It’s a wave of heat he can’t describe. It burns and sets him alight. It hurts, but it’s also comforting, a moment that lasts just a few seconds and must have a name, but he doesn’t know it, a chemical name, physiological, which could convey its strength and intensity, a word that sounds something like “combustion” or “explosion” or “detonation.” He’s twelve and a half and if he answered the questions that adults ask him honestly—“What job would you like to do?,” “What are you passionate about?,” “What do you want to do in life?”—if he weren’t afraid that his last remaining supports would immediately collapse, he’d unhesitatingly reply: “I like the feeling of alcohol in my body.” First in his mouth, that moment when his throat welcomes the liquid, and then those fractions of a second as the warmth goes down into his stomach. He could trace its route with his finger. He loves the moist wave that caresses the back of his neck and spreads through his limbs like an anesthetic.
He gulps and coughs several times. Mathis is sitting opposite him, watching and laughing. Théo thinks of the dragon in the picture book that his mother used to read to him when he was little, with its huge body, knife-slit eyes and open jaws that revealed fangs far sharper than the most vicious dog’s. He wishes he were that huge creature with webbed feet, able to set fire to everything. He takes a deep breath, then another swig from the bottle. When he lets the alcohol numb him, when he tries to visualize where it goes, he imagines one of the diagrams Ms. Destrée hands out in class on which they have to name each part: “Show the journey of the apple and indicate which organs are involved in digestion.” He smiles at this image, amused to be twisting it: “Show the journey of the vodka; color its trajectory; calculate the time required for the first mouthfuls to reach your blood…” He laughs to himself and, seeing him laugh, Mathis laughs too.
A few minutes later, something explodes in his brain, like a door being kicked open, a powerful inrush of air and dust, and the image that comes into his mind is of the swing doors of a saloon in the Wild West bursting open. And for an instant he’s a cowboy in cowboy boots striding to the bar in the gloom, his spurs making a dull sound as they scrape the floor. And when he leans on the bar to order a whisky, he feels as though everything has been obliterated—the fear and the memories. The owl’s talons that are always pressing into his chest have finally released their grip. He closes his eyes. Everything has been washed clean, and everything can begin.
Mathis takes the bottle from his hands and raises it to his own lips. His turn now. The vodka spills out, a transparent trickle runs down his chin. Théo protests: it doesn’t count if he spits it out. So Mathis swallows it down and his eyes begin to water. He coughs, puts his hand to his mouth, and for an instant Théo wonders if he’s about to throw up, but after a few seconds Mathis can’t stop himself from laughing even harder. Théo immediately clamps his hand over his mouth to shut him up. Mathis stops laughing.
They hold their breath, keep still and listen for any sounds around them. In the distance they hear the voice of a teacher they can’t identify, a droning monologue in which no words are distinguishable.
They’re in their hiding place, their safe place. This is their territory. Under the cafeteria stairs they’ve discovered this empty space, ten square feet, almost high enough for them to stand up in. A large cabinet has been put here to block access, but with a bit of agility, they can slide underneath. It all comes down to timing. They have to hide in the bathroom until everyone has gone back to class. Then wait a few more minutes until the hall monitor has done the hourly check to make sure no students are hanging around the corridors.
Every time they manage to slip under the cabinet, they realize they have just an inch to spare. In a few months, they won’t be able to do it anymore.
After a final swig, Théo runs his tongue over his teeth. He loves the taste of salt and metal that lingers in his mouth for a long time, sometimes for hours.
The distance between index finger and thumb is their way of gauging how much they’ve drunk. They try to do this several times, without managing to keep their fingers still. They burst out laughing.
They’ve drunk a lot more than last time.
And the next time, they’ll drink even more.
This is their pact, and their secret.
Mathis takes the bottle back, wraps it in paper and slips it into his backpack.
They each take two sticks of Airwaves mint and licorice gum. They chew them carefully to release the flavor, moving the gum around their mouths. It’s the only kind that conceals the smell. They’re waiting for the right moment to re-emerge.
Once they’re back on their feet, they feel different. Théo’s head is bobbing back and forward imperceptibly.
He’s tiptoeing across a liquid carpet with a geometric pattern. He feels as though he’s outside his own body, just alongside it, as though he’d left his body but is still holding it by the hand.
School noises barely reach him. They’re muted by some invisible, absorbent liquid that’s protecting him.
One day, he’d like to completely lose consciousness.
Plunge into the dense fabric of drunkenness and allow himself to be covered, buried, for a few hours or forever. He knows that can happen.