On his first day of middle school he chose the middle row. And then his seat: in the middle of the middle row. Not too far from the board and not too near it. Neither the front nor the back. Where he expected to attract the least attention. From the list pinned up in the schoolyard he’d realized that he wouldn’t know any of the other students. Everyone from his elementary school had been split up between other classes.
By the time the door closed, no one had sat down beside him. He didn’t dare look at the others, sitting in pairs, elbow to elbow, busy whispering. All around the class the murmuring had begun, a low, drifting hum that the teacher, for now, was managing to control. He was excluded from their secrets. He had never felt so alone. So vulnerable. The girls in front had already turned around twice to size him up.
Ten minutes later someone knocked on the door. The guidance counselor came in with a student Mathis had never seen before. Théo Lubin had gotten lost in the corridors and been unable to find his class. A derisive whistling ran through the rows. The teacher pointed to the empty seat beside Mathis. Théo sat down. Mathis pushed aside his own things, though they weren’t in the way, as a way of greeting the latecomer, of signaling to him that he was welcome. He tried to catch his eye to smile at him, but Théo kept his head down. He took out his pencil case and notebook and without looking up muttered, “Thanks.”
In the next class they sat together again.
On the days that followed they looked for the gym together, the guidance counselor’s office, the cafeteria and the classrooms, whose numbers defied all logic. They mastered this new space, which then seemed endless and which they now know like the backs of their hands.
They didn’t need to talk to know they’d get along. They only had to look at each other to see something silently shared—social, affective, emotional—abstract, fleeting signs of mutual recognition which they wouldn’t have been able to name. They’ve been together ever since.
Mathis knows how much Théo’s silence impresses others. Girls as well as boys. Théo doesn’t say much, but he’s not the sort to be pushed around. He’s feared. Respected. He’s never had to fight, or even threaten to. But there’s something menacing within him that dissuades attack and comments. When he’s beside him, Mathis is protected, not at risk.
On the first day of school this year, when Mathis saw on the bulletin board that they were in the same class again, he felt an intense sense of relief. If asked, he wouldn’t have been able to say whether he felt relief for himself or for Théo. Today, a few months later, it seems to him as though his friend has grown even more somber. He often has the feeling that Théo is playing a role, that he’s pretending. He’s there beside him, going from class to class, waiting patiently in the cafeteria line, organizing his things, his locker, putting away his tray, but in reality he’s standing outside it all. And sometimes when they say goodbye at Monoprix, when he lets Théo go off toward the metro, a confused fear spreads in his chest that makes it hard to breathe.
Mathis is stealing money from his mother. She doesn’t suspect. She leaves her bag lying around, doesn’t check her change. He goes for coins, never bills. And he takes them carefully: one or two at a time, never more. That’s enough for small bottles: €5 for La Martiniquaise rum, €6 for Poliakov vodka. They go to the little grocer’s at the end of the street. He’s more expensive than other places, but he never asks questions. For big bottles, the best bet is to go through Hugo’s brother Baptiste, who’s a junior at the high school nearby. He’s still underage but looks older than he is. He can go to the supermarket and not get asked for his ID. He asks them for “a small percentage.” On good days, he’ll do a discount.
Mathis hides the coins in an ebony box his sister gave him. He thought it looked like a girl’s thing because the inside was lined with floral fabric, but the box has the advantage of locking and now it hides his treasure.
Tomorrow after lunch they have a study period. If there’s no one in the corridor, they’ll slip into their hiding place to drink the rum they bought yesterday. Théo said that it makes your head explode, even more than vodka. He pointed an imaginary pistol at his temple, two fingers together, and pretended to fire.