the millionth power combined , and he’s a non-parallel natural talent who plays basketball better than eagles fly, better than snakes bite, better than cats land on their feet and dogs are man’s best friend. This is the guy you gotta foul to even begin to think about having a prayer to stop him — and even then. This is the guy who is the heart of the team that is the soul of the school that is the one you go to which is Aptakisic. People… I give you Co-Captain Alpha of your very own Indians: BAM. BAMMIN. VON BAMMENSTEIN. SLOKUM!

AUDIENCE (OFFSCREEN)

(CLAPPING AND WHISTLING)

BARNUM SLOKUM

(RISES FROM CHAIR NEAR HALF-COURT)

COACH RONALD DESORMIE

(AT HALF-COURT MICROPHONE, USING OWN MEGAPHONE)

Behold the man!

(PUMPS FIST IN AIR; WITH FREE HAND, PLAY-PUNCHES BARNUM SLOKUM’S SHOULDER)

BARNUM SLOKUM

(REMOVES HALF-COURT MICROPHONE FROM CLAMP; STANDS CONTRAPPOSTO, DANGLING HALF-COURT MICROPHONE BY CORD AT SIDE, NODDING SLOWLY, AFFIRMATIVELY)

AUDIENCE (OFFSCREEN)

(CLAPPING AND WHISTLING OVER SWELLING MICROPHONE FEEDBACK FROM HALF-COURT MICROPHONE)

10:24 AM: C6 ( C4 ; C3; C6; C9 )

BLEACHERS

(STUDENTS AND TEACHERS APPLAUDING WILDLY, WHISTLING)

10:23 AM: C1 (C2; C3; C4; C6 ; C8; C9)

BARNUM SLOKUM

(BRINGS HALF-COURT MICROPHONE TO CHIN)

Will you let me holler at you for a minute.

10:23 AM: C6 ( C1; C2; C3; C4; C5; C7 ; C8; C9 )

BLEACHERS (PANNING)

(STUDENTS AND TEACHERS APPLAUDING WILDLY, WHISTLING, SHOUTING “HOLLER”)

(THREE BLONDE GIRLS WITH SIMILAR HAIRCUTS BLOWING KISSES; THREE OTHERS SHOUTING, “WE LOVE YOU BAM!”)

(RED-HAIRED GIRL, ONE EYE SHUT, SIGHTING THROUGH IMAGINARY RIFLE)

10:23 AM: C7 (C1; C2; C3; C4; C5; C6 ; C8; C9)

BARNUM SLOKUM

(AT HALF-COURT MICROPHONE; REMOVES BROADSHEET FROM JACKET AND UNFOLDS, HOLDS IT UNDER EYES)

I’m tall.

AUDIENCE (OFFSCREEN)

(EMITS SHUSHING SOUNDS, GROWS QUIET)

BARNUM SLOKUM

(AT HALF-COURT MICROPHONE, BRANDISHING BROADSHEET)

According to this I’m tall. The Twin Groves Weekly Eagle says I’m tall and my height lets me to dunk, and it’s why I win tip-offs. My fighter-pilot vision, says the Weekly Eagle , grants me access to the angle of the ball’s spin be fore it hits the boards, and those needles I thread when I get in the lane I already spotted from way back at half-court — according to this. This rag here’s sports editor says “Slokum is Justice of the Peace at the wedding of game-smarts and preternatural reflexes.” Says I make use of the power vested in me to anticipate blocks I’ll put to shots the guy I’m guarding doesn’t yet know he’ll take. Says my body’s toned in places most people don’t even have musculature, and, paired with my perfect skeletal symmetry, this allows me to maintain balance amid all kinds of dirty elbowplay. Says the Indians are unstoppable as long as I’m in the game. Says the Eagles have to take me out. Well let me tell you something. Can I tell you something. Can I show you something. Will you let me holler at you some more.