The Instructions

And then I heard this violent chucketa-cracketa noise like a helicopter crashing.

  And Nakamook was shouting, “Goddamn!”

  That was the end of the kiss.

  The monitor, I said.

  Across the cafeteria, pennygun in hand, Nakamook was racing to the bathroom. Right next to me rocked the rockinghorse he’d shot. It was not the same one that I’d dropkicked. Half this one’s face was gone, and inside its hollow, busted head lay a black wingnut I reached in and snatched.

  “That was a serious,” June gasped, “kiss.”

  Pink ghost-shapes spreading all over her neck.

  I pulled her into the doorway at the side of the stage.

  Become the wall, I told her.

  “Our stuff,” she said. She kissed my chin and pulled me back out.

  Miss Gleem entered the cafeteria, came fast in our direction when she noticed the props.

  “Can you believe this?” June said to her. She smacked the wingnut-shot rocking horse on the back of his head. He bounced. Then rocked. June laughed. Nakamook sprinted from the bathroom to Main Hall.

  “Who would do this?” Miss Gleem said.

  “Some genius,” said June.

  “Junie!” Miss Gleem said. “Someone destroyed art.”

  “It wasn’t art,” June said, “until it was destroyed. It was a very badly executed set for a play, and someone made an installation piece out of it. I was just about to draw it. You see where my sketchbook is?” She pointed at the table by the stage where her sketchbook lay—covering, I noticed, the half-pad of hall-passes, baruch Hashem. She said, “I think that’s the perfect angle to draw it from. But I want to draw it with this rocking horse rocking—that way it’ll look like it’s just been struck by whatever genius struck it with whatever it was he used to take its face off. That’s good, right?”

  “It’s not good at all, Junie,” Miss Gleem said.

  I was thinking: Here we are, redhanded, and instead of being stealth about it, instead of hiding, June has shoved our redhands so close to the face of the art teacher that they don’t look red anymore because they don’t look like anything anymore, because they are covering the art teacher’s eyes.

  “You’re right,” June said, “it’s not good. I can get it to rock the way I want it to by smacking its head, but the rocking will stop before I can get back to my sketchbook. That’s why I’m showing Gurion how to smack the head. That way I can sit by my sketchbook, and Gurion can smack it, and I can get a sense of how the rocking horse’s motion relates to its surroundings, which is, I’d think, one of the keys to understanding the installation artist’s intentions. So give it a shot, Gurion. Let’s see what you can do for me. Smack the horse.”

  “I don’t think this is very nice,” said Miss Gleem.

  I was thinking: June is doing something new. She is doing a new kind of blinker action.

  “Who cares if it’s nice?” said June. “It’s art.”

  I thought: GURION AND JUNE DESTROYED THE PROPS = the construction; GURION AND JUNE ARE STANDING RIGHT NEXT TO THE DESTROYED PROPS = the construction horse that draws attention to the construction; and JUNE HAS OPEN CONTEMPT FOR THE PROPS = the blinker on the construction horse that draws attention to the construction horse that draws attention to the construction…

  I thought: The new thing is how THE WAY JUNE KEEPS GOING ON AND ON ABOUT HER OPEN CONTEMPT = a surge of electricity so huge that the blinker pops its bulb, and the flash of the pop is temporarily blinding, temporarily disorienting, and by the time Gleem’s eyes adjust, she will be more concerned about the surge and the blinker than the presence of the construction; the more she worries about the surge and the blinker, the less the construction horse will seem to her to signify the presence of the construction.

  “Smack the horse,” June said to me.

  I love you, I said.

  “Smack the horse,” she said. “Smack it on the head.”

  I smacked the horse on the head. The horse hopped, then rocked.

  “Why’d you smack it like a sister?” June said. “Smack it harder, like this.” June smacked the horse on the head. The horse hopped, then rocked.

  “Junie, please,” Miss Gleem said.

  “Smack it!” June said.

  I smacked it. The horse hopped, then rocked.

  Other detentioners had come to the cafeteria. They filled up the tables in back by the bathrooms and they laughed. Miss Gleem revolved to face them and shook her head left-to-right = “Not funny.”

  “Just last night,” June said to Miss Gleem, “Gurion’s friend called me up to tell me how Gurion was all tough, and I believed him, but now—don’t you think he hits like a little sister?”

  Who called you? I said.

  “Benji. Don’t worry—he said nice things. Anyway,” she said to Miss Gleem, “I need the horse to be smacked the way I smacked it, not the way Gurion smacked it—you saw the difference, right?”

  “I think so,” Miss Gleem said.

  “Of course you saw the difference,” June said, “but Gurion didn’t.”

  “Some people aren’t visual thinkers,” Miss Gleem said. The voice of Miss Gleem sounded flat like a zombie’s—she was so surprised by what June had been saying and by how happy the sight of the busted-up stage made the detentioners, who were shouting new words out like, “Knocking-horse!” and “Deady-bear!” that she was distracted from what she, herself, was saying. The surge had worked.

  June kept it working.

  “It’s true,” she said. “A lot of people aren’t visual thinkers—especially the ones who designed this ugly set—but do you think, Miss Gleem, that since you can see how I want it to rock, that you could maybe smack it for me while I watch from the table?”

  “I want you to get off that stage and sit down and I want you to think about what it would be like if some vandal destroyed your art,” Miss Gleem said.

  “You mean if my art wasn’t actually art but set-design and my set-design was suck?” June said. “Because I don’t think I can imagine what it would feel like if someone destroyed my set-design that was suck and I called art, because set-design is not art and my art is not suck.”

  Miss Gleem said, “Well, you try to imagine it, June. You try until you figure out how.” She wasn’t distracted from herself anymore, just really angry. “Get off that stage,” she said.

  While I followed June down the steps to the table where our stuff was, Nakamook was trailing Vincie and Leevon into the cafeteria. All of them showed us victory fists, and I showed them mine back. June kept her head down, her hands in her pockets.

  Once we were sitting, she went at her sketchbook like I wasn’t even there, and I thought: It’s important to let her draw, don’t bother her. But then, when Miss Gleem handed us our detention assignments, June started working on hers without saying anything to me, or even signalling anything, and I whispered to her, You are the mother of the hyper blinker action.

  She still didn’t say anything, or give any sign that she’d heard me, and I thought she was being stealth: I thought she didn’t want Miss Gleem to hear us talking. But we had just kissed perfectly and I felt less alive not talking to her. Plus, the worst that could happen would be if we got another detention, and that didn’t seem so bad at all. Still, I waited awhile to say anything else. I waited til Miss Gleem went to the opposite side of the cafeteria to quiet down some kid who’d started whistling.

  You really tricked Miss Gleem, I whispered to June.

  Again: nothing. Like she hadn’t heard me.

  I whispered a little louder: You really tricked Miss Gleem.

  “I know that,” June said. “You don’t have to tell me that,” she said. Then she kicked my shin, hard, and my knee banged the table-bottom.

  From the other side of the cafeteria, Miss Gleem said “Hey!” but she didn’t know to who.

  “Did that hurt?” June said to me.

  I said, Hurt?

  I thought she was flirting.

  “Hurt,” she said, full-
voiced.

  She didn’t sound like she was flirting.

  “Hurt,” she said.

  “June!” Miss Gleem snapped.

  June was showing me her teeth, but it wasn’t a smile. Her jaw was shut and her lower eyelids were trembling. “Did it hurt?” she said, kicking at my shin again.

  I grabbed her ankle before the impact. I was totally confused.

  June kicked my grabbing hand with her free foot. I dropped the first foot.

  It hurt, I said, it hurt.

  June made the noise “Tch” ≠ “I love you.”

  “June and Gurion,” Miss Gleem said.

  “Sitting in a tree!” sang someone I didn’t spin to look at.

  “K-I-L-L—” sang Vincie, who then yelled, “Fuck!” because Nakamook had punched him.

  I said, Why are you mad at me?

  June said, “Stop talking to me.”

  I said, But why?

  Miss Gleem said, “You’ve both got detention tomorrow.”

  “Tell me what I did,” I said to June.

  “Eliza June Watermark,” said Miss Gleem, “you pick your things up and get over here. Now.”

  June got away from me so fast, she forgot her sketchbook.

  Nakamook disagreed. He said, “She left it for you.”

  We were gathered on the curb of the bus circle by then—me, Benji, Vincie, and Leevon. June had cut out of the cafeteria as soon as Miss Gleem dismissed detention. I had run into Main Hall with the sketchbook but wasn’t able to find her, so I went to the front entrance and looked out the window. Just buses in the circle.

  I asked the Deaf Sentinel if he’d seen her.

  “Show me your pass,” he said.

  Detention’s over, I told him. I said, No one needs a pass anymore.

  He said, “I guess I’m off-duty, then.”

  Robot, I told him.

  He chewed his pencil.

  I ran outside to the circle to look in the windows of the buses. No one was in the buses.

  I dropped my backpack and tore my coat off. I swung the coat over my head and let go, but it only made me angrier, and cold. Puddles were slushy. Molecules were slow. I slammed my fist into the flank of bus 2. Blood went to my knuckles and my fingers got warm. I switched which hand held the sketchbook and hit the bus with the second fist.

  The driver, who I’d assumed was gossiping like usual with the other drivers on the grassy island in the middle of the bus circle, came down the chunky steps saying “Hey.” I’d never seen him before.

  Hey? I said.

  “Stop doing that,” he said. “Don’t hit my bus.”

  I said, You’re not Marnie.

  “Marnie’s got the flu. Don’t hit her bus.”

  I said, As long as you don’t tell me not to hit it again, I’ll only hit it once more.

  I hit the bus. This time with my head.

  “Jeez,” said the driver. He got back inside.

  My friends showed up.

  “Your head’s all red,” said Vincie.

  Leevon banged his head on Vincie’s backpack, which was huge with textbooks. Vincie met the pavement on his knees and Leevon stumbled backward til he sat on the curb. When they got their bearings they wrestled.

  Did you see June? I asked Benji.

  “No,” he said, “but calm down.”

  I said, I kissed her and I thought she loved it, but then she kicked me and forgot her sketchbook.

  “She left it for you,” he said, “so you could bring it to her.”

  I said, How would you know that? And why did you call her? She said you called her last night.

  “I know because I called her, and I called her because, I don’t know, man—you’re in love with her and you’re my friend and being in love with her’s making you act a little, I don’t know… out of character? Uncharacteristically insecure?”

  Insecure how? What do you mean insecure?

  “That’s what I mean. And how you just had to be early, had to arrive first to detention. And the way you got about Berman. And the super-knit brow thing you’re doing right now, like you’re trying to make your eyeballs explode. This is what I mean. And I wanted to make sure she knew you weren’t a dork, that you’re dorked out only in this one specific area because you’re in love and that is new for you, and also I don’t know her that well, and I wanted to make sure she wasn’t gonna somehow accidentally dissapoint…that she wouldn’t...doesn’t matter. That part was groundless. But look. You’ve got her notebook because she left it for you, but it’s good here to hesitate. It’s good here to wait awhile. Stop bouncing around like a spaz, okay? Joke around with your friend Nakamook and don’t bring her that notebook. Just laugh like I’m saying a bunch of really funny stuff and make her come and get—look out.”

  A pebble struck me sharply on the back of my neck. I spun and saw June. She ducked behind a hedgerow halfway to the entrance.

  “Don’t go there,” Benji said.

  I went.

  “At least slow down!” he shouted after me.

  June was bundled in her coat, laying down behind the bushes.

  I said, Why—

  And she swept my legs out at the ankles. I fell next to her, still holding the sketchbook.

  “Still love me?” she said. “Even though I’m mean to you? Even though I kicked you twice and hit your neck with a pebble and made you bring me my sketchbook and then tripped you?” she said. She said, “I wouldn’t love you if you did that to me. If you did that to me, I’d think you were a dentist. I would think you were crazy, too, and I wouldn’t trust you and every morning I’d bake a clay doll that was shaped like you, and every night before I slept I would smash it on the floor beside my bed and kneel on its shards with no pants so my legs would bleed and I could hate you even easier the next time. But don’t worry about it, I disappointed my teacher and she hates me now, too, so at least you’re not alone.”I was too glad she was talking to me to be angry at her.

  Miss Gleem doesn’t hate you, I said.

  June said, “I don’t care.”

  I said, It’s a little bit like what happened to me in Brodsky’s office yesterday afternoon, and you told me—

  “I don’t care!” June said.

  I said, If you didn’t perform the hyperblinker action, Miss Gleem would have known you helped destroy the props yourself, and she’d feel even worse—so even though your hyperblinkering was artful, it was kind. You saved her some pain.

  June said, “Go away, Gurion.”

  I said, Why?

  She said, “I don’t want you near me.”

  I said, Then you go away.

  She didn’t go away. She got up on her elbows like she was going to, but she didn’t.

  You just want me to think you’re crazy, I said.

  “Get bent,” June said.

  You want me to think you’re crazy since I can’t convince you Miss Gleem’s not disappointed, I said. Because if I think you’re crazy, I’ll tell you you’re crazy, and then you might believe it. If you believe you’re crazy, you get to doubt everything that you know to be true but wish were untrue. That’s why you kicked me—because it was the kind of thing a crazy person would do. And that’s why you’re telling me to go away now—because it would be a crazy thing to tell me if you really meant it. And that’s your secret plan, but it doesn’t make sense.

  “Why doesn’t it?” she said. Her voice had less nails in it.

  It’s yossarian, I said. If I tell you you’re crazy and you believe it, then you have to doubt that you should trust my opinion to begin with because how can a crazy person judge whose opinion to trust? They can’t. They’re crazy. So then you have to doubt that you’re even crazy because the person who told you you’re crazy—me—might not be trustworthy. And you come out with nothing that way. And so I come out with nothing. So I’m not going to tell you that you didn’t disappoint Miss Gleem. And I won’t tell you anything that would mean that you’re crazy. You did disappoint her—not tons, but a littl
e. And you aren’t crazy.

  “I hate that,” June said.

  Me too, I said.

  I didn’t know what I meant, just that I should agree with her.

  “I hate worrying about disappointing people who want me to be a way that I’m not,” she said. “Because I did think the stage looked better after we were through with it, you know? It looked fake before. It looked lifeless, but then when we destroyed it, it looked dead—once we destroyed it, it looked, at least, like it used to have life, you know?”

  That was exactly how it looked.

  We laid there, sighing. The sun was an ugly winter sun. You had to squint, but it didn’t warm you. June rolled on top of me and pinned me at the wrists.

  That’s not how you pin someone, I told her. I said, Look at all this leverage I’ve got.

  I shoved my chest up and bumped June’s. Not hard, but just to show her.

  “I know how to pin someone,” she said. She pinned me at the elbows. “Keep your arms strong,” she said, “so I can balance.” Then she did a handstand on my biceps. Her hoods and hair fell down on my face.

  Your hair is my favorite smell, I said.

  “Mine too,” she said. “It’s not the smell of my hair, though.” Her voice was croaky, ground-down—the muscles of her neck were flexed, pressing on her voicebox, her air-passage. She said, “It’s amber resin. I put it in my hair.”

  How are you doing this? I said.

  She came out of the handstand before answering and laid on me. Her stomach pressed on mine and then didn’t, pressed on mine and then didn’t. Her eyelashes were on my ear. She was blinking.

  “I used to think I wanted to be a gymnast,” she said, “so I became a master of the handstand.” Her breath made my neck tingle.

  I thought you used to want to be a modern dancer, I said.

  “I used to want to be a lot of things,” she said.

  Me too, I said.

  “Like what?” she said.

  I said, I don’t know… I keep spacing out on your body.

  “I’m flat,” June said.

  I like your body, I said. I said, I like how you’re pressing it on me.

  “I can tell,” she said = “Your wang is chung.”

  My wang was chung. It was supposed to be, because I was heterosexual.