Adam Levin - The Instructions

In any case, I’d never have ratted to the principal about the ichthys, especially not after demanding the plebiscite. Apart from being wrong, to rat was self-defeating. If the other Shovers found out (which they did), then the passive disregard they already had for the cause of the Israelites would, by many, be replaced with active contempt (which it was), and worse than that, it would give them a cause, make them —the Gentile Shovers — the underdogs, and Brodsky their oppressor, a figure to defy.

And that happened, too.

As soon as he learned of the dispute from the finks, Brodsky announced that nothing religious could appear on any item of school apparel, and thereby banned the ichthys from the scarf.

But Acer said the scarf was not school apparel. He said that the Shovers, being a semi-private club, paid for and ordered and designed it themselves, and now it was they whose creative souls were at stake, so it wasn’t Brodsky who’d make the decision, but the “majority of Shovers who would hold a democrat [ sic ] vote.”

Yet a club at school with semi-private status was nonetheless a school-sponsored club, Brodsky told them, and the principal of the school had total jurisdiction, so plebiscite narishkeit, referendum dumb pudendum.

Despite Brodsky’s assurance it would be illegitimate, the vote was taken at the next official meeting. The pro-ichthys faction won 48–13.

No one can know what would have happened had Acer and the Shovers followed through on the results. Nor can it be known if, by the time the vote was taken, they’d had any intention of following through. Ruth Rothstein opines, in “Nada y Pues Nada,” that all of the Shovers, including Blake Acer, had been long-since resigned to Brodsky’s decision, their votes meek gestures they’d back with no action, hollow as bird-bones, forty-eight balloted chest-bumps. (Ruth’s heart, Jelly’d told me when I’d first read the article, was once broken by a Shover — this was Berman’s older brother, although, at that time, she hadn’t named names.) If it’s true that the Shovers had been only caulking trickles, then indeed Frungeon saved them many facefulls of snat. If it isn’t true, it’s hard to guess what he saved them — Brodsky talked tough, but what could he do if the Shovers, as Acer suggested in whispers, did order scarves embroidered with ichthii and had them delivered somewhere other than school? Expel them? Who’d stand for it? What about the kids who wore crosses and chais? We weren’t in France or Saudi Arabia. Maybe Brodsky could sue for trademark infringement? the use of the mascot up near the shoulder? Maybe take away the Shovers’ semi-private-club status? But then they’d meet at recess, wholly private, with impunity. Ban scarves in the classroom? What about cold kids? Apart from maybe holding a grudge — and maybe, for a Shover, the threat of that was enough — Brodsky really couldn’t do much to punish them. Whatever might have happened in either case, though, it was Frungeon, to everyone’s surprise, who prevented it.

He appeared, according to Rothstein’s account, at the meeting just after the vote-counts’ announcement. His scrimmage jersey soaked in the sweat of earnest basketball, he came straight from practice, nearly breathless from the rush, and proclaimed to the Shovers, without bile or guile: “I never wanted to cause you guys trouble. The Lord Jesus, my savior, cares not about scarves, and He’d never want anyone to fight about scarves, and I’ve prayed for the past two nights for His guidance, and this morning as I woke, the Lord Jesus provided: I fell to the floor — no worries, my brothers, my parents have carpet — and shook like the dickens, for the Lord Jesus Christ had come to me. He told me, Bring peace to your school, Aptakisic, and let the Jews be, son, for I was a Jew, and My Father, My son, is their Father too, and Our Father, My son, shines His holy light upon them, for it’s they who will bring Me, they who’ll announce Me, they who will bring Me to you, My son, in body then and there, as in spirit here and now. Do not cause them strife. Help Me save them.”

“So you don’t want the fish on the scarf?” Vander asked.

“No,” said Frungeon.

“It’s the creative expression of your soul,” Acer said.

“It’s a symbol for who I am,” said Frungeon, “but there’s no good reason that should be on your scarf.”

“So what do you want for a symbol then, Gary?”

“Nothing,” he said.

“Nothing?” they said.

“There’s nothing could stand for me better than the ichthys, so let there be nothing to stand for me.”

“Nothing at all?”

“Nothing at all.”

“Not even a white stripe where the ichthys would have been?”

“A white stripe?” said Frungeon.

“Cause white’s like nothing. A white stripe of nothing: a blankspot.”

“A blankspot,” said Frungeon, “I’ll gladly take you up on.”

“A blankspot!” cheered Acer.

And they all cheered a blankspot, a blankspot that stood for “If not Christ, then nothing.”

Ruth was the first one in the Office to notice me. She chinned air in my direction, and that was surprising. One time, for three minutes, I had a hot crush on her. I bet every guy at Aptakisic had had a three-minute crush on her. With mine, I’d just read “Nada y Pues Nada” and decided she was smart, or at least a good writer, and she was waiting for Jelly by the buses after school. She had Jelly’s shiny eyes and fast-moving face, but was brighter-haired and even more compact — not petite, and not skinny either; more like sharp, or maybe economical, the same way June’s body was economical, really, but more narrowly shouldered, and with a lot less ass, which sounds kind of bad, and usually would be, but was nice on Ruth, or not on Ruth, depending on what you expect an ass to be like. Jelly’d told her, “This is Gurion. He hates the Shovers, too.” And I said, I don’t hate them; I just want to hit them. Your newest article’s the best one yet, though. Blankspots for Jesus. Those guys are so chomsky. “I think you missed the point,” Ruth Rothstein said. I said, What point? “Blankspots for Jesus? Tch,” Ruth said, and my crush died faster than a magazined spider. I said to her, No, I think you missed the point. I thought you were being subtle not saying it, but you weren’t. Those blankspots mean If not Christ, then nothing. “You’re wrong,” said Ruth. “They just mean nothing. I mean: they don’t mean anything. They’re meaningless.” I said, Only nothing is meaningless, and a blankspot is something; nothing would have to be no spot at all. “Gurion’s smarter than you,” Jelly told her, “ha ha.” And Ruth bit her lip and said “Tch” and walked off.

But now, in the Office, she chinned air = “C’mere,” and I went without a three-count since it meant she didn’t hate me. “Excited?” she whispered. “You’re about to be anonymous.”

I don’t know what that means.

She told me, “Watch this,” then swallowed her mint and went over to the Shovers.

Acer saw her coming and held out the scarf. “My statement,” he said, “is officially this: ‘This year’s scarves are flossy flossy, which is two times flossier than even I predicted, and as you well know, Ruth, I was, from the beginning, very optimistical.’ If you want, you can take out the part where I say your name, but I do want you to emphasize—”

“The question on everyone’s mind, Blake,” said Ruth, “is how do the Shovers respond to accusations that the scarf’s white stripe is a blankspot for Jesus?”

“I—”

“Who made that accusation?” said one of the others. He was tall and his arms had machined definition — not so much strong as muscular, not so much conditioned as cut. If something unguarded and heavy were in front of him, and it had parts to grip, and it wasn’t animate, and its weight was symmetrically distributed, he could lift it no sweat.