“Please! Don’t! Shoot! Please! Don’t! Shoot!”
The cops held their ground. The scholars finished praying.
“Hurt him,” Vincie said, the him being Boystar.
“Please no!” said Boystar.
I knuckled his armpit. He stopped making noise.
“What’re you waiting for? Show them already.”
“He’s a shield,” June said. “He isn’t a sword.”
That explained it in a poem as elegant as any.
The couplet that followed was even more deft.
Vincie: “What’s our sword, then?”
June: “We don’t have one.”
Trigger, I said.
June triggered the soundgun.
SCHOLARS, I said, I’M ABOUT TO ASK YOU TO PUT YOUR LIVES AT RISK. IF YOU WON’T, THEN GO: HEAD BACK UP THE HIGH HILL AND OVER THE CREST. NO ONE WILL SAY YOU WERE COWARDS. THEY WILL SAY THAT YOU KNEW YOUR OWN LIMITATIONS. I WILL SAY THE SAME, AND OTHERS WILL LISTEN. WE WILL MEET YOU SHORTLY, AND WE WILL EMBRACE YOU. GO NOW IF YOU’LL GO, THOUGH — GOING LATER WILL HURT US, ALL OF OUR BROTHERS.
I waited out a three-count. No scholar moved.
The barricade’s west row revolved to face east.
THESE COPS, I said, WEAR VESTS AND HELMETS. NOTHING YOU COULD LOAD IN YOUR PENNYGUNS COULD DAMAGE THEM. THESE COPS ARE MEN AND WE ARE BOYS. THEIR BODIES ARE STRONGER — THERE’S NO WAY AROUND THAT. THEY HAVE TAZERS AND PISTOLS, CLUBS AND MACE. SOME HAVE SHIELDS, WHICH, LIKE THEIR HELMETS, EVEN BULLETS CAN’T GET THROUGH.
“VAGABOND HELIUM EIGHTBALL TRANSUM.”
WHAT WE HAVE IS NUMBERS, AND OUR NUMBERS ARE GREATER. YET OUR NUMBERS, THOUGH GREATER, AREN’T GREATER ENOUGH. AND WE HAVE ELOHEINU, ELOHEINU IS WITH US — ELOHEINU ON HIS OWN, THOUGH, IS NEVER ENOUGH. TOGETHER THEY’RE HELPFUL, ELOHEINU AND OUR NUMBERS, BUT EVEN TOGETHER THEY AREN’T ENOUGH. WE NEED BETTER TECH. WE NEED BETTER TECH!
“We need better tech!”
WE NEED BETTER TECH!
“We need better tech!”
WE NEED BETTER TECH AND WE NEED BETTER TECH. WITH ELOHEINU AND OUR NUMBERS, WE CAN GET BETTER TECH. SO YOU AND ELOHEINU WILL GET US BETTER TECH. ON MY GO, YOU WILL FOLLOW EMMANUEL LIEBMAN. YOU WILL WALK TOWARD THE BARRICADE BEHIND EMMANUEL. IF THE COPS DON’T PART, HE’LL LEAD YOU TO ONE OF THEM. EVERY LAST ONE OF YOU, CONVERGE ON THAT ONE. KNOCK HIM OFF HIS FEET. STRIP HIM OF HIS PISTOL. PULL OFF HIS HELMET AND BLOW OUT HIS BRAINS. THEN CHOOSE ANOTHER ONE AND DO THE SAME. CONTINUE—
“DROP YOUR WEAPONS.”
Behind the cordon, a commotion had erupted. People running south, running over each other, getting as far away as they could. Something behind me had started changing, too. Heat on my ear, on the back of my neck.
CONTINUE UNTIL THE BARRICADE PARTS.
Heat from the school on the back of my neck; it came and went. The doors of the entrance had opened and closed. I thought it was Benji. I didn’t turn to see. I couldn’t take my eyes off the scholars til I finished, and I wasn’t yet finished — I hadn’t even blessed them. A group behind the cordon refused to flee south; teenagers mostly, ten or twenty. The cops were pushing, the teens going limp; lead-bodied resistance, they’d have to be dragged.
“FREE YOUR HOSTAGES.”
LET NOTHING STOP YOU.
I thought he’d forgiven me and come outside; I thought he’d come out to stand behind me, to stand before everyone standing behind me, to be the first person I’d see when I turned: Benji Nakamook, still my friend. I don’t know why I thought that, not exactly. I know I was happy, and I remember I was thinking that; thinking I was happy. Thinking: You’re happy, Nakamook’s your friend. And it didn’t cross my mind that that’s what I was thinking because I was happy; that because when you’re happy, what you hope for seems likely, sometimes so likely it even seems real. It didn’t cross my mind because I wasn’t that happy. At least I didn’t think I was. Nor do I now. “DROP YOUR WEAPONS. FREE YOUR HOSTAGES.” You’re happy, you’re happy, you’re happy, I thought. It stood out right then, that moment of happiness, not for being the happiest of my life, not by a longshot; in the last four days I’d had happier moments, like when June raised her fists when I first said I loved her or Momo said “neepo” to Lonnie by the pool. The Side getting born at the end of Group. Getting hold of the passpad. My hoodie being stolen. EVEN IF I FALL — ESPECIALLY IF I FALL–LET NOTHING STOP YOU. I WILL BE STRENGTHENED. I’LL GET BACK UP. De-sapping Maholtz. Ending Vincie’s hand-twitch. Any of the hyperscoots, especially the first. Kissing June onstage. Kissing by her locker. Kissing in the field. Learning from the Five that they’d received Ulpan. Eliyahu with the leaf, at the fountain, chasing Baxter. Leevon’s broken silence after Slokum held me up. The scholars in my kitchen, believing all I told them. “DOWN ON THE GROUND WITH YOUR HANDS IN PLAIN SIGHT.” The Side rising up to protect me from Botha. Getting called a tzadik by Emmanuel on the platform. My father Thursday morning telling jokes about goyim, singing punk in the car, inviting June to join us. Samuel Diamond holding 37 high. My mother saying June should be whatever I determined. Flowers’s exegesis of Lauryn Hill’s cursing. Rabbi Salt telling me he had to drink coffee. The Cage-wide petition delivered by Chunkstyle. BARNUM on the juice machine. “Gurion’s my boy!”
BE STRONG! BE STRONG! I shouted to the scholars.
“Chazak! Chazak!” the scholars roared back.
Though that very morning I’d been much happier, I had not been truly happy since the battle in the gym — in the best moments after, I’d been merely relieved — and this moment stood out at the time for that reason; for being my first happy moment since the battle. It stands out now because it was my last. If I seem to belabor it, it’s for that reason. I haven’t had a moment of happiness since.
“DROP YOUR WEAPONS! DOWN ON THE GROUND! FREE THE HOSTAGES! COMPLY AT ONCE!”
BE STRONG! BE STRONG! AND MAY WE BE STRENGTH-ENED!
“Chazak! Chazak! Venizschazeik!”
The scholars walked west behind Emmanuel.
And lest they be forced to massacre children, the cops of the barricade fled north and south.
As soon as I revolved, the moment was over.
22 CONTROL
Friday, November 17, 2006
12:09 p.m.–1:01 p.m.
A bubble of curls behind a thick smear of blood: Googy Segal’s face, mashed flat against glass. Our guards had him pinned chest-first to the jamb. He struggled against them, slicking the blood around, pressing his forehead to the window for leverage. Suddenly he slipped, or someone lost their grip, and his face slid down and the door wedged open. Palms on the pavement, he donkey-kicked blindly; Stevie Loop dropped. Googy lurched a yard, then crawled for another, but out came Ben-Wa, who fell knees-first on his back and stayed him.
Googy made pleading sounds, looked in my eyes.
Let him up! I said.
Ben-Wa climbed off. “He wouldn’t say anything. He just rushed the door. We—”
Googy interrupted. He was up on his elbows, choking on phonemes. Even if I’d been able to make out what he was saying, transcribing it here would be useless. The speech disorders of which Googy was a victim battered his utterances beyond the furthest reaches of any single alphabet’s powers of description — of any three alphabets’ powers of description. There were Chinesey catsounds and Xhosa-like clicks, Tourrettic stammerings and Afrikaaner diphthongs, W’s that might have been L’s or R’s, Hebraic velar fricatives, a storm of whistled sibilants.