The Chocolate War

'I'm Jerry Renault and I'm not going to sell the chocolates.'

Damn it, Goober thought. Why didn't he bend a little? Just a little.

The bell rang. For a moment, the boys sat there, waiting, knowing that the issue hadn't been settled, something ominous in the waiting. Then the moment broke and the boys began to push back their chairs, rising from the desks, shuffling as usual. No one looked at Jerry Renault. By the time Goober got to the door, Jerry was walking swiftly to his next class. A crowd of boys, Harold Darcy among them, stood sullenly in the corridor, watching Jerry's progress down the hallway.

* * *

Later that afternoon, The Goober wandered to the assembly hall, attracted by cheers and hoots. He stood in the rear of the hall, watching as Brian Cochran posted the latest returns. There were probably fifty or sixty guys in the place, unusual for that time of day. Every time Cochran wrote in new sales, the fellows burst forth in cheers, led by, of all people, big bruising Carter who probably hadn't sold any chocolates at all but had others do his dirty work.

Brian Cochran consulted a sheet of paper he held in his hand and then went to one of the three big boards. Beside the name Roland Goubert, he wrote down the number fifty.

For a moment, it didn't occur to The Goober who Roland Goubert was — he watched, fascinated, unbelieving. And then — hey, that's me!

'Goober sold his fifty boxes,' someone called.

Cheers, applause and ear-splitting whistles.

The Goober started to step forward in protest. He had only sold twenty-seven boxes, damn it. He had stopped at twenty-seven to show that he was supporting Jerry, even though nobody knew, not even Jerry. And now the whole thing evaporated and he found himself sinking back in the shadows, as if he could shrivel into invisibility. He didn't want trouble. He'd had enough trouble, and he had held on. But he knew his days at Trinity would be numbered if he walked into that group of jubilant guys and told them to erase the fifty beside his name.

Out in the corridor, The Goober's breath came fast. But otherwise he felt nothing. He willed himself to feel nothing. He didn't feel rotten. He didn't feel' like a traitor. He didn't feel small and cowardly. And if he didn't feel all these things, then why was he crying all the way to his locker?

Chapter Thirty-One

'What's your hurry, kid?'

It was a familiar voice — the voice of all the bullies in the world, Harvey Cranch who used to wait for Jerry outside the third grade at St. John's, and Eddie Herman at summer camp who delighted in the small tortures he inflicted on the younger kids and the complete stranger who knocked him down at the circus one summer and tore the ticket from his hand. That was the voice he heard now: the voice of all the bullies and troublemakers and wise guys in the world. Mocking, goading, cajoling and looking for trouble. What's your hurry, kid? The voice of the enemy.

Jerry looked at him. The kid stood before him in defiant posture, feet planted firmly on the ground, legs spread slightly apart, hands flat against the sides of his legs as if he wore two-gun holsters and was ready to draw, or as if he was a karate expert, with hands waiting to chop and slice. Jerry didn't know a thing about karate, except in his wildest dreams when he demolished his foes without mercy.

'I asked you a question,' the kid said.

Jerry recognized him now — a wise guy named Janza. A freshman-baiter, somebody to stay away from.

'I know you asked me a question,' Jerry said, sighing. He knew what was coming.

'What question?'

And there it was. The taunt, the beginning of the old cat-and-mouse game.

'The question you asked me,' Jerry countered but knowing the futility of it. It didn't matter what he said or how he said it. Janza was looking for an opening and he'd find it.

'And what was it?'

'You wanted to know what was my hurry.'

Janza smiled, having won his point, gained his little victory. A smug superior smile spread across his face, a knowing smile, as if he knew all of Jerry's secrets, a lot of dirty things about him.'

'Know what?' Janza sked

Jerry waited.

'You look like a wise guy,' Janza said.

Why did the wise guys always accuse other people of being wise guys?

'What makes you think I'm a wise guy?' Jerry asked, trying to stall, hoping someone would come along. He remembered how Mr. Phaneuf had rescued him once when Harvey Cranch had cornered him near the old man's barn. But there was nobody around now. The football practice had been miserable. He hadn't completed a pass and the Coach had finally dismissed him. This aint your day, Renault, take an early shower. Turning away from the Coach, Jerry had seen the secret smirks, the quick smiles on the faces of the players and had realized the truth. They'd dropped his passes purposely, had refused to block. Now that Goober had quit the team, there was no one he could trust. More paranoia, he chided himself, trudging along the pathway that led from the football field to the gym. And had encountered Janza who should have been out there practicing but had been waiting for him.

'Why do I think you're a wise guy?' Janza asked now. 'Because you put on a bid act, kid. You try to get by with a sincerity act. But you're not kidding me. You live in the closet.' Janza smiled, a knowing, this-is-just- between-us smile, intimate, creepy.

'What do you mean — closet?'

Jaaza laughed, delighted, and touched Jerry's cheek with his hand, a brief light touch, as if they were old friends engaged in friendly conversation on an October afternoon, leaves whirling around them like giant confetti as the wind rose. Jerry figured he knew the meaning of Janza's light tap — Janza was aching for action, contact, violence. And he was getting impatient. But he didn't want to start the fight himself. He wanted to provoke Jerry into beginning — that's the way bullies worked so they could be held blameless after the slaughter. He started it, they'd claim. Strangely enough, Jerry felt as though he could actually beat Janza in a fight. He could feel a gathering of outrage that promised strength and endurance. But he didn't want to fight. He didn't want to return to grammar school violence, the cherished honor of the schoolyard that wasn't honor at all, the necessity of proving yourself by bloody noses and black eyes and broken teeth. Mainly, he didn't want to fight for the same reason he wasn't selling the chocolates — he wanted to make his own decisions, do his own thing, like they said.

'This is what I mean by closet,' Janza said, his hand flicking out again, touching Jerry's cheek, but lingering this time for the fraction of a second in faint caress. 'That you're hiding in there.'

'Hiding what? Hiding from who?'

'From everybody. From yourself, even. Hiding that deep dark secret.'

'What secret?' Confused now.

'That you're a fairy. A queer. Living in the closet, hiding away.'

Vomit threatened Jerry's throat, a nauseous geyser he could barely hold down.

'Hey, you're blushing,' Janza said. 'The fairy's blushing…'

'Listen…' Jerry began but not knowing, really, how to begin or where. The worst thing in the world — to be called queer.

'You listen,' Janza said, cool now, knowing he had struck a vulnerable spot. 'You're polluting Trinity. You won't sell the chocolates like everybody else and now we find out you're a fairy.' He shook his head in mock, exaggerated admiration. 'You're really something, know that? Trinity has tests and ways of weeding the homos out but you were smart enough to get by, weren't you? You must be creaming all over — wow, four hundred ripe young bodies to rub against…'

'I'm not a fairy,' Jerry cried.

'Kiss me,' Janza said, puckering his lips grotesquely.