Adam Levin - The Instructions

“It does . How can’t you see that? We didn’t go get him. We were following your plan. And then the second your back was turned — the very fucken second— he came here .”

Vincie’d stopped panting. His eyes were shut hard. They sat me on the floor between him and Benji and leashed me to the scaffold by the bindings at my wrists. Vincie, on his back, was tied by the throat and one of his legs. Nakamook was silent, face-down and limp, an upside-down U, held to the scaffold by nothing but gravity. The side of his face I was able to see pulsed blood from a swollen gouge above his cheekbone. His entire flank was soaked with blood, shot through with nibs, and the splints I’d taped to his fingers were cracked.

Benji, I said.

“He’s out,” Vincie said. “And now they’re gonna kill him.”

“Shut your mouth, Portite,” an ex-Shover said.

I said, No one’s killing anyone. The scholars are coming.

“I barely stopped them,” said Vincie. “They’re gonna kill me too, now. They’ll have to. They’ll—”

The toe of Berman’s shoe blurred across Vincie’s jaw.

“Nakamook came in here,” Berman said, “screaming and shouting and swinging a chair, powder-blue gooze pouring out from his nostrils. He knocked me down and got on top of me. The Israelites — our brothers — seven of them, Gurion — it took fucking seven of them, even with his hand — the Israelites finally pulled him off of me. We beat him til he dropped, though, and look at him now.”

Okay, I said. I believe you, I said. But you need to calm down. This is happening too fast. Tell me what you want, and we’ll work this out.

“We’ve worked it out ,” Berman said, his voice now public. “The bully has to die. Look what we did to him. He’ll never forgive it. He’ll haunt us forever.”

He won’t, I said. I’ll make him forgive it.

“You’ll make him?” said Berman. “You have no control of him! He came here! You’re going to prison! And if you’re really on our side, you’ll tell the cops, for whatever your word’s worth, that the two of them died trying to stop us from escaping.”

The two of— No. Josh. I won’t. This doesn’t have to—

“So you’re not on our side, then. You never really were.”

I am , but look— All of you. Listen to me.

“Lucky for us he’s the criminal here,” Berman said to the Israelites. “Lucky for us, it’s him who they’ll blame for—”

“Berman,” Cory said. He’d returned from the door. “These keys don’t work.”

“One of them has to. Try them upside-down.”

“I did,” Cory said. “I tried them twice both ways.”

“Floyd’s is in the scoreboard,” Vincie told Berman. “Jerry’s isn’t in here, and that’s all there fucken is, you walking fucken deadman. You stuck-ass deadman murderous fucker.”

Cory raised a chair as if to smash Vincie.

“No, wait,” said Berman. Cory lowered the chair. “Is he telling us the truth?” Berman said to me. “About the keys?”

Yes, I said. So, look—

“Okay,” Berman said. “Okay… okay.”

The doors were still banging. Muffled shouting behind them. Berman no longer faced me. He was talking low to Cory — I couldn’t hear what he was saying. I kept saying his name, keeping my voice calm, but he wouldn’t turn around. They flipped Benji over, onto his back, pulled the nibs from his body. Benji groaned softly.

You guys, I said to the Israelites nearest me. Listen. It’s gonna be fine. The scholars are coming. We’ve got other keys. We can work something out. I’m your brother, okay? I’m not your enemy. You have to stop this.

One mumbled something about burning down houses, another some-thing else about crawling on bellies. All of the rest of them pretended not to hear me. Berman jumped the scaffold, took my sap from his pocket. He was standing over Benji.

I said, Don’t do this.

“I won’t,” he said. “We will. Gurion did it.”

Cory and three other ex-Shovers grabbed chairs. The four encircled Benji and raised the chairs high, saying, “Gurion.” “Gurion.” “Gurion did it.”

“On ‘Go,’” Berman said.

Berman! I said.

“He’ll kill us if we don’t.”

“ I’ll fucken kill you!” Vincie screamed.

Shut up, Vincie! It isn’t true! He’s barely alive, Josh. I’m talking to you. I’m talking to you, Josh. He can’t lift his arms. He can’t kill anyone. No one’ll kill anyone. I will protect you. I promise you, Josh. I can still forgive you for what you’ve done. I understand, okay? I understand why!

“He’s lying,” Berman said, “and he’ll be gone, anyway.”

I yelled, Someone stop them! I’m the messiah!

Then Aleph said “Go,” and brought down his sap, and the others their chairs, and Benji was gone.

Sent: March 16, 2013, 5:56 AM Greenwich Mean Time (UTC +2)

Subject: RE: PLEASE, JELLY (version 18)

From: anrothstein@uchicago.edu (Jelly Rothstein)

To: Gurionforever@yahoo.com

The account is attached.

______________________

11-17.doc

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--Original Message Follows--

From: Gurionforever@yahoo.com

To: anrothstein@uchicago.edu

Subject: Re: PLEASE, JELLY (version 18)

Date: March 10, 2013, 7:22 AM GMT (UTC +2)

Dear Jelly,

I’m too afraid to tell you how grateful I am; afraid you’ll regret the kindness you’re showing me… I’ll meet your terms. You know how to reach me if you ever change your mind. I hope you’ll change your mind.

A blessing on your head,

Gurion

PS Whoever you think I’ve got in your classes — I didn’t send him. Probably it’s just some nice Orthodox boy with a crush. My dad was one of those once.

--Original Message Follows--

From: anrothstein@uchicago.edu

To: Gurionforever@yahoo.com

Subject: Re: PLEASE, JELLY (version 18)

Date: March 9, 2013, 3:07 AM GMT (UTC +2)

Gurion:

I’ve been trying to forgive you for over six years. I keep almost writing back to you, but something always stops me. Sometimes it’s a call or a visit from June, who you’ve ruined, who you keep on ruining. She sings me your praises with such desperation — forget the ugly headscarf and all the baggy clothing, forget her far-off gazing and tic-like eruptions of “Baruch Hashem, Jelly! Baruch Hashem!”; her stunted voice alone, stuck fast in croaky girlhood, breaks my heart bad enough — I can’t even squint, much less protest, for fear that she’ll jump off a building.

Other times what stops me is your emails themselves. When my hatred burns its brightest, they often cooled it off a little, true enough, but the times the hate’s ebbing, they get it to flow. The times the hate’s ebbing, I find myself thinking: Gurion was only a little boy then, a smart boy, sure, but a boy nonetheless; little boys are bastards, little girls too, they don’t know any better, no matter how smart; you can’t hate a young man for what he did as a boy, he didn’t know what he was doing, he couldn’t help but make mistakes; I’ll respond when he sends his next email. But then I get your next email, and it reads no different than the ones from six years ago, and you say the same things you were saying six years ago. And you CAN hate a little boy for what he’s done as a little boy, and you CAN hate a young man for what he’s done as a young man. Whether you’re still a little boy, or were always a young man (or maybe an old man, born fully formed), I have no idea, but you are who you were; you were who you are. You’re the same exact person I hated six years ago, the same exact person I’ve hated six years.