The Chocolate War

by Robert Cormier

  “Did you use the queer pitch on him?”

  “You were right, Archie. You called it beautiful. That really spaced him out. Hey, Archie, he isn’t queer, is he?”

  “Of course not. That’s why he blew up. If you want to get under a guy’s skin, accuse him of being something he isn’t. Otherwise, you’re only telling him something he knows.”

  The silence on the phone indicated Emile’s appreciation of Archie’s genius.

  “What’s next, Archie?”

  “Let’s cool it, Emile. I want to keep you in reserve. We’ve got some other stuff going now.”

  “I was just starting to enjoy myself.”

  “You’ll have other chances, Emile.”

  “Hey Archie.”

  “Yes, Emile.”

  “How about the picture?”

  “Suppose I told you there was no picture, Emile? That there was no film in the camera that day …”

  Wow, that Archie. Full of surprises. But was he kidding around? Or telling the truth?

  “I don’t know, Archie.”

  “Emile, stick with me. All the way. And you can’t go wrong. We need men like you.”

  Emile swelled with pride. Was Archie talking about The Vigils? And was there really no photograph after all? What a relief that would be!

  “You can count on me, Archie.”

  “I know that, Emile.”

  But after he’d hung up, Emile thought: Archie, that bastard.

  CHAPTER

  THIRTY-FOUR

  SUDDENLY, HE WAS INVISIBLE, without body, without structure, a ghost passing transparently through the hours. He’d made the discovery on the bus going to school. Eyes avoiding his. Looking away. Kids giving him wide berth. Ignoring him, as if he wasn’t there. And he realized that he really wasn’t there, as far as they were concerned. It was as if he were the carrier of a terrible disease and nobody wanted to become contaminated. And so they rendered him invisible, eliminating him from their presence. All the way to school he sat alone, his wounded cheek pressed against the cool glass of the window.

  The chill of morning hurried him up the walk to the school entrance. He spotted Tony Santucci. Purely from instinct, Jerry nodded hello. Tony’s face was usually a mirror, reflecting back whatever greeted him—a smile for a smile, a frown for a frown. But now he stared at Jerry. Not really stared. Actually, he wasn’t looking at Jerry but through him as if Jerry were a window, a doorway. And then Tony Santucci fled the scene, into the school.

  Jerry’s progress through the corridor was like the parting of the Red Sea. Nobody brushed against him. Guys stepped out of his path, giving him passage, as if reacting to some secret signal. Jerry felt as though he could walk through a wall and emerge untouched on the other side.

  He opened his locker—the mess was gone. The desecrated poster had been removed and the wall scrubbed clean. The sneakers were gone. The locker had an air of absence, of being unoccupied. He thought, maybe I should look in a mirror, see if I’m still here. But he was still here, all right. His cheek still stung with pain. Staring at the inside of the locker, like looking into an upright coffin, he felt as though someone was trying to obliterate him, remove all traces of his existence, his presence in the school. Or was he becoming paranoid?

  In the classrooms, the teachers also seemed to be part of the conspiracy. They let their eyes slide over him, looking elsewhere when Jerry tried to catch their attention. Once, he waved his hand frantically to answer a question but the teacher ignored him. And yet it was hard to tell about teachers—they were mysterious, they could sense when something unusual was going on. Like today. The kids are giving Renault the freeze so let’s go along with it.

  Resigning himself to the freeze, Jerry drifted through the day. After a while, he began to enjoy his invisibility. He was able to relax. There was no longer any need to be on his guard, or afraid of being attacked. He was tired of being afraid, tired of being intimidated.

  Between classes, Jerry searched for The Goober but didn’t find him. Goober would have established reality once again, planted Jerry solidly in the world once more. But Goober was absent from school and Jerry figured it was just as well. He didn’t want anybody else getting involved in his trouble. It was enough that the phone calls had involved his father. He thought of his father standing at the phone last night, haunted by the persistent ringing, and he thought, I should have sold the chocolates, after all. He didn’t want his father’s universe to be disturbed and he wanted his own to be put in order again.

  After the last class that morning, Jerry walked freely down the corridor, headed for the cafeteria, swinging along with the crowd, enjoying his absence of identity. Approaching the stairs, he felt himself pushed from behind and he pitched forward, off balance. He began to fall, the stairs slanting dangerously before him. Somehow, he managed to grab the railing. He held on, pressing his body against the wall. As the stream of guys thudded past, he heard someone snicker, someone else hiss.

  He knew he wasn’t invisible any longer.

  Brother Leon entered the office at the moment Brian Cochran finished his final tabulation. The end. The last total of them all. He looked up at the teacher, delighted with the timing of his arrival.

  “Brother Leon, it’s all over,” Brian announced, triumph in his voice.

  The teacher blinked rapidly, his face like a cash register that wasn’t working. “Over?”

  “The sale.” Brian slapped down the sheet of paper. “Finished. Done with.”

  Brian watched the information sinking in. Leon took a deep breath and lowered himself into his chair. For an instant, Brian observed relief sweeping the teacher’s face, as if a huge burden had been lifted from him. But it was only a brief glimpse. He looked at Brian sharply. “Are you sure?” he asked.

  “Positive. And listen, Brother Leon. The money—it’s amazing. Ninety-eight per cent has been turned in.”

  Leon stood up. “Let’s check the figures,” he said.

  Anger surged through Brian. Couldn’t the teacher let down for one minute? Couldn’t he say “good job”? Or “thank God”? Or something? Instead, “let’s check the figures.”

  Leon’s rancid breath—didn’t he ever eat anything else but bacon, for crissakes—filled the air as he stood beside Brian looking over the tabulations.

  “There’s only one thing,” Brian said, hesitating to bring the subject up.

  Leon caught the boy’s doubt. “What’s the matter?” he asked, more angry than curious, as if he anticipated an error on Brian’s part.

  “It’s the freshman, Brother Leon.”

  “Renault? What about him?”

  “Well, he still hasn’t sold his chocolates. And it’s weird, really weird.”

  “What’s so weird about it, Cochran? The boy’s obviously a misfit. He tried in his small ineffectual way to damage the sale and he succeeded in doing the opposite. The school rallied against him.”

  “But it’s still weird. Our sales total comes to exactly nineteen thousand, nine hundred fifty boxes. Right on the nose. And that’s practically impossible. I mean, there’s always some spoilage, some boxes get lost or stolen. It’s impossible to account for every single box. But this comes out right on the dot. With exactly fifty boxes missing—Renault’s fifty.”

  “If Renault didn’t sell them, then obviously they are not sold. And that’s why there are fifty missing boxes,” Leon said, his voice slow and reasonable, as if Brian were five years old.

  Brian realized that Brother Leon didn’t want to see the truth. He was only interested in the results of the sale, knowing that his previous nineteen thousand, nine hundred fifty boxes had been sold and he was off the hook. He’d probably be promoted, become Headmaster. Brian was glad he wouldn’t be here next year, particularly if Leon became permanent Headmaster.

  “You see what’s important here, Cochran?” Leon asked, assuming his classroom voice. “School spirit. We have disproven a law of nature—one rotten apple does not spoil the barrel. Not
if we have determination, a noble cause, a spirit of brotherhood …”

  Brian sighed, looking down at his fingers, tuning Leon out, letting the words fall meaninglessly on his ears. He thought of Renault, that strange stubborn kid. Was Leon right, after all? That the school was more important than any one kid? But weren’t individuals important, too? He thought of Renault standing alone against the school, The Vigils, everybody.

  Ah, the hell with it, Brian thought as Leon’s voice droned on sanctimoniously. The sale was over and his job as treasurer was over. He wouldn’t be involved with Leon or Archie or even Renault anymore. Thank God for little favors.

  “You got the fifty boxes set aside, Obie?”

  “Yes, Archie.”

  “Beautiful.”

  “What’s it all about, Archie?”

  “We’re having an assembly, Obie. Tomorrow night. A special assembly. To report on the chocolate sale. At the athletic field.”

  “Why the athletic field, Archie? Why not the school?”

  “Because this assembly is strictly for the student body, Obie. The brothers are not involved. But everybody else will be there.”

  “Everybody?”

  “Everybody.”

  “Renault?”

  “He’ll be there, Obie, he’ll be there.”

  “You’re really something else, Archie, you know that?”

  “I know that, Obie.”

  “Pardon me for asking, Archie …”

  “Ask away, Obie.”

  “What do you want Renault there for?”

  “To give him a chance. A chance to get rid of his chocolates, old buddy.”

  “I’m not your old buddy, Archie.”

  “I know that, Obie.”

  “And how’s Renault going to get rid of his chocolates, Archie?”

  “He’s going to raffle them off.”

  “A raffle?”

  “A raffle, Obie.”

  CHAPTER

  THIRTY-FIVE

  A RAFFLE, for crying out loud.

  But what a raffle!

  A raffle like no other in Trinity’s history, in any school’s history.

  Archie, the architect of the event, watched the proceedings—the stadium filling up, the kids streaming in, the slips of paper being sold, passed back and forth, the lights dispelling some of the cool of the autumn evening. He stood near the improvised stage that Carter and The Vigils had erected that afternoon under Archie’s direction—an old boxing ring resurrected from the bowels of the bleachers and restored to its former use except for the absence of ropes. The platform stood directly at the fifty-yard line close to the stands so that each kid would see everything and wouldn’t miss any of the action. That was Archie. Give them their money’s worth.

  The athletic field was at least a quarter of a mile from the school and the residence where the brothers lived. But Archie had taken no chances. He had disguised the event as a football rally, strictly for students, without the inhibition of the teachers being present. They had arranged for the sweet-faced kid, Caroni, to ask for permission—Caroni who looked like a choir boy. What teacher could refuse him? And now the moment was at hand, the kids arriving, the air crisp and cool, excitement shivering through the crowd—and Renault and Janza there in the ring, glancing uneasily at each other.

  Archie always marveled at things like this, things he had arranged and manipulated. For instance, all these guys tonight would be doing something else except for Archie who had been able to alter their actions. And all it took was a little bit of Archie’s imagination and two phone calls.

  The first call had been to Renault, the second to Janza. But Janza’s call had been simply routine. Archie knew he could shape Janza’s actions the way he could shape a piece of clay. But the call to Renault had required the right moves, resourcefulness and a little touch of Archie in the night. Shakespeare yet, Archie chuckled.

  The phone must have rung, oh, fifty times and Archie hadn’t blamed the kid for not rushing to lift the receiver. But persistence paid off and finally there was Renault on the line, the quiet hello, the calm voice but something else, something else. Archie had detected another quality in the voice—a deadly calm, determination. Beautiful. The kid was ready. Archie had soared with triumph. The kid wanted to come out and fight. He wanted action.

  “Want to get even, Renault?” Archie goaded. “Strike back? Get revenge? Show them what you think of their goddam chocolates?”

  “How do I do that?” The voice was guarded but interested. Definitely interested.

  “Easy, easy,” Archie responded, “if you’re not chicken, that is.” The needle, always the needle.

  Renault was silent.

  “There’s a guy named Janza. He’s really a rotten kid, no class at all. He’s not much more than an animal. And word has gotten around that he needed the help of a bunch of kids to make you fall in line. So I figure we ought to settle the matter. At an assembly at the athletic field. Boxing gloves. Everything under control. Here’s a way to get even with everybody, Renault.”

  “With you too, Archie?”

  “Me?” The voice innocent and sweet. “Hell, why me? I was only carrying out my job. I gave you an assignment—don’t sell the chocolates—and then I gave you another—sell them. You did the rest, kid. I didn’t beat you up. I don’t believe in violence. But you touched off the fireworks …”

  Silence on the line again. Archie pressed on, softening his voice, cajoling, leading him on.

  “Look, kid, I’m giving you this choice because I believe in fair play. Here’s a chance to end it all and get on with other things. Christ, there’s more to life than a lousy chocolate sale. You and Janza alone in the ring, facing each other fair and square. And that’s it, finished, the end, all done. I guarantee it. Archie guarantees it.”

  And the kid had fallen for it, hook, line and sinker, although the conversation had gone back and forth for a while. Archie had been patient. Patience always paid off. And he had won, of course.

  Now, surveying his handiwork, the crowded bleachers, the frantic comings and goings as the raffle tickets were bought and sold and the directions scrawled on the tickets. Archie exulted quietly. He had successfully conned Renault and Leon and The Vigils and the whole damn school. I can con anybody. I am Archie.

  Pretend you’re a spotlight, Obie told himself, a spotlight sweeping the place, stopping here and there, and lingering at other places, picking up the highlights of the thing, this momentous occasion. Because, let’s admit it, this is an important event and Archie, that bastard, that clever clever bastard, has done it again. Look at him down there near the fight ring, like he’s king of all he surveys. And he is, of course. He’s got Renault there, pale and tense as if he’s facing a firing squad, and Janza, the animal, a chained animal waiting to spring loose.

  Obie, the spotlight, concentrated on Renault. Poor dumb doomed kid. He can’t win and he doesn’t know it. Not from Archie. Nobody wins from Archie. Archie, who’d been going down to defeat—what a great scene that had been, the last Vigils meeting when he’d stood there humiliated—but now he was on top again, all the chocolate sold, in charge once more, the entire school in the palm of his hand. All of which proves that the meek don’t inherit the earth. Not very original. Archie must have said it at one time or another.

  Don’t move. Not a muscle. Just wait. Wait it out, wait and see.

  Jerry’s left leg had fallen asleep.

  How can your leg fall asleep when you’re standing up?

  I don’t know. But it’s asleep.

  Nerves, maybe. Tension.

  At any rate, small darts stung his legs and he had to fight to keep from moving. He didn’t dare move, afraid he would fall apart if he moved.

  He knew now that it had been a mistake coming here, that Archie had faked him out, tricked him. For a few moments while Archie’s voice whispered enticingly of sweet revenge, suggesting the fight as a way of ending it all, Jerry had actually believed it was possible, possible to beat J
anza and the school and even Archie. He had thought of his father and the terrible look of defeat when he had listened on the phone the other night and finally placed the receiver on the table, giving up. I’m not giving up, Jerry had pledged, listening to Archie’s goading voice. He also ached for a chance to confront Janza. Janza who had called him a fairy.

  So, he had agreed to meet Janza in a fight and already Archie had doublecrossed him. Had doublecrossed Janza as well. He’d allowed them to be led onto the platform, stripped to the waist, shivering slightly in the evening air, given boxing gloves. And then Archie, his eyes sparkling with triumph and malice, had explained the rules. Those rules!

  Jerry had been about to protest when Janza opened his mouth. “It’s okay with me. I can beat this kid any way you want.”

  And Jerry saw, to his dismay, that Archie had counted on Janza’s reaction, had counted on the guys filing into the stadium. He had known that Jerry couldn’t back away now—he had come too far. Archie had bestowed one of his sickly sweet smiles on Jerry. “What do you say, Renault? Do you accept the rules?”

  What could he say? After the phone calls and the beating. After the desecration of his locker. The silent treatment. Pushed downstairs. What they did to Goober, to Brother Eugene. What guys like Archie and Janza did to the school. What they would do to the world when they left Trinity.

  Jerry tightened his body in determination. At least this was his chance to strike back, to hit out. Despite the odds Archie had set up with the raffle tickets.

  “Okay,” Jerry had said.

  Now, standing here, one leg half asleep, nausea threatening his stomach, the night chilling his flesh, Jerry wondered if he hadn’t lost the moment he had said okay.

  The raffle tickets were selling like dirty pictures.

  Brian Cochran was amazed but he shouldn’t have been—he was getting used to being amazed where Archie Costello was concerned. First the chocolate sale. And now this—this wacky raffle. Never anything like it at Trinity. Or anywhere. And he had to admit that he was kind of enjoying himself even though he had protested when Archie approached him this afternoon, asking him to take charge of the raffle. “You did great with the chocolates,” Archie said. The compliment melted Brian’s opposition. Besides, he was scared stiff of Archie and The Vigils. Personal survival, that’s what Brian believed in.