The doorbell rang and Botha rose from the Monitor’s desk to answer it. Nakamook, still holding Vincie’s wrist, pinned it to the cluster so that Vincie had to bend low and Botha wouldn’t be able see the grappling unless he came close. The circle around the cluster closed in. I sensed something good about this closing-in of the circle, something improved. On Tuesday, when Forrest Kenilworth had called Ben-Wa Wolf “The Boy Who Went Wee-Wee” and the whole Cage rushed him, they’d done so to see what Benji would do to him, which only happened to shield Benji from Botha’s witness; this time, though, there was little they could see by way of getting in closer that they couldn’t have seen from where they’d been sitting; this time they’d closed in in order to shield Benji — it wasn’t just a circle getting closed, but ranks; they were closing ranks.
And something else was good, too — maybe even as good as the show of esprit de corps. Up until the moment the doorbell had rung, I’d almost forgotten that Botha was in the Cage. He’d been so quiet. Silent, even. How many fucks and shits had he let go unanswered? On countless occasions, he’d stepped kids for bastards and damns and wangs, for hells and jerkoffs, dickheads and pussys; twice I’d witnessed him stepping for suck. And he had to have heard them — those fucks and shits of our Thursday lunch. It’s true he may have failed to identify who’d spoken them, but in the past, swears whose speakers he couldn’t identify had garnered a “Quoydanawnsinz” at the least. But not anymore. Or at least not right then, at Thursday lunch. Then again, this was lunch, and at lunch the rules slackened — but no, not this much; they hadn’t ever slackened quite this much. The hyperscoot had scared him into choosing his battles. At least that’s how it seemed. At least for the moment. Even if just at least, though, I saw it was good.
“Hyperscoot, hyperscoot, motherfucken hyperscoot,” Vincie, writhing in wrist-grip, told Benji. “No one listens to you, anyway,” Nakamook said. “No one listens to me,” said Main Man. “I don’t want any pudding,” said Jelly. “I’ll have your pudding,” Mangey said. I said, I listen, Scott.
“You listen but you don’t hear,” said Main Man. “Tomorrow I’m gonna sing. Listen to them!” he said. He pointed at the doorway of the Cage. All the kids from the cafeteria were coming in with their hotlunch, Ronrico and the Janitor in front.
“Slokum told me to tell you a bunch of Fridays have passed and he doesn’t feel too dead,” Vincie said to Nakamook.
“And what did you do, Vincie? You just listened to him, didn’t you? You just nodded and smiled and listened,” said Benji, “like a whiny basketballing messengerboy wannabe Shover who’s had a crush on the same girl since kindergarten and never spoken to her.”
“Cold,” said Vincie. “Fucken cold.”
“Don’t kill the messenger,” Main Man said. “Just hear what he had to listen to.”
“You gonna let go of my wrist?” said Vincie. “Not yet,” said Benji.
I smelled Chunkstyle.
“You would hurt a friend over a message?” said Eliyahu. “He’s not hurt,” said Benji. “No I’m not!” yelled Vincie.
“Quoydanawnsinz,” Botha said from the doorway, but no one seemed to hear him, and he seemed to be content with that; he stared at his clipboard, looking busy.
Benji doesn’t hurt friends, I told Eliyahu.
“What do you call a cow that’s…?” said Ronrico, laughing. “What?” said the Janitor. Ronrico kept laughing.
“There’s props on the stage for a play we never heard of — smashed!” said Chunkstyle. “Smashed to pieces,” said Anna Boshka. “The set-designers: they glue them.”
“He would humiliate a friend, though?” said Eliyahu. “He would make a friend powerless at his whim and then expect us to trust him?” “They’re playing,” said Jelly. “Vincie ain’t powerless,” said Benji. “It’s just his right hand. He’s got another hand.” “I’ve got another one on the left, Eliyahu! And I’m about to use it! As soon as I figure out how!” “Use it, Vincie,” said Benji. “I got no leverage!” “You can’t reach anything vital on me anyway.” “What do you call a cow that’s playing with himself?”
“Quoydanawnsinz!” shouted Botha.
“The rules change at lunchtime, Australian!” yelled Vincie. “Australian!” yelled many. “Australian!” yelled more.
Botha went to his desk, but we all got quieter — a ceasefire feeling, grudging but practical.
“What already?” said the Janitor. Ronrico kept laughing. “It pains me to see others experience pain,” said Eliyahu. I’m telling you they’re just playing, Eliyahu. It’s okay. It’s how they play, I said. “And suddenly there’s these new tags everywhere of ‘Boystar Emotionalize Boystar,’” said Chunkstyle. “I asked Chunkstyle, ‘What is it, a Boystar?’” said Boshka. “This is no way to play,” said Eliyahu. “And Chunkstyle, he told me, ‘The Boystar is a brownstar.’ Very clever.”
“Beef strokin’ off,” punchlined Ronrico to the Janitor.
The Janitor instantly dropped his foam lunchtray. Carrots spilled on his khakis, and Stroganov his Sambas. He did a panicked little dance and it flung the debris.
With his left hand, Vincie finally grabbed the wrist of the hand with which Nakamook held Vincie’s right hand. Vincie dug his thumb in. Nakamook let go of him.
“I got it?” Vincie said.
“Yeah,” said Benji, “but you gotta get it quicker next time. A hell of a lot quicker. You wasted your flood on knocking that pudding out of my hand, and then you were still in my hold, all stunned and smack-talky, trying to figure out what to do next. You can’t miss when you flood, Vincie, you know that. I could’ve pulled the teeth from your head one by one in all the time it took you to get your snat back up. If you have no leverage and you can’t get to your enemy’s vitals, you have to dig in to anything you can reach. That’s the rule. Ill-targeted flooding is the way of the dead, flinchy Vincie, okay?”
“Okay,” said Vincie, hanging his head.
“Don’t act all defeated, it’s weak,” Benji said. “You have a gift for flooding. You’re the only person I know like that. You’re the only flooder I’ve ever taught to fight who I haven’t taught not to flood, and that’s because you’re able to harness sick-high volumes of snat, way higher volumes than me or Gurion, for example. It’s good that your first instinct is to hit, man — it’s a good instinct, unless there’s nothing you can get to worth hitting. Then, like I said, you gotta dig. So you just have to get a better sense of what’s possible. It’ll come with practice. You’re really tough, Vincie. If I was anyone but me, I’d think twice before fucking with you.”
“Thanks,” Vincie said.
They banged fists. Leevon grabbed each of their wrists as the fists touched, and did the thumbing action and the fists opened involuntarily.
“You’re a scary kid,” said Nakamook.
Leevon did a pantomime of Nakamook telling Leevon he was a scary kid.
Then he did a pantomime of himself pantomiming Nakamook telling Leevon he was a scary kid.
Then he snatched a cheesepuff off my brown paper bag-plate and got it in his mouth before I even knew he’d snatched it.
Leevon was a scary kid.
“Can I have my pudding back?” said Vincie.
Mangey coughed on Vincie’s pudding.
The Janitor limped away from the germs rapidly, dragging his sullied foot as far behind him as possible.
Ansul Entsry handed Vincie his apple, and when Vincie thanked him, Ansul blushed and seemed to bow.