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on the sidelines, hadn’t so much as glimpsed the book, didn’t even have the gumption to buy his own copies, but had to get them secondhand from his brother, and for that, Charlie hated him. For he knew this book was just the beginning, that in sex, as in sport, Whiskey would be Charlie’s superior: he would go further faster, and Charlie would be left behind, as he had always been since the day they were born.
    x x x
    Delta of Venus dominated Charlie’s life, all their lives, for a little more than four weeks. In the fifth week, Whiskey, Grainger, and Joel were caught selling the copies in the science-block bathroom, and the jig was up. The book was confiscated, presumed destroyed; the boys were hit with a cane and suspended, and the proceeds of their sales, which totaled almost two hundred pounds, were donated to the Salvation Army. The situation was evidently too scandalous to be handled by a woman—the special assembly, for the boys only, was addressed not by their headmistress, Mrs. Aster, but by the deputy headmaster, who also happened to be the head of religious education. There was barely a boy in the school who wasn’t implicated, and the hall had never been so still or silent, two hundred fifty pairs of eyes trained resolutely on the ancient woodblock floor as Mr. Daniels spoke of his shock and disgust over the confiscated materials and his disappointment at the lack of moral fiber evidenced by this incident.
    The assembly lasted less than ten minutes, long enough for Whiskey, Grainger, and Joel to be made an example of, long enough for the same fate to be threatened to any boy caught in possession of such filth.
    â€œThe shit’s going to hit the fan,” Whiskey joked to Charlie on the way home, but Charlie knew that Whiskey feared their mother’s reaction more than any punishment meted out at school. To be caned was not a humiliation but a badge of honor, a sign that you’d been outrageously rebellious, and, as such, earned you the respect of the other boys. As for the suspension, Whiskey looked upon it more as a reward than a punishment.
    Though the boys knew their mother must have had a telephone call from the school, she was ominously silent when they arrived home. They slunk off to their rooms, assuming she was waiting for their dad to come in from work before she made her move. But at dinnertime, she still said nothing, only glared at Whiskey, and at Charlie as well, as though he too was implicated, though she could not have had evidence of that. Or could she? Charlie prayed that she hadn’t found his photocopies wedged beneath his mattress.
    It wasn’t until Whiskey attempted to excuse himself that she finally spoke.
    â€œSit down, William,” she said in a low voice. “What have you got to say for yourself?”
    Whiskey shrugged, keeping his eyes on the table.
    â€œLook at me when I’m speaking to you.”
    Whiskey looked up but said nothing, knowing from experience that whatever he said would only make matters worse.
    She looked at their father. “Bill, do you have something to say to your son?”
    This surprised Charlie. Their mother was the disciplinarian; that was the accepted order of things. These were obviously deemed to be special circumstances, as they had been at school: a man-to-man matter. But Charlie could see that his father was unprepared, stuck for words.
    â€œNot one of your better ideas, Whiskey boy,” he said eventually.
    Their mother stared at him expectantly, waiting for him to go on. He let out a sigh, appeared to be thinking hard, and then he began nodding his head; something had come to him.
    â€œCertainly very entrepreneurial though, I’ll give you that.”
    Charlie cringed.
    His mother exploded.
    â€œThat’s right, Bill, encourage him; that’s the idea! Your fifteen-year-old son is producing and distributing pornography, and you tell him he’s entrepreneurial! For pity’s