The Instructions

  I said, Even though the special treatment might be unfair to the others in ISS, it would be unfair to everyone else at Aptakisic if that special treatment weren’t granted. So it’s unfair to the few vs. unfair to the many. You do the math and the choice becomes obvious.

  And this time he said it: “Go on,” he said.

  The plan is for Scott to sing with Boystar, I said. I said, This morning, that Tanya Volleyball person announced there’d be a special guest. Most people don’t know it’s gonna be Scott. They’re expecting someone famous. Instead they’re gonna get a retarded kid. You knew all of that, and you planned it that way; to keep the special guest a secret. You must have figured it was good for the school. Maybe it’s a little manipulative—get their hopes up, sink them suddenly, and then they’re thrilled beyond they’re wildest imaginings because it turns out the elfy-looking boy is a great singer… And after about six notes, they’re gonna decide to be nice to this boy, and respect him for having talent, and maybe think twice about being cruel to other retarded people, of which the world has a great many. Yet none of that happens if, to be fair to Botha, you don’t let Scott sing. So it’s unfair to Botha vs. unfair to the whole world.

  Brodsky spun the wingnut.

  “I’ll let him sing. We’ll have to work out another punishment for him, though.”

  I said, That’s very reasonable of you, Mr. Brodsky.

  “I’m glad you think so. You see how far you get with me when you talk like a mensch? Now consider what I’ve asked of you, okay?”

  I let the mensch thing slide.

  I said, I’ll consider it.

  “And that’s reasonable of you,” he said.

  Reasonable of you, John. Reasonable of you, Dick. No two Israelites had ever pattered so goyischely.

  By the time Miss Pinge started writing my pass, I’d finished considering. And this is what I decided: Brodsky had only been flattering me. If he really believed I had as much sway as he said—and I did, regardless of what he thought—he would have been willing to bargain.

  Call-Me-Sandy hadn’t returned to the C-Hall water fountain.

  “I never left,” she cried.

  She cried like a television beauty. Her breathing wasn’t sniffly, just deep and sudden, and she didn’t make any choked sounds. Her bright blue eyes were much brighter wet, and when she wiped at them with the hand that wasn’t on the button, her sleeve, rather than sopping up the tears, spread them all over her face.

  I thought about hugging her, but then I thought it would just make her cry more and I didn’t want her to cry more.

  She chinned the air at the I EXPLODE Benji’d Darkered in the basin, and said, “I think this water fountain might explode if I take my finger off the button. Don’t smile about it.”

  It’s not a bomb, I said.

  “I was calling out for help, and no one would help me,” she said. “At first I was just waiting for Floyd to come by, but—”

  He’s roving, I said, and the water fountain’s not a bomb.

  “He didn’t come by, and after a while I gave up and started calling out, but no one would help me. I started having crazy thoughts. I started thinking that maybe I was so lost in my own thoughts that the schoolday had actually ended without my noticing, and no one was around anymore.”

  I said, It’s just C-Hall. The doorways are sound-buffers. No one heard you. And it’s just past three, which means school hasn’t ended.

  It meant something else, too—what did it mean, though, just past three?

  “I know that,” she said. “I know what time it is. But I started having the thought that the day had ended, and it was crazy. It was a crazy thought to have, and I recognized that, and I thought, ‘This water fountain’s not a bomb—that’s just another crazy thought you’re having, Sandy,’ but that didn’t comfort me at all—”

  Because for a little while you believed the crazy thought about the schoolday ending, I said, and if you weren’t able to distinguish the crazy thoughts from the normal thoughts at one point in time, who’s to say you could do so at any other? Not you. It wouldn’t be rigorous. So maybe the thought of the water fountain being a bomb isn’t crazy at all. Maybe it only seems crazy. And plus even if it is a crazy thought—in fact, especially if it’s crazy, and you’re not normally crazy—then might not your craziness attest to the water fountain bomb being real?

  “Right,” she said. “Because my—”

  Because why, if you aren’t usually crazy, would you get suddenly crazy? There would probably be a reason.

  “Intuition,” she said.

  I said, Maybe you’re highly attuned right now. I said, Maybe your intuition is telling you something. It’s never told you much before, and you never really even believed in intuition, but that could be all the more reason to believe in it right now. This moment could be exceptional because it could be a life-and-death one, and maybe, right before a person dies, they acquire—by unknown means—the knowledge that they’re about to die. Maybe right before someone dies, they intuit their death—maybe that’s how it is for everyone. And maybe some of them scoff at the intuition because they don’t believe in intuition, but then maybe others don’t—it’s not a thing that we can know. But maybe the intuition is God telling you something loud and clear—telling you you’re about to die—maybe He’s telling you as a sort of courtesy, so you can think pretty last thoughts, say goodbye to the world in your heart of hearts, send a message telepathically to your loved ones which, at the moment of your death, will cause a change in the air surrounding them, and they’ll either think something of it because they believe in intuition or think nothing of it because they don’t believe in intuition—maybe God is loudly and clearly telling you you’re about to die, but you don’t necessarily believe what He’s telling you because His language isn’t concise, or maybe His language is so concise that it doesn’t even seem like language, and that’s why you doubt it came from outside of you. Maybe the only reason you’d even think to doubt that you’re about to die by exploding water fountain is that God speaks so concisely that when you hear Him, it’s as if He simply planted an idea in your head, a feeling in your chest—maybe His language is so concise, so perfectly convincing, that it doesn’t even seem to communicate the messages it communicates—so concise and convincing that the thoughts and feelings His messages stir are incited instantaneously, making it seem as though the messages have come from within you. Or you might be crazy. But I’m telling you you’re not about to die.

  “This school has gone crazy. All these kids throwing scarves. All these tags on the walls, that false alarm. The way you spoke to me in session today—what’s predictable around here anymore?”

  I suddenly remembered what just past three meant. The verdict on Drucker v. Wilmette had been read, or at least it was about to be. A victory for hatred; no, for civil rights. A victory for both. Whatever it meant, my father had won—he had to have won; he always won—and now he knew he won, or at least he was about to know, and now he could relax, for a couple days at least, so I let myself be happy for a second, and it showed.

  “You think I’m being funny?” Call-Me-Sandy said. “I thought we were—”

  No, I said. No, I said. Look: I’ll stand here with you while you take your thumb off the button.

  “So what?”

  That’s how sure I am the water fountain’s not a bomb, I said.

  “That’s how sure you are, Gurion? You don’t believe you can die. You think you’re the messiah.”

  I don’t think I’m the messiah, I said.

  “I read your Step 4 and 5 assignments,” she said.

  I said, All those say is I think I might become the messiah.

  “Do you hear yourself? Please just go to the Office and have Mr. Brodsky call the police.”

  I said, I know who wrote the I EXPLODE on the water fountain. I saw him do it and he didn’t plant any bomb.

  “And it just so happens that the water fountain doesn’t work,” she said.
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  I said, I saw the water fountain get broken, too.

  “You saw a whole lot of things.”

  You think I’m lying? I said.

  “Why wouldn’t you have told me those things to begin with?”

  I didn’t think about it, I said.

  “Or maybe you’re still angry at me about the paper and you want me to die. Or maybe you’re just so confident you’re right that you’re willing to pretend you saw things you didn’t see. Just please just go to the Office.”

  I said, If Brodsky catches you like this, he won’t let you work here anymore. And then what’ll happen at the University of Chicago? I can’t help you get kicked out of here.

  “You’re such a friend all of a sudden.”

  I’m kind of a friend, I said.

  “A friend would comfort me in my distress, Gurion, even a ‘kind of’ friend. And whichever one he was, he wouldn’t argue with me about why I shouldn’t be distressed.”

  I thought about hugging you, I said. I said, It was the first thought I had, but then I thought it would just make you cry more.

  “So what?” she said. “What if I do cry more? Sometimes people have to cry. That doesn’t mean you have to be cold.”

  So I hugged Call-Me-Sandy.

  She hugged me back one-armed, my right temple against her left breast, bigger and softer than I’d have thought. And she smelled sparkly, Sandy, not like baby powder or laundry detergent—she smelled like expensive hairspray.

  My hands were under her cardigan, pressing on her damp cotton blouse, the strap of her bra poking my wrists. My hands weren’t underneath out of perviness—it was accidental, and when I noticed I removed them. I set my right one on her back, outside the cardigan, and with my left, I took hold of her right wrist and pulled. Her thumb came off the water fountain button and she shoved me in the chest.

  Hey, I said.

  “You should have convinced me first,” she said.

  I said, I tried.

  The schoolday proper was almost over. Nakamook and Jelly weren’t in the Cage, and I doubted they’d be back before the last tone. Benji had a lot of hall-passes left, so no one would catch them out at ditching, at least not for the rest of the afternoon, and even if they got in trouble the next day—if Botha spoke to Nurse Clyde once school let out, say, and discovered Clyde had sent the two back to the Cage—who wouldn’t be willing to serve detention, or even ISS, to hide out with someone he loves, kissing? Especially when the alternative was to sit in a room full of people who’d disappointed him. No, I thought, they wouldn’t return, and that was fine with me. It was. It was fine. I might’ve wanted him to suffer, but I didn’t particularly want to see it.

  When I got to my carrel, I said Main Man’s name, and Monitor Botha tried to shout me down. “Make—!” was all he could manage before the hyperscoot thundered.

  At the cluster, Mr. Voltz and Mrs. Sepper clutched their heads like boxers doing crunches.

  I allowed the noise to rage for thirty seconds, during which time the monitor stilled no chair—he didn’t even try—and then, at waist-level, I flashed my palm, and all at once the Side of Damage was quiet.

  I said, My Main Man Scott—

  Botha said, “Sit—!”

  And I hid my hand in the pocket of my hoodie—I’d thought first to show a fist, but then figured I’d have to keep showing it til I wanted the Side to stop, which wouldn’t be stealth, and plus it was hammy; ham-fisted, I thought—and a hyperscoot erupted.

  At first, Mr.Voltz and Mrs. Sepper just clutched their heads as they had the last time, but soon they were mouthing the word “Please” at me = “Despite your efforts to be stealth, we know it’s you who’s in charge, Gurion.”

  So when I showed my palm after a minute of hiding it, I held it high and didn’t drop it.

  As soon as it was quiet, Botha said, “Make-bee—”

  This time it was Voltz who shut him down. “Let him talk, Victor. Please. They can do this all day.”

  “It’s a mutation!” said the Flunky.

  No one corrected him.

  “We’re going deaf,” Mrs. Sepper said.

  “I mean a mutilation!” said the Flunky.

  “Allow him to speak, Mr. Botha,” said Voltz.

  Botha didn’t know if he should shrug at the teachers to signify the reluctance of his obediance, or wave them off to prove he could defy them. So he shrugged, and then he waved them off. And then he shrugged while waving them off.

  I said, My Main Scott Mookus will sing at the pep rally tomorrow.

  “Is it true, Gurion?” said Scott.

  “No,” said Botha. “In fect, it’s nothing like—”

  I dropped my hand.

  Hyperscoot. A solid two minutes. The duration of this one was arbitrary, though. I would have let it last for however long it took the teachers to snap.

  I thought Sepper would be the first, but it was Voltz who rose from the cluster. He stalked over to Botha and pointed a finger. As he opened his mouth, I showed my palm.

  “—is wrong with you?” Voltz accused at the tops of his lungs. Then, more quietly: “They’ve been doing this all period. Every time, it’s in response to you. Can’t you see that?”

  “Can’t you see that!” Mrs. Sepper said. She slapped the cluster hard, both hands, then shook out the skin-sting. She was actually crying. “Please stop,” she said to me.

  It’s deafening for us, too, I told her. Still, I said, if I don’t get the last word, all our ears will ring til kingdom come.

  “Fine,” said Mrs. Sepper.

  I know it’s fine with you, I said.

  “It’s fine with me and Mr. Botha, too,” said Mr. Voltz.

  That’s when Botha started to giggle.

  I did a silent three-count, then stood on my chair.

  He wants us to look at him, I said to the Cage. Monitor Botha. He wants us to look at him and see that he’s smiling. He wants us to hear him—to hear that he’s giggling. We should, we should look at him. Look at him giggling. Look at him now. We know what that’s like, to giggle like the monitor. We’ve done it ourselves. All of us have done it. We get stepped for this, we get stepped for that, we giggle—why? We just got caught. Getting caught isn’t funny, getting stepped isn’t pleasant, why do we giggle? Embarrassment? Shame? No. We’re not embarrassed. We’re not slightly ashamed. We’re angry. Angry. We took measures in order not to get caught, and now we’ve been caught, and it makes us angry, but now that we’re caught, and now that we’re angry, what can we do? What can we do that we’d want to do? What is there to do that we want to do that won’t get us in deeper trouble? Nothing. And now that we’re caught, we’re being watched; watched more than before. Watched ever closer. And so we giggle. We might as well dance, though. We might as well waltz with invisible partners. We might as well cha-cha. We might as well sneeze. What we do, though, is giggle. We giggle and hope it looks dangerous, tough. We giggle to say, ‘You can’t fire me because I quit. You may have won the battle but the war isn’t over.’ We giggle to suggest that getting caught doesn’t matter. We giggle and hope that the one for whom we giggle begins to suspect that we planned for him to catch us. ‘Curses! Foiled again!’ we hope he thinks. We hope he thinks, ‘No, oh no, oh no; it seems I’ve just played right into their hands. Oh dear, what’s up their sleeve? What exactly is up this giggling person’s sleeve that allows them to giggle even though I just caught them?’ But listen, let’s be honest: when we’re giggling, caught, our sleeves are empty, we don’t have bubkes, we know we’ve been fired, and even though it’s true that all we lost was a battle, we also lost the last one, soon we’ll lose the next, and what’s more is the war won’t ever end. We know that. Don’t we? We do. We know. All we’re doing by giggling is trying to save face, and all we do when we try to save face so blatantly is lose more face. And all of us know this, but we keep on doing it. Giggling when caught. Leaking precious snat. Caulking the cracks. We know it, but we hope that others might not. I’m telling yo
u they do, though. I do. You do. Above all: he does, Monitor Botha. Look at him now. Have a long look. Have a good listen. Look at him smiling and listen to him giggling. I’m not saying ‘Curses! Foiled again!’ Nor am I thinking it. Neither are you. I’m not getting worried what he’s got up his sleeve. I’m certain that none of this is part of his plan. Look at the beaten monitor, soldiers. Smiling, giggling. He looks to us just like we have to him on all those occasions where he caught us and we giggled. For that be ashamed. For that be embarrassed. No more of this giggling for us, I said. No more.

  “No more.”

  No more getting caught.

  They said, “No more.”

  Good, I said. And no more of this giggling or getting caught means no more trying to get away with things. You can only get caught if you’re trying to get away, so from this moment on, we don’t try to get away—we get and we get and then we get more.

  “Get,” they said.

  We get, I said. We’ve already gotten. We’ve gotten with hyperscoot, and we’ll get more with hyperscoot. Hyperscoot alone’s not enough, though. And too much hyperscoot will make hyperscoot useless. They’ll figure out a way soon enough to prevent it—thicker carpeting, sound-eating walls, friction-reducing caps on the chair-feet… They’ll figure out a way, and the more we use hyperscoot, the faster they’ll figure it. So we’ll use it sparingly. We only need it sparingly. We know we are on the same side, now, I said, and so does the monitor. We don’t have to keep proving it. Hyperscoot, soldiers, is just the beginning. The beginning ends now, and now it’s time for the middle. The middle is quiet, always quiet. The middle is where we decide what to do with the strength we’ve gathered. The middle—

  His claw flailing weirdly, almost epileptically, Botha, who still hadn’t ceased to giggle, interruptively slapped his khakied thigh—slap!—with his five-fingered hand and, at twice the volume of his spectacle thusfar, expelled a long series of cough-gasped syllables intended to resemble howling laughter. Soldiers gripped their seats, dug their heels in the carpet. Voltz and Sepper stuck their pointers in their ears. I showed the Side my palm, not wanting them to miss this—I didn’t want to miss this. I wanted us to witness his face going snatless.