Adam Levin - The Instructions

So even if people didn’t go near Jelly for a while because they were afraid of getting milk poured on them, all it would take was one person to accidentally get close to Jelly and not get milk poured on them. After that happened, she would have to bite people a lot more often than she would have had to bite them before people ever thought she was a milk-pourer, and I explained that to her the day after the incident with Angie Destra. I told Jelly that letting people believe she was a milk-pourer was like saying that touching the tree was suicide, since even after the next time she bit somebody, people who weren’t there to see the biting would think, “It was said of her that she poured milk on shoes and it was not true that she poured milk on shoes. Now it is being said that she bites those who stand close to her. Why should I believe it?” And they wouldn’t believe it, even though it was true — Jelly always bit people who got too close to her — and more lies would spread. They would spread without cease. There’s no killing lies. Lies uncovered change shape, but never die. When Eve got pushed onto the tree by the serpent, she didn’t think, “What Adam told me about touching the tree was untrue.” She thought, “What God told Adam about touching the tree was untrue.” Adam’s lie made God’s truth look like a lie, but God never lies. Still, it was a very normal mistake for Eve to make. It is the kind of mistake that happens all the time. I’d said that to Jelly, too, and she’d said, “You’re telling me I’ve been a bad Jew?”

Israelite, I’d said.

“I’ve been a bad Israelite?”

No. Of course not. Where’d you get that? You didn’t lie. I’m just saying that—

“So what can I do, then? What should I do? ‘There’s no killing lies,’ right? It’s too late to fix it. What can I do, Gurion?”

Nothing. You’re right. It’s too late to fix it. Don’t get upset. You’re not a bad Israelite. You’re good. You’re great. I think you’re great. So does everyone else, I said.

“Right. Sure. Everyone. Great.”

Jelly had a soft thermal lunchbox with a shoulder strap. Inside it was lettuce in a tupperware cube, clingwrapped croutons, ziplocked chicken strips, oil-based dressing in a babyfood jar. Her lunch preparations were intricate as usual. She unwrapped the croutons, put some in her hand, and made a loose fist. Then she shook her fist around just above the salad and the croutons came out of the bottom fist-hole a couple at a time for a sprinkling effect. Once she was finished spreading all the croutons, she opened the chicken baggie and laid out the strips on the salad in a hexagon. Then she uncapped the babyfood jar and tipped it so a thin line of dressing came out. She guided the line over the salad so that each part of the salad got the same amount of dressing on it.

Nakamook told her, “You pay so much attention.”

Jelly screwed the cap back onto the jar. She said, “I think I will be a chef.” She had a real fork, a full-sized metal one, and she stabbed it into a wad of lettuce.

I never wanted to bring lunch-things to school that I would have to bring back home. That was why I didn’t carry a lunchbox. Plus you couldn’t pop a lunchbox. In my brown paper bag was a peanut-butter sandwich on raisin-bread toast. It was wrapped in aluminum foil instead of a baggy because toast got damp in a baggy and I liked it to crunch. I also had baby carrots and cheesepuffs and a box of BerryBerryGood — flavored FruitoDrinko.

Nakamook didn’t have any lunch. I didn’t ask him why because I knew he’d say his mom forgot to pack it for him again and also forgot to give him hotlunch money. I handed him half my sandwich and carrots, but it didn’t make me any less sad until I got angry that I felt sad because I should have just felt angry because Nakamook’s mom hadn’t forgotten to do anything: she was punishing him.

Starvation was a cruel punishment to inflict on any son, but to inflict starvation on Benji Nakamook was not only cruel — it was snakey. If his mom knew him at all, she knew her cruelty would lead him to lie; that he would, out of loyalty to her, tell lies to keep her cruelty a secret. If she knew him at all, she knew Benji kept his secrets tighter than anyone. That was the Nakamookian way. It was a tragically ironic way. His secrets had made him into a person who was willing to hurt anyone and anything he was not close with that got in his path or in the path of the people he was close with, but he could not get too close to the people he was close with, because to get any closer would mean telling his secrets, and Benji was scared his secrets would hurt the people who he was close with, so he’d hurt himself by keeping the secrets, and that was a secret, too. That is how my mom explained it to me after we all had dinner together. Right after Benji told her he’d avenge any offense against my person, my mom said that she liked how he ate everything on his plate like he’d never been fed a hot dinner before, and Benji stopped talking and looked like he would cry.

My mom was pretty much always right about people, and yet, for some reason, I never believed her. At least not at first. What secrets? I’d said. He doesn’t have secrets. You’re being dramatic.

But then, a couple weeks after he’d come over for dinner (on the morning of my fourth Tuesday at Aptakisic Junior High, exactly five weeks before I fell in love with June), it came clear that Benji did have secrets. This was when he told me not to fight Bam Slokum, and I gave him my word that I wouldn’t. He was Darkering SLOKUM DIES FRIDAY on a wall while I stood watch, and I asked him if all such bombs were his — I’d seen more than a handful of SLOKUM DIES FRIDAYs throughout the school — and he told me they were, and in the same breath added, “Bam’s my arch-enemy. I don’t want you fighting him.” So I asked him why he wouldn’t want me to fight his arch-enemy, and this is what he told me: “Regarding vengeance and arch-enemies, one must not only be timely but prideful, and pride exacts propriety.”

Benji didn’t usually talk so kenobi. Whenever he did, I’d just back off. He had read a lot of Shakespeare and Homer and Euripides, and I didn’t understand those guys’ justice enough to know if he’d actually mastered it or not, so getting Halakhic with Nakamook about things like vengeance was rarely fruitful. It was usually better just to listen to him — he was, after all, the one who first taught me about snat and face — and I’d found that what he said was usually right, even if it didn’t seem to make sense sometimes. More important than any of that, though, was Benji was my best friend. By then I’d even given him a copy of Ulpan . It is true that the copy was specially doctored — I’d cut out all the Israelite and Adonai parts, changed the title to Instructions , and added a directive to burn the document as soon as he was through with it — but still he was the only non-Israelite kid who I’d ever given a copy to. If my best friend didn’t want to tell me his own backstory — whether because parts of it caused him pain, or just because he didn’t know how to tell it yet — I could understand that, and I didn’t want to attempt to pull it from him. Especially not if I could hear it from someone else.

I decided to ask Vincie Portite about it.

We were dressing in the locker-room, and Nakamook was showering — we’d raced from the gym; Vincie had tripped him; Benji was the last kid to get through the door — but Vincie, nonetheless, had whispered, “Keep it fucken down. I’ll call you tonight and tell you, okay?”

And he’d called me that night and told me:

Two years earlier, when Bam was in the sixth grade, Nakamook — in fifth — had been his best friend. Bam wasn’t yet superhero-shaped back then, but his cousin Geoff Claymore, an eighth-grader and legendary shvontz, was gigantic. Claymore took steroids and sometimes kids’ lunch money. He’d vow silence to shy girls at parties in darkened basements, then leave hatermarks on their necks and spread sex stories about them. He subjected Bam Slokum to noogies and bookrockets and everyone in sight had to laugh, including Bam, who, if he didn’t, would find himself arm-locked or thrown.