At present, the atmosphere is electric at home. It’s the beginning of the high-school end diploma for Crocheton. Poor dear. Daddy keeps saying he’s not studied enough. The first time he said that, it was at least two months ago. He doesn’t really know whether he studied enough or not since Daddy is at the Yavish Community all day. But in the evening, when he comes back home, Mum always says she can’t manage to go through with us, and that she’ll be ending throwing herself out of the window because it’s no piece of cake growing children like us. My Mum is so afraid of Crocheton becoming like her. She’s so afraid of he dribbling as she does. I think Mum shouts at us because she doesn’t know enough words to make us understand what she means. She makes up for it. She says less interesting things but she says them loud. But Daddy doesn’t understand so he takes it out on Crocheton. Crocheton, he studies but he doesn’t really know why, considering that if he passed the diploma he doesn’t know what he’ll be doing with it then.
Crocheton and I, we don’t know what job we might do with the diploma, we know too little types of jobs: we know we could be a minister like Dad or a high-school teacher, or a primary-school teacher. On TV they often speak of engineers, computer scientists, electricians, physicians, mathematicians. Crocheton’d like to do one that gets him a lot of money but he doesn’t know which one. So passing the diploma scares him because if he passes it, he doesn’t know what to do then. But he does know he’ll have to leave the house. Because things are like that. Because Dad said so. My father, he wants to cheer him but I think he doesn’t know how, so he beats him up from time to time. And then he yells at him because if he doesn’t succeed, they’ll send him wipe tramps’ asses under bridges, wipe old women’s phlegm in old people’s homes or scrape up lunatic asylum’s bidets, that if he doesn’t succeed they’ll make him enter in the seminary to become a clergyman, or enter the police so that he’ll become a cop, but my brother he doesn’t want to be neither a kepi nor a cassock. My brother, the only thing he wants is find his parents, the real ones.
I’m also studying. For the O Level diploma. But Mum and Dad, they don’t give a shit about the O level diploma since they don’t even know it exists. And even if they did they’d say it’s a lousy invention. And in my opinion, they wouldn’t be wrong. Because the bep’s, as we call it in France, whether you pass it or not, it doesn’t change a damned thing. If you’re an excellent student, don’t worry, you could write nothing on the paper, or better, draw dicks and balls, they can’t make you repeat the year if you don’t pass the exam. That damned exam’s good for nothing, only to break our balls, and also to remind the useless that they really suck. Last year, in the 3°7 class, that Severine girl tried to kill herself in the girls’ bathroom swallowing Duck Power Toilet product because she failed at the exam. One of the superiors took her to the infirmary because he noticed her breath was toilet-like. I swear, true story.
Funny thing, I really have the feeling that’s how life is: only stupid damn exams where everybody wants to succeed but that are always useless. Every time the same sketch;
-Matriculation (or obligation)
-Rehearsal (or revision)
-Nerves (or fear or panic etc…)
-Relief (or neurosis or suicide etc…)
Them: “you’re 15, what do you know about life?”
Me: “Go fuck yourselves!”
Seriously…For me now, my new obligation is going out with a girl. Well no, I’ve never gone out with a girl… Them: “Tongue-virgin!! Ton-on-gue-virgiiiin!!” Me : “pff …” I locked myself in the toilet for the great rehearsal: tilting my head to one side, close the eyes open the mouth, turn the tongue… Should one stick his tongue? Should one turn it clockwise? Should one turn it the other way? Should the girl and the boy turn it at the same time? When does one know when it’s over? There you go. I’m wondering how to do it, I have the stage fright, and I’m scared.
At 15 years old, alone in the toilets, the number of embarrassing situations one can put himself into is astonishing.
I think I’ll never go out with a girl, I’m too scared I won’t know how to. And even if I succeed at the test, what comes next? Relief ? Neurosis ? Suicide ? They say ridicule never killed anyone. That’s not true.
I don’t know, but imagine you managed to go out with little Clotilde, as cute s a flower and that at the first time you’re gonna kiss her – careful, it’s your first tongue-kiss ever – imagine she puts her tongue into your mouth and, I don’t know, let’s say you can’t hold on and you throw up into her mouth.
You must reckon that’s the kind of situation that messes up a man.
After such a situation, how long will it take to the other 956 other high-school students to know about it?
Ridiculous? Yeah. I think it’s the right word. You feel ridiculous after that. And I’m not really sure – really not – whether suicide isn’t the best solution. But they’ll keep saying ridicule never killed anyone as they’ve been saying thousands of stupid things since centuries on the pretext that other were saying it before.
Crocheton keeps making fun of me because I’m a tongue-virgin. It gets on my nerves. I tell him ridicule never killed anyone. He, he believes that’s just a way of wriggling out of it. But he doesn’t know I said that for him. Because sometimes I think if Crocheton fails the exam, he’s probably gonna feel ridiculous.
I don’t want my brother to kill himself…even if he’s been adopted.