The Instructions [antikvár]

Benji Nakamook thought we should waterboard each other, me and him and Vincie Portite. We wouldn't count the seconds to see who was bravest or whose lungs were deepest—this wasn't for a contest. We'd each be held under til the moment the possibility of death became real to us, and in that moment, according to Benji, we'd have to draw one of the following conclusions: "My best friends are about to accidentally drown me!" or "My best friends are actually trying to drown me!" The point was to learn what it was we feared more: being misunderstood or being betrayed. "That is so fucken stupid," Vincie Portite said. "No way I'd think you were trying to drown me." "You don't know what you'll think," Nakamook told him. "Right now you're rational. Facing death, you won't be. That's how methods like wa-terboarding operate." Benji'd been reading a book about torture. "This one guy," he said, "Ali Al-Jahani, specifically stated that—" "Ali Al-Whatever whatever," said Vincie. "I'll do it if, one, you stop talking about that book—it's getting fucken old—and two, if Gurion's down. But it's stupid." It did seem stupid, but Benji wasn't stupid, not even remotely, and I hated disappointing him. I said I was down. Vincie said, "Fuck." Splashing on a kickfloat a couple feet away was Isadore Momo, a shy foreign chubnik who barely spoke English, but the rest of the class was over in the deep end. Benji reached out, tapped Momo on the ankle. "You're wanted over there," he said, pointing to the others. "By whom?" Momo said. "By me," said Benji. "Sorry. 1 am sorry. Sorry," said Momo. He got off the kickfloat and fled.