Adam Levin - The Instructions

So you took his megaphone?

“He gave it to us.”

“ After you insulted him,” Nakamook said.

Eliyahu put a hand on Benji’s shoulder. “In fairness,” he said to me, “I don’t think Aleph meant to insult Main Man. He said he didn’t like the songs and, yes, it’s true, he might have been a little nicer about it, but—”

Wait, I said.

At least I thought I’d said it. Maybe I hadn’t. If I had, no one heard me; no one was waiting.

“Who’s Aleph?” said Berman.

“You,” said Eliyahu.

“My name’s Josh Berman.”

“You want me to call you Josh Berman, it’s done — calm down. Calm down, Josh Berman.”

“What’s Aleph mean, though?” Josh Berman said.

“Yeah, what the hell’s it mean?” voices on my right said. “What’s it mean?” “What’s it mean?”

Wait, I said.

“What’s it mean ?” said Eliyahu. “It’s a letter. First letter of the Hebrew alphabet, the aleph-bet — like an A, but silent.”

“That wasn’t my question.”

“That wasn’t his question.” “Answer his question.” “Don’t dodge the question.”

“Pipe the fuck down,” Vincie Portite told them. “He was trying to explain,” another voice to my left said. “Just let him talk.”

Wait wait, I said.

“Why’d you call me Aleph?” Berman said to Brooklyn.

“Josh Berman, please. Don’t be so testy. I’m not your enemy. Prior to this I’ve only seen you in the hallways, maybe once or twice on the late-bus too. I didn’t even know you were an Israelite, you know? Let alone a Josh Berman. So I called you Aleph. Like an A. Like a variable. That’s all,” he said.

“Oh,” Berman said. “Like an alpha,” he said.

“Sure. Like alpha,” Eliyahu told him.

“You know? I like that,” Berman said. “I like it a lot. Sorry I got all—”

“No, forget it,” Eliyahu said. “We just took the school down together, yes? Anything lousy between any of us here — it needs,” he said, “to be forgiven.”

And at the sound of those words, to be forgiven, nearly every single person in our fifty-head huddle grew visibly relaxed — shoulders falling, face muscles slackening, bodies leaning forward, toward each other… there’d even been an audible collective sigh. And I, to my own great surprise, sighed along. Finding out that Berman — ex-Shover leader, June’s ex-boyfriend, maker of nasty remarks to Jelly’s sister, shooter of nibs into Nakamook’s neck, basher into floors of Nakamook’s face, inadvertant insulter of Main Man’s repertoire… The information that Berman was the same boy as Aleph had performed on me in ways that I couldn’t have predicted. I pictured the following in rapid succession: Berman watching Baxter knock Brooklyn’s hat off; Berman crawling the floor beneath Benji’s legs. But then, instead of thinking: Here’s the mouse who stood by doing nothing while his brother got humiliated, or, Here’s the coward who’d rather crawl on his belly than stand up and fight, what I thought was: Poor Berman, poor Josh Berman. Not poor Aleph —Poor Josh Berman. Coward Aleph had been faceless, scholars. Poor Josh Berman had Berman’s face. And maybe it was just as simple as that: his having a face. Or maybe it was even simpler than that: poor Josh Berman’s face wasn’t just any face; poor Josh Berman’s was an Israelite face. Here the face of an Israelite crawling on his belly, there the face of an Israelite avenging himself. I’d’ve probably done the same, had I been him. Had I crawled on my belly before Benji or anyone, I’d avenge myself too — take the first shot I could, and the second, the third. And I saw that what I’d done was forgiven him. I’d forgiven Berman for having been Aleph and forgiven Aleph for having been Berman. Just like that. And I saw it was good.

And it was true that Benji had long been despised by most of Aptakisic, and that Vincie had long been despised as well, and the others on the Side by association, and true the ex-Shovers hadn’t themselves been so beloved either, neither by their fellow Israelites nor by the Side, and it was true, finally, that I had been wrong — that there was , at present, animosity here, enmity even — but I nonetheless believed what Eliyahu believed: Because all those soldiers on the Side were my brothers, and because all the Israelite soldiers were my brothers, and because I had led them and because I was leading them, and because we had, all of us, fought together, I believed that they could — I believed that we could — dissolve any and all enmity between us.

And I saw that the others believed it too. Brooklyn had said, “To be forgiven,” and all of us leaned and slackened and sighed.

All except for Benji, who made the noise “Tch.”

To which Josh Berman responded with “Tch.”

And everyone stiffened, postures adversarial, their collective intake of breath a long hiss.

And I saw that one of them had to be removed. It didn’t matter which — at least it didn’t seem to. I watched Berman’s eyes go to Nakamook’s hand, which was visibly throbbing. Berman, no doubt, saw an exploitable weakness. I saw my out: Nurse Clyde’s Office to get fixed up. Benji’d go quiet. He’d lose no face, nor would the Side — no one would.

Yet I couldn’t take Benji away just yet — he’d see right through me if I just said: Benji, your hand needs attention. I needed a spoon to replace the baby’s knife. Something needed to happen to change the subject. Something relevant, preferably urgent. An act of God. The ceiling falling in. An earthquake. A fire. Something that didn’t emanate from me.

Brooklyn, baruch Hashem, was aware of this.

“Gurion,” he said. “Any word from the scholars?”

“What scholars?” said Berman, eyes off Benji’s hand now.

And I realized the Israelites didn’t know about the scholars — I hadn’t told them. They’d helped attack the school without any assurance they’d get away with it. And then they must have become afraid, and gathered together on the bleachers afraid, which must have made the Side afraid of them —for the Side was greatly outnumbered by them — and sensing the Side was afraid of them, the Israelites must have grown afraid of the Side, and by the time I’d returned from the firemen to the gym, the 64 I’d left behind were but 44 and 20.

That the Israelites didn’t know about the scholars — this was a good thing. A great thing, even. For not only could I tell them, which would quell their fears, but I needed to tell them. It was urgent I tell them. And anyone could see that, Benji included.

“What scholars?” they said. “Which scholars?” “Who scholars?”

An army of scholars is coming, I said.

“When?” they said.

Soon, I said. They’re supposed to arrive at eleven o’clock, but the el’s moving slow and the weather’s probably delaying them, too, plus they might have missed all the rush-hour Metras. They’ll get here, though, they’ll take us out of here, you’ll all be safe, and you’ll blame this on me.

“Who will believe us?”

Who won’t believe you? Isn’t it true?

“In a way it’s true.”

A way that everyone’ll want to believe, I told them. It’s never the rioters who go to prison — it’s only the guy with the megaphone inciting them. Who’s got the megaphone?

“You’ve got the megaphone.”

All of your parents will be dying to believe you. All of our teachers will be dying to believe you. Nobody will want to believe anything else. Not even Brodsky, who’s sitting there, bound, hearing us conspire.

“All due respect,” an ex-Shover said. “How do we know that you’ll fess up to everything?”