by Patrick Bard
17
Sebastian scratches his belly as he goes downstairs. He notices the power light of the PC is on. Did he forget to turn it off last night? That’s not like him. He must have been preoccupied. It was an unpleasant evening. He clicks and the screen lights up. The search engine pops up. Strange. He goes to the browser history. Well, at least he erased it. Suddenly, he realizes that the seat under him is warm. He frowns.
“Lucas?” he shouts.
A meow answers him from above. No need to look further. Cuddles must have settled on the seat before heading upstairs. Sebastian tells himself that he’s going to become paranoid. He checks the time on the screen. He’ll be late for work if he continues. He turns off the computer, stands up, and heads to the kitchen. Tonight they’ll give Lucas back his cell phone and PC. The documentary must have made his son understand how wrong his behavior has been, and he will stop, he thinks as he hurries to get ready for work.
18
Lucas feels like he’s facing a tribunal. His parents are seated. His laptop and smartphone are resting on the dining room table. He’s standing on the other side of the table, in front of them.
“We aren’t going to dwell on this for a hundred years,” his father says. “I think you understand. No need to spell things out. We’re in agreement, aren’t we?”
Lucas looks at his mother, but she avoids eye contact. Evidently, she finds the gray finish of the tabletop a lot more interesting. Lucas doesn’t blame her. He wants this to be over with too. He wants to be done with the ceremonial handover of his gear. He can’t wait to get it back.
“Jerome cleaned everything up. Your box is like new. He also erased all the junk that you downloaded onto your hard drive. Photos included.”
Lucas jumps. “Not Cuddles’s photos?”
His father sighs. “Listen, I wasn’t about to ask him to sort through all your garbage. You have only yourself to blame. You didn’t have to be such an idiot.”
Lucas shrugs.
“So we understand each other, then?”
Lucas nods.
Sebastian pushes the devices forward. “In any case, Jerome installed an ultra-strong parental control. There’s a whole bunch of stuff you won’t be able to access.”
Lucas mumbles a barely audible “Okay” before taking his laptop and phone. He thinks his father is bluffing. But maybe not. Just in case, he’ll download a new browser without the parental control. The extent to which parents are gullible is crazy. Nonetheless, he tells himself that he’s got to stick to the rules for a while. At least, he’s got to try. To really try. He knows the whole porn thing is starting to poison his life. And the voices and images from the documentary haunt his thoughts too.
After the incident with the selfie that he sent to Samira, he was already not proud of himself, but now that he knows the dark secrets of the porn video industry, he feels guilty at the idea of going on his usual sites. He begins to think that his father isn’t entirely wrong. Maybe if he exercised, he’d lose weight. Maybe if he stopped dozing off in class, his grades would improve. The problem is that even when he’s not looking at porn he can’t sleep. He twists and turns in bed, drenched in sweat, and has trouble getting to sleep before dawn. Consequently, at school, he nods off anyway.
19
ONE MONTH LATER
The best resolutions never last very long. Lucas stuck to his resolve less than a week before starting up again. Just like before. Actually, it’s worse. It’s not difficult to hide. During the day his parents aren’t home. Now he’s skipping classes to surf the web and only goes to tennis if he knows his mother is picking him up or dropping him off. At night, he goes to bed early on the pretext that he’s sleepy. He never turns on the sound. If he hears a noise, like his parents coming up the stairs, he always has time to close the window on his screen. He never connects to more than one porn site at a time, which has the benefit of minimizing the risk of viruses. He doesn’t download anything. His laptop seems to be holding up. He still nearly got caught several times because his father no longer knocks on his door before entering. Thankfully, he devised a strategy: he’s always got a Wikipedia page about a tennis champion at the ready. He just needs to click on it, and even if he hasn’t had time to leave the porn site, it covers up the incriminating page.
He meticulously erases his browser history. But that’s basic. So far, so good.
It’s not exactly like before. The fear of getting caught has morphed into complete terror at getting caught. And from time to time, images from the dark behind-the-scenes documentary flash through his mind.
He’s flooded with guilt by the obscene images and by his desires that are as obscene as the real working conditions of the actresses.
He feels mounting anxiety, tells himself that he’s bad, that he shouldn’t be doing this, that he needs to stop.
Now the fear of being unable to stop himself from seeking out increasingly violent videos torments him.
The problem is that the only thing that relieves his tension is taking refuge in porn. Here, he’s able to let go and forget everything—the tension, the fear, the shame, the guilt, the feeling of dependence, his weight, his failing grades, everything. And each time, as soon as he feels relief, he turns off his screen and promises himself that it will be the last time.
The hardest part is finding time for his homework. Time just slips through his fingers. Lucas doesn’t see the hours or the days go by, and even less, the nights. His grades continue to plummet. And he’s constantly tired. How many times during his classes has he slumped onto his desk? Since he isn’t the only one that happens to, the teachers hardly say anything. Sometimes he wonders if his classmates are dead tired because they spend their nights looking at pornos too. Or maybe some are addicted to other stuff. Apparently, a lot of them are getting to bed late. Are the girls looking at unsavory stuff as well? The very thought turns him on. He imagines a scenario with Margot. He likes her. He wonders if she’s already done it. Some of the girls in class must have. He read somewhere that the average age girls first have sex is seventeen. Maybe seventeen and a half. But to obtain that average means that there are younger ones and older ones who’ve done it. He often thinks about each girl in class, trying to guess which one is most likely to put out. And what about him? According to the report, he isn’t far from the average age of a guy’s first sexual experience. He’s still a virgin! He hasn’t even kissed a girl, let alone had sex with one. When he gets to this point in his ruminations he’s usually close to turning on his computer or hunkering in a corner to connect his smartphone to a favorite site.
When the school requests that his parents come in for a meeting, he isn’t particularly alarmed. He knows it can’t be to congratulate them on their son’s academic achievements. But there is no way that his teachers can suspect a thing. Neither can his parents. He’s been extremely careful. He’s sure the school just wants to tell his parents that he’s not working hard enough and that he needs to make more of an effort. Of course, he’ll promise to do that. And when he makes the promise, he’ll believe it. This time, he swears, he’ll stop.
20
Lucas and his parents walk down the noisy school hallways, passing by classrooms that ring out with the cries of students. Sebastian left work early and Marie was able to get away too. It was important that they come together, both accompanying Lucas. All three of them wait on a bench outside the principal’s office. Sebastian checks emails on his cell phone, while Marie texts coworkers at her office. As he watches them, Lucas thinks, Guess I’m not the only one who likes screen time. He takes his smartphone out of the pocket of his sweatpants—which he’d tied low, below his bulging stomach—and connects. Not onto X-rated sites; not here. He’d like to because it calms his nerves, but it’s not really possible, so he surfs pages about movie stars. Then Ms. Lacoste comes out of her office, followed by Benjamin, who glances at Lucas as he passes by with his mother. Ms.
Lacoste is the principal and she also teaches biology. Students call her the Crocodile, especially those who play tennis, because of the crocodile logo on the Lacoste polos. Otherwise, there is nothing particularly reptilian about her. In fact, if anyone asked Lucas’s opinion, she’s super-hot. Even in the sneakers she’s wearing this afternoon, instead of her usual high heels.
“Mr. and Mrs. Delveau? Please come in,” Ms. Lacoste says in greeting.
* * *
• • •
The office is furnished with a desk and three chairs that Ms. Lacoste gestures toward. The chairs are all on one side. Ms. Lacoste lowers herself into an armchair, facing them. A coffee table covered with prevention brochures separates them. Lucas distracts himself by glancing at the various titles—Radicalization, Dependence, Cannabis, Harassment, School Violence—but he reads without retaining the words.
He especially avoids raising his head when the Crocodile addresses his parents.
“Things are not going well for Lucas. Can you tell me how he spends his nights?”
Inwardly, Lucas gives a start. She obviously suspects something. But how can she possibly know?
Best not to react. But his father looks at him, surprised.
“Why the question?” his father asks.
“Lucas routinely falls asleep during his classes.”
“But he goes to bed early, around ten o’clock at the latest, every night,” his mother says, sticking up for him. “I don’t understand. Is he the only one?”
The way they’re talking about him as if he isn’t there makes him bristle, even as he remains poker-faced.
“No, far from it,” the Crocodile confirms. “But in Lucas’s case it’s chronic. And his grades reflect this.”
“Maybe he’s bored,” his mother objects. “Maybe the education at this school isn’t suited to our son.”
Ms. Lacoste stiffens, on the defensive. She straightens up before answering.
“No, Mrs. Delveau. The education here is top-notch. The graduation rate is very high.”
“Surely you know that that doesn’t mean anything,” his father interjects. “These days, high school diplomas are pretty much given away.”
Ms. Lacoste clears her throat before continuing. “We are straying from the reason I called you to this meeting,” she says. “It’s one thing for Lucas to have poor grades and to sleep through his classes, it’s quite another for him to cut classes.”
His father’s jaw drops. It’s Marie who speaks up.
“Excuse me? Are you accusing our son of skipping school?” she asks in disbelief. “With whom, exactly? He doesn’t have a lot of friends that I know of!”
“With whom is not my problem, Mrs. Delveau,” Ms. Lacoste replies dryly. “It’s yours. I’m not accusing your son of anything. I’m relaying facts. Last month, Lucas cut his biology class two times, his English-language and social studies classes three times, plus all of his phys ed, which, given his weight gain, is hardly surprising,” she concludes, turning to Lucas.
“Well, don’t be stigmatizing!” Marie says, getting worked up.
Sebastian gives his son a scrutinizing glance. “Lucas? Is it true?”
How can Lucas pretend that it’s false? Of course he wasn’t in class. He’s well aware of where he was and what he was doing. It’s best not to answer. Or at least to answer as vaguely as possible. He mutters that yes, he cut classes. But when Sebastian insists, when he asks and asks again where Lucas went and with whom, Lucas has a sudden flash of inspiration.
“At home. I stayed home to try and catch up on schoolwork,” he says, lowering his head. “I was alone.”
“That’s nonsense!” the Crocodile says, losing her temper. “Utter nonsense!”
“Are you calling my son a liar?” Marie says, getting equally angry. “I don’t give you permission. Just because Lucas is overweight and has poor grades doesn’t mean he’s a liar. I’ve told my husband that we should take him to a doctor. It could be that with all the sodas he guzzles he’s simply diabetic. Which would explain why he falls asleep in class and—”
“Whatever the reasons may be, Mrs. Delveau, we don’t foresee that Lucas will be graduating under these circumstances,” Ms. Lacoste interrupts her. “Either he stops cutting classes and falling asleep, and his grades improve, or we will have to hold him back. The rest, as I said before, is yours to deal with. Of course, we’re at your disposal if you need advice.”
“Advice?” his mother shouts as she gets up. “I would never ask your advice. Don’t you understand that Lucas is different?”
“They all are, Mrs. Delveau.”
His father is standing as well. He hasn’t said anything in a while. He’s been watching Lucas closely, sizing him up.
Lucas puts on his parka. He feels his father’s firm hand on the back of his neck as it guides him with authority toward the door.
21
As soon as they return home, Lucas shuts himself in his bedroom. He hears his parents arguing about him downstairs. His mom defends him. His father suspects him. She absolutely wants to take him to see a psychiatrist. She should be the first one going, Lucas thinks as he opens a site.
He’s greeted by a Christmas ad with reindeers, a sleigh, Santa Claus, the “Jingle Bells” tune, and a pinup, and then the menu of the day’s videos appears. He skips the seasonal category of orgies where the multiple male partners are decked out in red overcoats and fake white beards, and he chooses Hentai. He recently discovered this Japanese-style animated porn. He loves this blend of childhood and sex. And at least these aren’t real women, so no one is getting exploited; they’re just cartoons. The thing is to find one that hasn’t been censored. The Japanese often pixilate intimate body parts. But he finally finds what he wants. Immediately, the onslaught of images soothes him. His anxiety subsides. He even feels less guilt. After all, it’s only an animated film. He doesn’t hear his parents’ ongoing argument anymore. He doesn’t hear his father shouting at his mother.
“All the same, tomorrow I’m taking the box in to get it checked. Then I’ll have a clear conscience. If he’s started up again—”
“Stop accusing him!”
“If he’s started up again,” Sebastian insists, “I’ll take away his computer and his phone until he’s legal. It won’t be my problem after that.”
“If he’s back at it, we are taking him to a shrink. Period,” Marie says stubbornly.
Sebastian hits one of the couch cushions with his fist. “Stop defending him, Marie! Sometimes I wonder if you’re the one who shouldn’t be going back to the psychiatrist.”
Marie’s had enough. She goes upstairs and shuts herself in the bathroom. As she looks at her reflection in the mirror, she notices bags under her eyes and shrugs. She opens the medicine cabinet and swallows a sleeping pill. Just one to sleep, she tells herself. Then she steps into the shower. With her hair wet, she staggers to her empty bed. She can just make out the soundtrack of a video game and recognizes that it’s Grand Theft Auto. Sebastian is addicted to it, claims that it relaxes him. She slips between the sheets and her damp blond hair outlines a ring on the pillowcase. Finally, she closes her eyes.
Lucas doesn’t see any of this. He’s presently mesmerized by a savage sex scene between a woman who’s tied up and a phantasmagoric monster. Soon bored, he clicks on a link that lands him on a site specializing in things he never knew existed.
22
The noise of the balls bouncing on the courts is amplified by the height of the dome.
Lucas continues to cut tennis every chance he can—every time his mom doesn’t force him into the car so she can drive him over. Unlike school, no one here alerts parents if you’re a no-show. He says he’s walking over, that it’s not far, especially since his mother has forbidden him from climbing aboard Benjamin’s scooter. It doesn’t bother Lucas to disobey, but Marie is unaware tha
t Benjamin no longer wants to give Lucas a lift.
“You’re too fat, butterball, you’re going to tip us over,” Benjamin told him a few weeks ago, when Lucas wanted to catch a ride home with him.
At the moment, Benjamin faces him on the opposite side of the court, where he serves for the set. His lean body stretches up toward the dome; he tosses the ball and hits it with his racket and lets out a grunt. Lucas pants as he runs. Drenched in sweat, he goes to the net in slow motion and, of course, misses the return. It’s the third consecutive time. He breathes out of his mouth, doubles over, his hands on his knees. A line of drool runs down his chin.
“Delveau, what are you up to?” shouts Mr. Stepanovic, the tennis teacher. “Get back in place!”
Lucas straightens up and pulls at the soaked polo top that clings to his exhausted body.
In three strides Benjamin reaches the bleachers where his friends, a bunch of guys, all of them reed-thin and decked out in white Sergio Tacchini sweats, are cheering him on.
Benjamin bends over the railing and whispers to them. They all turn to Lucas and howl with laughter. Slowly, Benjamin walks back to the center of the court, picks up a ball, gathers his momentum, and aims. The ball hits Lucas on the face. He cries out in pain and doubles over, holding his right eye. Then he collapses.
“Lucas, are you okay?”