He appeared, according to Rothstein’s account, at the meeting just after the vote-counts’ announcement. His scrimmage jersey soaked in the sweat of earnest basketball, he came straight from practice, nearly breathless from the rush, and proclaimed to the Shovers, without bile or guile: “I never wanted to cause you guys trouble. The Lord Jesus, my savior, cares not about scarves, and He’d never want anyone to fight about scarves, and I’ve prayed for the past two nights for His guidance, and this morning as I woke, the Lord Jesus provided: I fell to the floor — no worries, my brothers, my parents have carpet — and shook like the dickens, for the Lord Jesus Christ had come to me. He told me, Bring peace to your school, Aptakisic, and let the Jews be, son, for I was a Jew, and My Father, My son, is their Father too, and Our Father, My son, shines His holy light upon them, for it’s they who will bring Me, they who’ll announce Me, they who will bring Me to you, My son, in body then and there, as in spirit here and now. Do not cause them strife. Help Me save them.”
“So you don’t want the fish on the scarf?” Vander asked.
“No,” said Frungeon.
“It’s the creative expression of your soul,” Acer said.
“It’s a symbol for who I am,” said Frungeon, “but there’s no good reason that should be on your scarf.”
“So what do you want for a symbol then, Gary?”
“Nothing,” he said.
“Nothing?” they said.
“There’s nothing could stand for me better than the ichthys, so let there be nothing to stand for me.”
“Nothing at all?”
“Nothing at all.”
“Not even a white stripe where the ichthys would have been?”
“A white stripe?” said Frungeon.
“Cause white’s like nothing. A white stripe of nothing: a blankspot.”
“A blankspot,” said Frungeon, “I’ll gladly take you up on.”
“A blankspot!” cheered Acer.
And they all cheered a blankspot, a blankspot that stood for “If not Christ, then nothing.”
Ruth was the first one in the Office to notice me. She chinned air in my direction, and that was surprising. One time, for three minutes, I had a hot crush on her. I bet every guy at Aptakisic had had a three-minute crush on her. With mine, I’d just read “Nada y Pues Nada” and decided she was smart, or at least a good writer, and she was waiting for Jelly by the buses after school. She had Jelly’s shiny eyes and fast-moving face, but was brighter-haired and even more compact — not petite, and not skinny either; more like sharp, or maybe economical, the same way June’s body was economical, really, but more narrowly shouldered, and with a lot less ass, which sounds kind of bad, and usually would be, but was nice on Ruth, or not on Ruth, depending on what you expect an ass to be like. Jelly’d told her, “This is Gurion. He hates the Shovers, too.” And I said, I don’t hate them; I just want to hit them. Your newest article’s the best one yet, though. Blankspots for Jesus. Those guys are so chomsky. “I think you missed the point,” Ruth Rothstein said. I said, What point? “Blankspots for Jesus? Tch,” Ruth said, and my crush died faster than a magazined spider. I said to her, No, I think you missed the point. I thought you were being subtle not saying it, but you weren’t. Those blankspots mean If not Christ, then nothing. “You’re wrong,” said Ruth. “They just mean nothing. I mean: they don’t mean anything. They’re meaningless.” I said, Only nothing is meaningless, and a blankspot is something; nothing would have to be no spot at all. “Gurion’s smarter than you,” Jelly told her, “ha ha.” And Ruth bit her lip and said “Tch” and walked off.
But now, in the Office, she chinned air = “C’mere,” and I went without a three-count since it meant she didn’t hate me. “Excited?” she whispered. “You’re about to be anonymous.”
I don’t know what that means.
She told me, “Watch this,” then swallowed her mint and went over to the Shovers.
Acer saw her coming and held out the scarf. “My statement,” he said, “is officially this: ‘This year’s scarves are flossy flossy, which is two times flossier than even I predicted, and as you well know, Ruth, I was, from the beginning, very optimistical.’ If you want, you can take out the part where I say your name, but I do want you to emphasize—”
“The question on everyone’s mind, Blake,” said Ruth, “is how do the Shovers respond to accusations that the scarf’s white stripe is a blankspot for Jesus?”
“I—”
“Who made that accusation?” said one of the others. He was tall and his arms had machined definition — not so much strong as muscular, not so much conditioned as cut. If something unguarded and heavy were in front of him, and it had parts to grip, and it wasn’t animate, and its weight was symmetrically distributed, he could lift it no sweat.
“Just calm down, dog,” Acer told the Shover. “The question was directed to me.”
“Josh is more than welcome to comment,” said Ruth.
Josh? I thought. No, I thought. No way, I thought. Not this vain swallower of multivitamin supplements. Not this morning drinker of protein milkshakes. This wasn’t the guy. A million kids were named Josh. This was some other guy.
“I want to know who’s asking,” he said to Ruth.
“I’m asking, Josh. Ruth Rothstein, ace reporter.”
“Cut the slippery shit.”
“Wow that’s gross.”
“You know what I’m asking you. Who said the blankspot was Christian?” Josh said.
“I can’t give up my sources.”
His shirt got tight against the force of his pec-flex. “Don’t talk to me like I’m stupid, Ruth. Sources give information, not opinions.”
“This was an accusation.”
“That’s a kind of opinion. Whose opinion is it? Is it your opinion?”
“I wouldn’t say it’s my opinion,” Ruth said.
“What would you say?”
“I’d say it’s an accusation that, while I’m by no means certain of its accuracy, I did find somewhat compelling til just a second ago, when you started getting whiny, and then it became very compelling.”
“Nyah nyah nyah nyah nyah nyah. My brother says you’re titless, even flatter than you look.”
“But he’s hung like an insect,” Ruth said, entertained.
“It’s not true. He’s my brother. Our men are hung.”
“Matt’s hung like a cicada, and I know you must know that. What I don’t know is how you trust what a person — even your brother — says about size, if what he’s got is a wa but he calls it a wang.”
Wait. No. But yes. But no. That happened too fast. So no. But yes. Actually, yes. Jelly’d told me her sister had dated Josh Berman’s brother; Ruth was Jelly’s sister; Ruth had dated this guy’s brother; this guy’s name was Josh, but… Okay: so maybe June was…maybe this Berman…so she’d been his girlfriend, for whatever weird reason, but…Nakamook was right; he had to be right. They’d never kiss. She wouldn’t have kissed him. She would not have kissed this guy. I was certain. I was. Pretty certain. I’d been pretty certain, though… I’d been pretty certain she wouldn’t have been his girlfriend either, though… I’d been… And… His wang? Really? This is what I had to think about, there in the Office? June’s ex-boyfriend’s wang and his brother’s wang too? Standing there shaking their wangs, the two of them? One with a face, and the other with no face but the first one’s body, both shaking their identical wangs at June and Ruth and Jelly, too, for some reason? Shaking their wangs while flexing their pecs and high-fiving each other and kissing their biceps? That’s what I had to do in the Office was picture that?