The slight nausea suddenly gets worse. He lets his head slump into his hands. He knows he shouldn’t—he should look into the distance, fix on a point in front of him—but he’s curled up facing the cabinet and can’t move. Under the cafeteria stairs, in their hiding place, there’s no vanishing point to focus on. When he raises his eyes again, everything is pitching even more. He breathes slowly, steadily; he absolutely must not throw up. At that precise moment, nothing matters anymore: not the fear of being noticed or of not being able to slide under the cabinet to get out. He just wants it to stop. He wants the vice crushing his skull to slacken its grip.
This morning he took an old bottle of Martini vermouth from his dad’s that had almost a third left in it. The sugar had crusted around the neck and he had trouble getting the top off. On the metro he put his nose in his backpack and just breathed in the smell. He’d enjoyed the smooth smell of the alcohol. He thought it would be easy to drink more than the last time.
He ate almost nothing in the cafeteria to get that immediate, stronger feeling of drunkenness when his stomach is empty. He’s alone because Mathis has a Latin class. He waited until everyone had returned to their classes or the study room, then went to the staircase. He checked that no one could see him, and slid into their hiding place.
The bell rings. Suddenly an intense din fills the corridors. Above the sound of voices and laughter, like an underground lake only he is aware of, he can hear sounds with unusual clarity: streams of students crossing paths, soles rubbing on the linoleum, clothes brushing, the displacement of air caused by this hourly migration: a ballet that he cannot see but whose every movement he feels. A wave of heat goes to his head. He needs to hold on a bit longer without throwing up before he can get out; wait until he’s able to lie on the ground and crawl under the cabinet. But for now, he can’t.
The corridors empty and the din dies away. He’s going to be late for English. By now, Mathis will be getting worried. He didn’t tell him he was going to their hiding place.
A thought flashes through his mind: no one knows he’s here.
Now that silence has returned, he falls asleep sitting upright.
When he wakes, he has no idea what the time is. His cell phone is dead, out of battery.
He could have been asleep for ten minutes or two hours.
What if it’s evening? What if the school’s locked up?
He listens. In the distance he can hear a loud voice coming from a classroom. He sighs with relief.
He’s now capable of lying down without feeling as though his head is rolling away from him. In this position he continues breathing gently to contain the nausea. He slides onto his back, manages to get himself at the correct angle and wriggles under the cabinet. He only has a half inch to play with. He must not panic as his body passes under its bulk because there’s almost no space above him.
He’s managed to get out. The floor pitches as he walks. It’s hard putting one foot in front of the other with this strange feeling that the ground is melting away at every step. He has to lean on the wall to make progress.
He looks at the clock. His English class will be over soon.
Mathis will be out shortly and will probably come looking for him.
When he goes into the bathroom the feeling of nausea suddenly returns. He pushes open a stall. A ball of aluminum has formed under his tongue and he can’t swallow it. His heart lurches, then his stomach spasms and he throws up a brown liquid into the bowl. A second, stronger jet almost makes him topple over.
The bell rings.
He has just enough time to splash water on his face and rinse his mouth out. Again the corridors are filling with the buzz of students changing classes.
He grabs the sink to stop himself from falling and his head begins to spin again.
He hears voices and laughter getting closer.
He goes back into the stall. He doesn’t want to see anyone.
He lets himself slide to the floor with his back against the wall, until he’s in a half-sitting position that he can maintain, not too far from the toilet bowl.
When silence returns, he hears Mathis’s voice.
Mathis is there. Mathis is looking for him. Calling for him.