Adam Levin - The Instructions

Botha looked at the first one and said to me, “Go to the owfice before detantion.”

I said, My record’s ready?

He said, “Can’t say I know what your talking about.”

I said, What does the note say, Mr. Botha?

“Says to go to the owfice before detantion, Makebee.”

Botha went to his desk, reading the second note. Then he called Ronrico and the Janitor over and wrote them one pass. Brodsky had summoned them for our fight in the locker-room — that had to be it. It seemed so long ago.

Standing in the doorway behind the grumbling, key-clanging monitor — Botha hated that he had to unlock the gate just after having locked it — Ronrico shouted back to me, “Don’t worry. I won’t tell on you — and neither will he.”

“I won’t,” said the Janitor.

Soon the the beginning-of-class tone sounded and all of the Cage went quiet again. I touched my neck on the hairs. June had said, “Show me later, then. Don’t get in trouble.” I shivered big. It was almost later. Coke, poem, and passpad. I yearned for detention.

Before Eliyahu had the chance to get us steps, I sent a note over the wall that told him to send a note over the wall when he wanted to communicate. His response took so long, I worried he fell asleep. A lot of Cage students would sleep in the afternoon. Since the robots couldn’t see your face, it was easy to get away with if you didn’t put your head down onto the desk.

While I waited for Eliyahu to write me back, I returned to the problem of the random three-code — of why I couldn’t come up with something better. I started to think about how Flowers had said I was too methodical, too systematic; how I’d thought he was probably right ever since he’d said it, and for weeks had kept trying to be different than he’d said. Like when I towel-snapped the neck of the Janitor that morning. That was the most successful I’d been; I didn’t have any reason to towel-snap his neck. Rather, I had a reason to attack someone who didn’t deserve it (I had to find out if I was a sadist), and a reason to attack that person in the locker-room (teachers were scarce there; most fights went unpunished), but my target could have been any one of at least ten kids who I had Gym with and didn’t like. From that list of ten, I’d chosen the Janitor at random the night before. But then, because it was him I chose, his best friend Ronrico started fighting with me, and that fight was noisy enough to rouse Desormie, who brought me to the Office where I got to flirt with June, then meet Eliyahu. And now I was in love and getting sat next to. So it was definitely good that I towel-snapped the neck of the Janitor — I didn’t doubt that — but now that I thought about it, “because there was no reason to pick a fight with the Janitor” seemed like a reason to pick a fight with the Janitor, and if that was the case, there was reason in everything. Or maybe it was more like reason was inescapable. At least for me. And if reason was in everything, it would seem to make sense for me to continue to be methodical and systematic. And if reason was inescapable, then I couldn’t help but continue being methodical and systematic. Except… except…

I felt snared in a word-trap and cowardly for it. Like a guy on a gallows worrying about rope-burn. The Cage was the trap. The Cage was a cage.

A kid groaned his chair. I revolved to face Benji. He pointed at Eliyahu and shrugged his shoulders while curling his lips in around his teeth = “I don’t understand who this person is.”

I nodded once and showed Benji a power-fist = He is a friend.

Then Benji made two fists, held one on top of the other the tall way, and did circles with them at chest level. I didn’t know what that meant, but he followed it with the lips-curl and the shrug. Next he waved a sideways goodbye under his nostrils, which at first I thought = “It stinks in here,” but then he followed it with the shrugging and the lip thing again, which seemed to = “I don’t understand why it stinks in here,” but because I couldn’t smell any bad smells, and because it didn’t make any sense to tell me that he didn’t understand why the Cage was so awful, I was confused.

I heard the tap of a note landing on my desk and I revolved to face forward. Instead of balling up the note, Eliyahu had folded it into a box. That took longer than crumpling, but it didn’t make noise, and a thrown one’s trajectory was at least as reliable as that of a balled one’s. I’d never even thought of boxing a note.

I opened the note. It said: This Cage Manual is long and full of topys.

I wrote: I don’t know “topys.” Is it Yiddish or Hebrew? You are smart to box this piece of paper. I always crumple.

I boxed the note, tossed it.

A kid groaned his chair. Two more and I’d revolve again, gesture at Benji.

The note came back: To crumple is noisy. Topys is a spelling joke in English.

I wrote: You are a very quiet kind of funny, Aye lie Aye lie Aye lie.

Boxed it, tossed it. I heard a fly buzz. A kid groaned his chair.

Tap. The note said: Better this than a very funny kind of quiet. It is a very funny kind of quiet in here. It’s no picnic. You weren’t kidding before. How much longer til the day ends?

I checked the clock, wrote: 1.5 periods + 1 passing-period = 60 min + 5 = 65 min.

I have no work to do, Eliyahu wrote back. I will doze. Please enjoy a disc of butterscotch — my favorite.

A disc of butterscotch came over the wall. It shattered in its wrapper when it hit the desk.

Chair-groan, chair-groan, chair-groan, chair-groan — aggressive squeak-ing. I revolved to face Benji. He revolved, too, but not to face me. He looked, instead, at Ben-Wa Wolf, the source of the chair-groans — which hadn’t yet ceased — and so did most of the rest of the Cage, including the teachers and Botha.

“Aggrassive squeaking,” Botha said.

Ben-Wa stopped. He said, “I’ve had my hand up for—”

Botha interrupted him. “Stap one, Mr. Wolf. That’s what you get for agrrassive squeaking, isn’t it? Stap one and tan minutes til you’re called on, plus—”

“I—”

“ Tan minutes til you’re called on, Mr. Wolf, plus another two mannits edded for each word you speak. ‘I’ is a word, so that’s twailve mannits.”

Ben-Wa chewed his lips, shut his eyes to the wrinkling, crossed his legs at the knees like a lady being interviewed. A bunch of kids giggled. Someone said, “Ben Gay.” I didn’t see who.

“Face ford, all you,” Botha commanded.

I counted to seven and did it.

To Eliyahu, I wrote, Thank you for the butterscotch. I folded the note, but then I unfolded it and wrote, Don’t write “You’re Welcome” back to me. It is not worth risking a step to toss a note that says “You’re Welcome.” Or even “Thank you.” I’m only writing “Thank you” this once so you’ll know I’m not thoughtless. From now on, though, if you give me something in the Cage, assume that I am thankful. I will do the same with you. Dream of victory.

Over the wall.

I untwirled the wrapper of the butterscotch and put the two biggest pieces in my mouth. I fought off my teeth. My teeth wanted to chew.

A fly buzzed into my carrel, then left. Then came back.

And then the note came back. It said: You’re welcome — I will write that just once, too. But I mean it. I carry many discs of butterscotch in my pockets. It is something I learned in Brooklyn — I would give butterscotch to Bathsheba Wasserman, who is the love of my life. When I give away discs of butterscotch, it helps me remember Bathsheba, who I hope to dream about instead of victory, or maybe as a kind of victory, the best kind, loving her. Either way, I should thank you for helping me to remember. Bathsheba is so very beautiful, with black eyes and ringlets, and dresses so long she hovers when she walks away from you. Even as I fail to describe her well, and even amidst these humiliating conditions (what is that teacher’s PROBLEM with the tiny white-haired boy?! he looks like a nice boy, no?), I have joy. And now a snooze.