The Chocolate War

by Robert Cormier

  The Goober sat on the curbstone, his legs jack-knifed, his feet in the gutter. He studied the leaves clustered beneath his feet. He was trying to find a way to explain to Jerry the connection between Brother Eugene and Room Nineteen and not playing football anymore. He knew there was a connection but it was hard to put into words.

  “Look, Jerry. There’s something rotten in that school. More than rotten.” He groped for the word and found it but didn’t want to use it. The word didn’t fit the surroundings, the sun and the bright October afternoon. It was a midnight word, a howling wind word.

  “The Vigils?” Jerry asked. He’d lain back on the lawn and was looking at the blue sky, the hurrying autumn clouds.

  “That’s part of it,” The Goober said. He wished they were still running. “Evil,” he said.

  “What did you say?”

  Crazy. Jerry would think he’d flipped. “Nothing,” Goober said. “Anyway, I’m not going to play football. It’s a personal thing, Jerry.” He took a deep breath. “And I’m not going out for track next spring.”

  They sat in silence.

  “What’s the matter, Goob?” Jerry finally asked, voice troubled and loaded with concern.

  “It’s what they do to us, Jerry.” It was easier saying the words because they weren’t looking at each other, both staring ahead. “What they did to me that night in the classroom—I was crying like a baby, something I never thought I’d do again in my life. And what they did to Brother Eugene, wrecking his room, wrecking him …”

  “Aw, take it easy, Goob.”

  “And what they’re doing to you—the chocolates.”

  “It’s all a game, Goob. Think of it as fun and games. Let them have their fun. Brother Eugene must have been on the borderline, anyway …”

  “It’s more than fun and games, Jerry. Anything that can make you cry and send a teacher away—tip him over the borderline—that’s more than just fun and games.”

  They sat there for a long time, Jerry on the lawn and Goober on the curb. Jerry knew he’d be too late now to see the girl—Ellen Barrett—but he felt that Goober needed his presence at this moment. Some of the guys from school passed by and called to them. A bus came along and halted. The driver was disgusted when The Goober shook his head that they didn’t want a ride.

  After a while, Goober said, “Sell the chocolates, Jerry, will you?”

  Jerry said, “Play football.”

  Goober shook his head. “I’m not giving anything more to Trinity. Not football, not running, not anything.”

  They sat in sadness. Finally, they gathered their books, got up, and walked in silence to the bus stop.

  The girl wasn’t there.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-FOUR

  “YOU’RE IN TROUBLE,” Brother Leon said.

  You’re in trouble, not me, Archie wanted to answer. But didn’t. He had never spoken to Leon on the telephone before and the disembodied voice at the other end of the line had caught him off balance.

  “What’s the matter?” Archie asked cautiously, but knowing, of course.

  “The chocolates,” Leon said. “They’re not selling. The entire sale is in jeopardy.” Leon’s breath filled in the gaps between the words as if he’d been running a long distance. Was he on the edge of panic?

  “How bad is it?” Archie asked, relaxing now, stalling. He knew how bad it was.

  “It could hardly be worse. The sale is more than half finished. The initial push is over. There is no momentum. Half the chocolates haven’t been sold yet. And the sales are virtually at a standstill.” Leon paused in the recital. “You’re not being very effective, Archie.”

  Archie shook his head in grudging admiration. Here was Leon with his back to the wall and still he was on the offensive. You’re not being very effective, Archie.

  “You mean the finances are bad?” Archie taunted, launching his own offensive. To Leon, it may have sounded like a shot in the dark but it wasn’t. The question was based on information Archie had received that afternoon from Brian Cochran.

  Cochran had stopped him in the second-floor corridor and motioned Archie into an empty classroom. Archie had been reluctant. The kid was Leon’s bookkeeper and probably his stooge. But the information revealed that Cochran was no stooge for Leon.

  “Listen, I think Leon’s in deep trouble. There’s more than chocolates involved here, Archie.”

  Archie resented Cochran’s familiarity, the use of his name. But he didn’t say anything, curious about what the kid had to say.

  “I overheard Leon talking with Brother Jacques. Jacques was trying to back him into a corner. He kept mentioning something about Leon abusing his power of attorney. That he’d overextended the school’s finances. That was his exact word, ‘overextended.’ The chocolates came into it. Something about twenty thousand boxes and Leon paying cash in advance. I didn’t hear all of it … I got out of there before they could find out I was around …”

  “So what do you think, Cochran?” Archie asked, although he knew. Leon needed at least twenty thousand dollars to draw even with the school.

  “I think Leon bought the chocolates with money that he wasn’t supposed to use. Now, the sale’s going lousy and he’s caught in the middle. And Brother Jacques smells a rat …”

  “Jacques is sharp,” Archie said, remembering how Jacques had acted on Archie’s anonymous tip about the word “environment”—making the class look ridiculous, Obie among them. “Good job, Cochran.”

  Cochran beamed at the praise. Encouraged, he drew some sheets of paper out of a book he was carrying. “Take a look at this stuff sometime, Archie. It’s facts and figures about this year’s sale and last year’s. And it’s all bad. I think Leon’s on the run …”

  But Cochran really didn’t know Leon, Archie realized now as the teacher’s voice came vibrantly over the line. Leon had ignored Archie’s taunt about finances and had resumed his offensive.

  “I thought you had influence, Archie. You and your … friends.”

  “It’s not my sale, Brother Leon.”

  “It’s your sale in more ways than you realize, Archie,” Leon said, sighing. It was his phony sigh, his usual act. “You played games at the beginning, Archie, with that freshman Renault and got yourself involved. Now, the game has backfired.”

  Renault. Archie thought of the kid’s refusal to sell, his ridiculous defiance. He remembered the triumph in Obie’s voice when he’d told him of Renault’s action—it’s your move, Archie baby. But it was always Archie’s move anyway.

  And he moved now. “Just a minute,” he told Brother Leon. He put down the phone and went to the den where he removed Cochran’s data from his U.S. History textbook. Returning to the phone, he said, “I’ve got some figures here about last year’s sale. Do you know they barely sold all the chocolates last year? Kids are getting tired of selling stuff. Last year, it took a lot of prizes and bonuses to get the kids to sell only twenty-five boxes at one dollar a box. And this year they’re stuck with fifty boxes at two dollars each. That’s why the sale is falling apart—not because of games being played.”

  Brother Leon’s breathing filled the line, as if he were some kind of obscene phone caller.

  “Archie,” he said, whispering, menace in the whisper, as if the information he had to impart was too terrible to be spoken aloud. “I don’t care about fun and games. I don’t care whether it’s Renault or your precious organization or the state of the economy. All I know is that the chocolates aren’t being sold. And I want them sold!”

  “Any ideas about how?” Archie said, fighting for time again. Funny, he knew Leon was in a precarious position and yet there was always the danger of underestimating him. He still had the authority of the school behind him. Archie had only his wits and a bunch of guys who were all big zeroes without him.

  “Perhaps you should begin with Renault,” Leon said. “I think he should be made to say ‘yes’ instead of ‘no.’ I’m convinced, Archie, that he’s become a symbol to
those who would like to see the sale defeated. The malingerers, the malcontents—they always rally around a rebel. Renault must sell the chocolates. And you, The Vigils—yes, I’m saying the name aloud—The Vigils must throw their full weight behind the sale …”

  “That’s quite an order, Brother.”

  “You’ve spoken the correct word, Archie. Order—it is an order.”

  “I don’t know what you mean, Brother.”

  “I’ll make it clear, Archie. If the sale goes down the drain, you and The Vigils also go down the drain. Believe me …”

  Archie was about to respond, tempted to let Leon know that he had learned about the financial trouble, but he didn’t get the chance. Leon, that bastard, had already hung up and the dial tone exploded in Archie’s ear.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-FIVE

  THE SUMMONS LOOKED like a ransom note—letters cut out of a newspaper or magazine. vIgiL MeEtinG tWO-THirTy. The wackiness of the note, those crazy letters, made it seem childish and ridiculous. But that same touch of the childish also gave it an air of something not quite rational, faintly threatening and mocking. That was the special quality of The Vigils, of course, and Archie Costello.

  Thirty minutes later, Jerry stood before The Vigils in the storage room. The nearby gym was occupied by fellows either practicing basketball or boxing calisthenics and the walls echoed with thuddings, bouncings and whistles blowing, like a grotesque sound track. Nine or ten Vigil members were present, including Carter who was getting tired of this Vigil crap, especially when it meant he had to miss boxing, and Obie who looked forward to the meeting with pleasure, wondering how Archie would proceed. Archie sat behind the card table. The table was covered with a scarf of purple and gold—the school colors. In the exact center of the table: a box of chocolates.

  “Renault,” Archie said softly.

  Instinctively, Jerry came to attention, squaring his shoulders, sucking in his stomach, and immediately disgusted with himself.

  “Have a chocolate, Renault?”

  Jerry shook his head, sighing. He thought wistfully of the guys out on the football field in the sweet fresh wind, tossing the ball around before practice began.

  “They’re good,” Archie said, opening the box and taking out a chocolate. He inhaled its flavor and popped it into his mouth. He chewed slowly, deliberately, smacking his lips in exaggerated fashion. A second chocolate followed the first. And a third followed the second. His mouth was crammed with candy now and his throat rippled as he swallowed. “Delicious,” he said. “And only two dollars a box—a bargain.”

  Somebody laughed. A short bark that was instantly cut off as if a needle had been lifted from a record.

  “But you wouldn’t know about the price, would you, Renault?”

  Jerry shrugged. But his heart began to beat wildly. He knew there had to be a showdown. And this was it.

  Archie reached for another chocolate. Into his mouth. “How many boxes have you sold, Renault?”

  “None.”

  “None?” Archie’s gentle voice curled in surprise and wonder. He swallowed, shaking his head in mock puzzlement. Without taking his eyes from Jerry, he called, “Hey, Porter, how many boxes have you sold?”

  “Twenty-one.”

  “Twenty-one?” Archie’s voice was now filled with awe. “Hey, Porter, you must be one of those hustling, eager-beaver freshmen, huh?”

  “I’m a senior.”

  “A senior?” More awe. “You mean to tell me you’re a big-shot senior and you’ve still got enough spirit left to get out there and sell all those chocolates? Beautiful, Porter.” The voice full of mockery—or was it? “Anybody else here sell chocolates?”

  A chorus of numbers filled the air as if The Vigil members were calling bids at a weird auction.

  “Forty-two.”

  “Thirty-three.”

  “Twenty.”

  “Nineteen.”

  “Forty-five.”

  Archie raised his hands and silence fell. Someone in the gym fell against the wall and shouted an obscenity. Obie marveled at the way Archie ran the meetings and how The Vigils quickly took his cues. Porter hadn’t sold ten boxes, if any at all. Obie himself had only sold sixteen but had called out forty-five.

  “And you, Renault, a freshman, a new student who should be filled with the spirit of Trinity, you haven’t sold any? Zero? Nothing?” His hand reached for another chocolate. Actually, he loved them. Not as good as Hershey with almonds but an acceptable substitute.

  “That’s right,” Jerry said, his voice small, a wrong-end-of-the-telescope kind of voice.

  “Do you mind if I ask why?”

  Jerry pondered the question. What should he do? Play a game? Tell it straight? But he wasn’t sure if it would make sense if he told it straight, especially to a roomful of strangers.

  “It’s personal,” he said finally, feeling like a loser, knowing he couldn’t win. It had all been going so beautifully. Football, school, a girl who had smiled at him at the bus stop. He had edged close to her and seen her name written on one of her books—Ellen Barrett. She had smiled at him two days in a row and he’d been too shy to speak to her but had looked up all the Barretts in the phone book. Five of them. Tonight he was planning to call them up, track her down. It seemed to him that he’d be able to talk to her on the phone. Now, for some reason, he had the feeling he would never talk to her, never play football again—a crazy feeling but one that he couldn’t shake.

  Archie had been licking his fingers, one at a time, letting the echo of Jerry’s response linger in the air. It was so quiet that he heard someone’s stomach growl intimately.

  “Renault,” Archie said, friendly, his voice conversational. “I’ll tell you something. Nothing’s personal here in The Vigils. No secrets here, understand.” He took a final suck at his thumb. “Hey, Johnson.”

  “Right,” a voice called behind Jerry.

  “How many times you jack off every day?”

  “Twice,” Johnson replied quickly.

  “See?” asked Archie. “No secrets here, Renault. Nothing personal. Not in The Vigils.”

  Jerry had taken a shower this morning before school but now he smelled his own perspiration.

  “Come on,” Archie said, a good friend now, encouraging, coaxing. “You can tell us.”

  Carter blew air out of his mouth in exasperation. He was losing patience with Archie’s cat and mouse crap. He had sat here for two years watching Archie play his silly games with kids, having Archie act the big shot as if he ran the show. Carter carried the responsibility for the assignments on his shoulders. As president, he also had to keep the other guys in line, keep them psyched up, ready to help make Archie’s assignments work. And Carter wasn’t crazy about this chocolate stuff. It was something beyond the control of The Vigils. It involved Brother Leon and he didn’t trust Leon as far as he could throw him. Now, he watched the kid Renault, looking as if he was ready to faint with fright, his face pale and eyes wide with dread, and Archie having fun with him. Jesus. Carter hated this psychological crap. He loved boxing where everything was visible—the jabs, the hooks, the roundhouse swings, the glove in the stomach.

  “Okay, Renault, play time is over,” Archie said. The gentleness was gone from his voice. No chocolates in his mouth. “Tell us—why aren’t you selling chocolates?”

  “Because I don’t want to,” Jerry said, still stalling. Because—what else could he do?

  “You don’t want to?” Archie asked, incredulous.

  Jerry nodded. He’d bought time.

  “Hey, Obie.”

  “Right,” Obie answered, stung. Why the hell did Archie have to pick on him all the time? What the hell did he want now?

  “Do you want to come to school every day, Obie?”

  “Hell, no,” Obie responded, knowing what Archie wanted and giving it to him but resentful as well, feeling like a stooge, as if Archie was the ventriloquist and Obie the dummy.

  “But you come to school, do
n’t you?”

  “Hell, yes.”

  Laughter greeted the answer and Obie allowed himself a smile. But a quick look from Archie wiped the smile away. Archie was dead serious. He could tell that by the way his lips were tight and thin and his eyes flashing like neon signs.

  “See?” Archie said, swiveling back to Renault. “Everybody has to do things in this world they don’t want to.”

  A terrific sadness swept over Jerry. As if somebody had died. The way he felt standing in the cemetery that day they buried his mother. And nothing you could do about it.

  “Okay, Renault,” Archie said, a finality in his voice.

  You could feel the room tense. Obie sucked in his breath. Here it comes, the Archie touch.

  “Here’s your assignment. Tomorrow at the roll call, you take the chocolates. You say, ‘Brother Leon, I accept the chocolates.’ ”

  Stunned, Jerry blurted out “What?”

  “Something wrong with your hearing, Renault?” Turning aside, he called, “Hey, McGrath, did you hear me?”

  “Hell, yes.”

  “What did I say?”

  “You said the kid should start selling chocolates.”

  Archie returned his attention to Jerry. “You’re getting off easy, Renault. You’ve disobeyed The Vigils. That calls for punishment. Although The Vigils don’t believe in violence, we have found it necessary to have a punishment code. The punishment is usually worse than the assignment. But we’re letting you off cheap, Renault. We’re just asking you to take the chocolates tomorrow. And sell them.”

  Jesus, Obie thought in disbelief. The great Archie Costello is running scared. The word “asking” was the tipoff. A slip of the lip, maybe. But as if Archie was trying to bargain with the kid, asking, for crying out loud. I’ve got you, Archie, you bastard. Obie had never known such sweet victory. The goddam freshman was going to screw Archie up, at last. Not the Black Box. Not Brother Leon. Not his own cleverness. But a skinny freshman. Because Obie was certain of one thing as if it was a natural law, like gravity—Renault wasn’t going to sell the chocolates. He could tell by looking at the kid, standing there scared, like he could shit his pants, but not backing down. While Archie was asking him to sell the chocolates. Asking.