The Instructions by Adam Levin
“Gurion?”
I said, You probably shouldn’t come with us, Ansul.
“But I want to.”
Everyone here wants to, I said, and soon, if things go well for us, almost everyone everywhere will want to, or at least wish they had—even some of our enemies. It’s not good enough to just want to, right now. If you can walk away, you should walk away.
Just then Vincie and Ronrico returned to the lounge.
Take a minute to decide, I told the Side of Damage. If you’re not coming with, turn your coins back in—we’ll need them.
“We didn’t fucken see Floyd,” Vincie told me.
“Not that we didn’t go looking,” said Ronrico.
“Shut the fuck up, Asparagus. You wanted to get him as bad as me.” Vincie handed me the sap. I stuck it in my belt. “I’m sorry,” he said, “but I just love that thing. Makes me wanna fucken use it, you know?”
“I know!” said Ansul Entsry. “Exactly!” he said.
“Huh?” said Vincie.
Ansul batted his eyelids = either “I think you’re very sexy and want to kiss you, Vincie Portite,” or, “I think you’re very sexy and want to be like you, Vincie Portite.”
“Anyway, I was thinking about it, and I’ll bet you anything Floyd’s in the gym,” Vincie said.
Why? I said.
“His big fucken chance to do crowd control or whatever.”
You’re smart, I said.
“I—”
“Did you tell him about the Office and the camera?” Ronrico said.
“Did you fucken hear me tell him? You’ve been standing here the whole time,” said Vincie. To me, he said, “The good news is that Brodsky’s office is empty and so is Nurse Clyde’s, plus look at all these nibs.” He emptied a baggie of nibs on the table. “The bad news is: Some Boystar guy with a camera was walking around and I think he caught us on tape.”
“We’re all gonna be on tape, anyway,” Benji said. “Right?”
Right, I said. I said, It doesn’t matter.
“Good,” said Ronrico. “Cause I flicked that guy off.”
“Also,” said Vincie, pulling something from his backpack, “I’ve been stashing these away for a present for your birthday or Chanukah or something.” He dropped a second baggie on the table and the baggie clunked and glinted. It was filled with wingnuts and hexnuts and washers. “I started thinking how if you’re saying pennies’ll…”
I grabbed his head by the ears. I said, You’re smart, Vincie.
“Tch,” Vincie said, and tried to shrug from my grasp.
I pulled his head down close so our foreheads touched. No, I said. I said, Listen to me. I’m not trying to have an emotional moment with you here. When we get to the gym, you’re gonna be making some decisions and you’re not gonna be able to ask me or Benji if they’re good decisions. You’ll be in charge of people, and if you think you’re dumb, you’ll second-guess yourself and slow us down, and if we’re slow we’ll suffer for it. You know what you’re doing. You’re smart. So be fucken smart.
“I will,” he said.
I mashed our foreheads.
“For serious,” he said.
I let him go with a backslap and he waved his pennygun. He told me, “I need one for Starla.”
I gave him the weapon I’d made for her.
Ronrico asked if he should pass out the nibs.
Just the washers and fasteners, I said. Nibs’re for us.
“I’m honored,” said Ronrico.
Sorry, I said, I didn’t mean you.
Ronrico made a whiny noise.
“We’re the best shots,” Benji told him. “We’ve been practicing for months. Here’s some coins.” He gave Ronrico some coins.
There were thirty nibs. I divided them five ways.
“Who’re—” said Benji.
I said, June and Eliyahu.
I swept three portions into my bag.
When I looked up, there was a new pile of give-back coins on the table, and some kids were still digging in their pockets, making it larger.
“Should we go?” asked one of the pocketdiggers.
Not yet, I said. I said, We don’t know for sure where Floyd is and we have to stay stealth. I said, Stay here til the attack’s in progress, then go out the side entrance.
“How will we know when it’s in progress?”
I said, Just wait for the end-of-class tone or the fire alarm—whichever comes first.
Other kids started digging in their pockets.
Last chance to go home, I told everyone.
Another two flopped coins into the pile. And then another three. More were lining up.
I called in a murder, Mangey a flasher, Vincie a bank heist, Benji a crazy-eyed man in a quiet cul-de-sac.
“We’re in,” Benji told me.
How do you know?
“The dispatcher told me, ‘Yeah, yeah, yeah, kid.’”
Good, I said. I said, Keep making calls. If they yeah-yeah-yeah you, act incredulous and tell them you’ll sue them if they don’t respond. Tell them you know the laws and they’re being racists and your dad’s a civil rights lawyer and just because you’re black doesn’t mean they can treat you like a second-class citizen.
“Should I do a gangsta voice or something?”
No, I said. Talk like a news anchor.
“Shouldn’t we stop?” Vincie asked us. “Aren’t they gonna think we’re crying wolf?”
“That’s the whole idea,” Benji told him.
“No,” said Vincie, “that’s not what I fucken mean. I mean aren’t they gonna start thinking that we’re crying wolf on purpose—like for a strategy?”
Yes, I said.
I dialed Information, asked them for the number for Stevenson High School.
COACH RONALD DESORMIE
(AT HALF-COURT MICROPHONE, USING OWN MEGAPHONE)
Co-Captain William “The Co-Captain” Baxter!
10:21 AM: C1 (C3; C4; C6; C9)
WILLIAM BAXTER
(RISES FROM CHAIR NEAR HALF-COURT, STRAIGHTENS TIE, SALUTES BLEACHERS)
10:21 AM: C3 (C1; C4; C6; C9)
BLEACHERS
(FIVE BOYS GRASPING THE SLEEVES AND SHOULDERS OF A SIXTH BOY IN A BLACK HAT WHO APPEARS TO BE STRAINING AGAINST THEM; VIRGINIA PINGE, SITTING BEHIND THE SIX, LEANS IN STERNLY, GESTICULATES WITH HER ARMS.)
10:21 AM: C1 (C3; C4; C6; C9)
WILLIAM BAXTER
(BOWS AT WAIST, SITS)
COACH RONALD DESORMIE
(AT HALF-COURT MICROPHONE, USING OWN MEGAPHONE)
And finally, the best of the best who’s been saved for last, and for that very reason. The all-time high-scorer in the Western Division of the North Shore Conference. Averaging twenty-nine points per game last year, this player had a regular-season high of thirty-six points and a playoff high of forty-three. He triple-doubled in ten of twelve regular season games. He’s made team Illinois for two years running and was the first seventh-grader in America to ever start at center on a state team at the junior-high varsity level. He’s never flubbed a tip-off. He’s never blown a dunk. He’s ninety-three percent at the line. When the clutch is on, this one goes to eleven. And that’s just the numbers. He’s got what’s known as touch. He’s got what’s referred to as drive. Whistle blows, he enters an atemporal and totally nonspatial area that we in the coaching profession like to call the zone. And he stays there. He’s an athlete with more gumption than a locomotive, a born leader with more leadership skills than all the Ghandis and Reagans to the millionth power combined, and he’s a non-parallel natural talent who plays basketball better than eagles fly, better than snakes bite, better than cats land on their feet and dogs are man’s best friend. This is the guy you gotta foul to even begin to think about having a prayer to stop him—and even then. This is the guy who is the heart of the team that is the soul of the school that is the one you go to which is Aptakisic. People… I give you Co-Captain Alpha of your very own Indians: BAM. BAMMIN. VON BAMMENSTEIN. SLOK
AUDIENCE (OFFSCREEN)
(CLAPPING AND WHISTLING)
BARNUM SLOKUM
(RISES FROM CHAIR NEAR HALF-COURT)
COACH RONALD DESORMIE
(AT HALF-COURT MICROPHONE, USING OWN MEGAPHONE)
Behold the man!
(PUMPS FIST IN AIR; WITH FREE HAND, PLAY-PUNCHES BARNUM SLOKUM’S SHOULDER)
BARNUM SLOKUM
(REMOVES HALF-COURT MICROPHONE FROM CLAMP; STANDS CONTRAPPOSTO, DANGLING HALF-COURT MICROPHONE BY CORD AT SIDE, NODDING SLOWLY, AFFIRMATIVELY)
AUDIENCE (OFFSCREEN)
(CLAPPING AND WHISTLING OVER SWELLING MICROPHONE FEEDBACK FROM HALF-COURT MICROPHONE)
10:24 AM: C6 (C4; C3; C6; C9)
BLEACHERS
(STUDENTS AND TEACHERS APPLAUDING WILDLY, WHISTLING)
10:23 AM: C1 (C2; C3; C4; C6; C8; C9)
BARNUM SLOKUM
(BRINGS HALF-COURT MICROPHONE TO CHIN)
Will you let me holler at you for a minute.
10:23 AM: C6 (C1; C2; C3; C4; C5; C7; C8; C9)
BLEACHERS (PANNING)
(STUDENTS AND TEACHERS APPLAUDING WILDLY, WHISTLING, SHOUTING “HOLLER”)
(THREE BLONDE GIRLS WITH SIMILAR HAIRCUTS BLOWING KISSES; THREE OTHERS SHOUTING, “WE LOVE YOU BAM!”)
(RED-HAIRED GIRL, ONE EYE SHUT, SIGHTING THROUGH IMAGINARY RIFLE)
10:23 AM: C7 (C1; C2; C3; C4; C5; C6; C8; C9)
BARNUM SLOKUM
(AT HALF-COURT MICROPHONE; REMOVES BROADSHEET FROM JACKET AND UNFOLDS, HOLDS IT UNDER EYES)
I’m tall.
AUDIENCE (OFFSCREEN)
(EMITS SHUSHING SOUNDS, GROWS QUIET)
BARNUM SLOKUM
(AT HALF-COURT MICROPHONE, BRANDISHING BROADSHEET)
According to this I’m tall. The Twin Groves Weekly Eagle says I’m tall and my height lets me to dunk, and it’s why I win tip-offs. My fighter-pilot vision, says the Weekly Eagle, grants me access to the angle of the ball’s spin before it hits the boards, and those needles I thread when I get in the lane I already spotted from way back at half-court—according to this. This rag here’s sports editor says “Slokum is Justice of the Peace at the wedding of game-smarts and preternatural reflexes.” Says I make use of the power vested in me to anticipate blocks I’ll put to shots the guy I’m guarding doesn’t yet know he’ll take. Says my body’s toned in places most people don’t even have musculature, and, paired with my perfect skeletal symmetry, this allows me to maintain balance amid all kinds of dirty elbowplay. Says the Indians are unstoppable as long as I’m in the game. Says the Eagles have to take me out. Well let me tell you something. Can I tell you something. Can I show you something. Will you let me holler at you some more.
AUDIENCE (OFFSCREEN)
(SHOUTS OF “HOLLER” FOLLOWED BY SHUSHING SOUNDS, THEN QUIET)
BARNUM SLOKUM
(SLINGS HALF-COURT MICROPHONE OVER SHOULDER, HALVES BROADSHEET, QUARTERS BROADSHEET, EIGHTHS BROADSHEET, SIXTEENTHS BROADSHEET, THROWS BROADSHEET CONFETTI OVER SHOULDER; BRINGS HALF-COURT MICROPHONE TO CHIN)
Weekly Eagle, regal beagle. We’ve won all our games since I joined varsity two years back: that’s true. It’s true I’m tall, it’s true I’m a serious player, and it’s true the Aptakisic Indians are unstoppable. But no matter what any hack at the enemy school’s newspaper writes or thinks, the Aptakisic Indians aren’t unstoppable because I’m tall, and we’re not unstoppable because I’m a serious player. We’re not unstoppable because I got backup from my excellent Co-Captain William “The Co-Captain” Baxter or Lonnie “Blonde Lonnie” Boyd either. We’re not unstoppable because of any one of the players or even all of the players. The Aptakisic Indians are unstoppable because the Aptakisic Indians are the Aptakisic Indians. And the Aptakisic Indians are the Aptakisic Indians because we go to school with you, understand. With you. That’s what the enemy doesn’t want you to know. And yeah, we’ll win this afternoon and you’re behind us and all of us know that. And yeah, to some people it might look like you’re behind us because we’ll win this afternoon, but what I’m telling you is we’ll win this afternoon because you’re behind us. That’s what we’re here for, in this gym. Right now. To get rallied. By you. You’re rallying us, understand. You’re showing us you’re behind us. We’re all Indians here, and even though it’s the basketball players who bring the victory and even though it’s the basketball players who get the most props for the victory, the basketball players are only the right arm of the entire student body, and an arm, no matter how ripped, no matter how powerful, can’t operate independent of the body it’s attached to, can it. I’m saying it can’t. I’m saying hell no it can’t. Our strength makes you believe in us, sure, but your belief in us is what makes us strong. Aptakisic’s victories on the court are as much your victories as they are mine and the other players’. We are all equally responsible for and deserving of what we have and what we’ll get. I want you to understand that. I want you to believe that. And so when you get home tonight and your parents ask you what happened at the Indians-Eagles game, I don’t want you to say “Bam was strong and our team was victorious.” And I don’t want you to say, “Our team was victorious and glory is upon them.” I want you to stop being so humble. I want you to say, “I was strong and I was victorious.”
AUDIENCE
(RISING APPLAUSE)
BARNUM SLOKUM
(PACING MIDCOURT TO THE LENGTHS THE HALF-COURT MICROPHONE CORD ALLOWS; RAISES VOICE )
I want you to say to your parents: “Tonight, on this bread of victory that I baked, I spread the butter of glory I churned with much dedication and elbow grease. Tonight I sup on my victory, Mom, on my glory, Dad. Would. You. Like. To try a bite?”
AUDIENCE
(ROARING)
BARNUM SLOKUM
(PACING MIDCOURT; VOICE RAISED)
And your parents, believe me—I don’t care what kind of relationship you’ve got with them—they’ll take you up on that offer. You share that sandwich with them—are you hearing me?—you share that glory sandwich with them and they’ll love you forever. Believe. Believe, believe, believe. (STANDS AT HALFCOURT, GESTURES UNTIL SILENCE COMES.) In closing: you guys are so great. And we on the floor here—we know it. And that’s another reason why we do this circus every year. Not just for the team to get rallied, understand, but for the team to show you its appreciation for the way you folks are always rallying us. It’s a beautiful, mutual thing that way, this pep rally, this school, and we’ve all had fun, it’s true, believe, but we’re about to have a lot more. The liontamer’s still prepping in the locker-room, so to speak—we’ll have to wait a few minutes for him to come out and emotionalize us. But in the meantime, I want you to give it up, and give it up heavy for ten jumping beauties in tiny skirts and tight sweaters. They build our pyramids. They lead our cheers. They really know how to shake it. Put your hands together for Aptakisic Squaw Squad.
I had twenty-one soldiers behind me. We divided the surplus ammo twenty-two ways. Then I divided the soldiers into platoons.
Vincie’s platoon (six total) would guard the fire alarm by the side-exit (three) and between the locker-room doors inside the gym (three). Ben-Wa’s (eight total) would establish three positions: one at the southern border of the B-Hall/Main-Hall junction (three), one across Main Hall along the northern border of the front entrance (three), and a third at the B-Hall fire-alarm near the B-Hall/2-Hall junction (two). Before entering the gym, we’d mug Jerry for his keys and lock all the classrooms in B-Hall. Combined with the efforts of the Ben-Wa platoon, the B-Hall lockdown would ensure that anyone who fled the rally couldn’t get to an alarm we didn’t have soldiers on—they’d either have to pipeline through one of the gym doorways along the northern wall and go out the front entrance of the school, or go straight outside through the side-exit (pushbar-door) of the gym on the western wall.
The third platoon, Nakamook’s (seven), would target the Indians.
My platoon, of indeterminate number (me + June + The Five +
I described the plans fast.
Any questions? I said.
“I don’t want to sound like a pussy,” Mark Dingle said, “and I’m gonna do this anyway—but how we gonna all get away with it, like, after we take the school?”
I said, Hundreds of soldiers are coming here today. We hold the gym til they arrive. Then we turn ourselves in and I take responsibility. Simple as that.
“But we’ll be on camera, you said,” Forrest Kenilworth said. “They’ll have us on tape,” said Stevie Loop. And Ansul said, “That’s evidence against us.”
I said, If we start this off right—if you all do what I tell you—there’s gonna be a lot of kids in that gym bringing lots of damage—to us, to each other, to everyone. They’ll be on tape, too. It’ll look like a riot. Like no one’s in control. Like everyone’s guilty. And even if we do it wrong—even if no one else rises up—even if we get crushed—then, like I said: Hundreds of soldiers. On their way here. On their way to see me. They’re all ditching school, they’re all carrying weapons, and they’re coming all the way from Chicago. If I can get them to do all of that, I can get you to do this—that’s what people will say when they see the tapes. They’ll say I did this. That I did all of it. Do you understand?
“Yes,” they all said.
Are there any more questions?
There were no more questions.
You’ve got three minutes to get to know your weapons, I said. Vincie and Benji’ll show you how to use them. Shoot exactly how they show you or your thumbs’ll get damaged and you’ll never hit your targets.
Vincie and Benji stepped forward to demonstrate.
I entered the bathroom and howled wolf.
“Stevenson High School. Principal Barney’s office.”
Who’s this? I said.
“This is Ms. Sampsel.”
Good, I said. We hoped it would be you. You were always kind to us. We always liked you.
“Who is this?” she said.
What’s important, Ms. Sampsel, is you deliver our message.