pause.
“No!”
The Goober felt as if his eyes were the lens for a television camera in one of those documentaries. He swung around in Jerry’s direction and saw his friend’s face, white, mouth half-open, his arms dangling at his sides. And then he swiveled to look at Brother Leon and saw the shock on the teacher’s face, his mouth forming an oval of astonishment. It seemed almost as if Jerry and the teacher were reflections in a mirror.
Finally Brother Leon looked down.
“Renault,” he said again, his voice like a whip.
“No. I’m not going to sell the chocolates.”
Cities fell. Earth opened. Planets tilted. Stars plummeted. And the awful silence.
CHAPTER
EIGHTEEN
WHY DID YOU DO IT?
I don’t know.
Have you gone crazy?
Maybe I have.
It was a crazy thing to do
.
I know, I know.
The way that “No” popped out of your mouth—why?
I don’t know.
It was like the third degree, only he was both interrogator and suspect, both tough cop and hounded prisoner, a cruel spotlight pinning him in a blinding circle of light. All of this in his mind, of course, as he tossed in his bed, the sheet twisted around him like a shroud, suffocatingly.
He fought the sheet, filled suddenly with the terror of claustrophobia, being buried alive. Aware of his mortality, he turned over again, entangled in the bedclothes. His pillow fell off the bed, hitting the floor with a dull thud, like a small body landing there. He thought of his motherdead in the coffin. When did death arrive? He had read a magazine article about heart transplants—even the doctors couldn’t agree on the exact moment that death occurred. Listen, he told himself, no one can be buried alive these days, not like in the olden times when there was no embalming fluid and stuff. Now they removed all your blood and pumped in chemicals and stuff. To make certain you were dead. But suppose, let’s just suppose that some small spark in your brain remained alive, and knew what was going on. His mother. Himself, someday.
He leaped from the bed in terror, flinging the sheet away. His body was moist, oozing perspiration. He sat on the edge of the bed, trembling. Then his feet touched the floor and the cool kiss of the linoleum established reality. The specter of suffocation vanished. He made his way through the darkness to the window, and pulled back the drape. The wind came up, scattering October leaves which fluttered to the ground like doomed and crippled birds.
Why did you do it?
I don’t know.
Like a broken record.
Was it because of what Brother Leon does to people, like Bailey, the way he tortures them, tries to make fools of them in front of everybody?
More than that, more than that.
Then what?
He allowed the drape to fall back into place and surveyed the bedroom, squinting into the half-darkness. He padded over to the bed, shivering in the kind of coolness that can only be found in the middle of the night. He listened for night sounds. His father snored in the next room. A car gunned along the street outside. He’d love to be gunning along the street, going someplace, anywhere.
I’m not going to sell the chocolates
. Boy.
He hadn’t planned to do any such thing of course. He’d been happy to have the terrible assignment all over with, the assignment completed and life normal once again. Every morning he dreaded the roll call, the necessity of facing Brother Leon, saying
No
and watching Leon’s reaction—how the teacher tried to pass off Jerry’s rebellion as if it didn’t matter, putting on a pathetic pretense of indifference but a pretense that was so transparent, so phony. It had been funny and terrible at the same time, watching Leon call the roll and waiting for his name to be called, and finally his name blazing in the air and the defiant
No
. The teacher might have been able to carry off his act successfully, except for his eyes. His eyes gave him away. His face was always under control but his eyes showed his vulnerability,
“No!”
The Goober felt as if his eyes were the lens for a television camera in one of those documentaries. He swung around in Jerry’s direction and saw his friend’s face, white, mouth half-open, his arms dangling at his sides. And then he swiveled to look at Brother Leon and saw the shock on the teacher’s face, his mouth forming an oval of astonishment. It seemed almost as if Jerry and the teacher were reflections in a mirror.
Finally Brother Leon looked down.
“Renault,” he said again, his voice like a whip.
“No. I’m not going to sell the chocolates.”
Cities fell. Earth opened. Planets tilted. Stars plummeted. And the awful silence.
CHAPTER
EIGHTEEN
WHY DID YOU DO IT?
I don’t know.
Have you gone crazy?
Maybe I have.
It was a crazy thing to do
.
I know, I know.
The way that “No” popped out of your mouth—why?
I don’t know.
It was like the third degree, only he was both interrogator and suspect, both tough cop and hounded prisoner, a cruel spotlight pinning him in a blinding circle of light. All of this in his mind, of course, as he tossed in his bed, the sheet twisted around him like a shroud, suffocatingly.
He fought the sheet, filled suddenly with the terror of claustrophobia, being buried alive. Aware of his mortality, he turned over again, entangled in the bedclothes. His pillow fell off the bed, hitting the floor with a dull thud, like a small body landing there. He thought of his motherdead in the coffin. When did death arrive? He had read a magazine article about heart transplants—even the doctors couldn’t agree on the exact moment that death occurred. Listen, he told himself, no one can be buried alive these days, not like in the olden times when there was no embalming fluid and stuff. Now they removed all your blood and pumped in chemicals and stuff. To make certain you were dead. But suppose, let’s just suppose that some small spark in your brain remained alive, and knew what was going on. His mother. Himself, someday.
He leaped from the bed in terror, flinging the sheet away. His body was moist, oozing perspiration. He sat on the edge of the bed, trembling. Then his feet touched the floor and the cool kiss of the linoleum established reality. The specter of suffocation vanished. He made his way through the darkness to the window, and pulled back the drape. The wind came up, scattering October leaves which fluttered to the ground like doomed and crippled birds.
Why did you do it?
I don’t know.
Like a broken record.
Was it because of what Brother Leon does to people, like Bailey, the way he tortures them, tries to make fools of them in front of everybody?
More than that, more than that.
Then what?
He allowed the drape to fall back into place and surveyed the bedroom, squinting into the half-darkness. He padded over to the bed, shivering in the kind of coolness that can only be found in the middle of the night. He listened for night sounds. His father snored in the next room. A car gunned along the street outside. He’d love to be gunning along the street, going someplace, anywhere.
I’m not going to sell the chocolates
. Boy.
He hadn’t planned to do any such thing of course. He’d been happy to have the terrible assignment all over with, the assignment completed and life normal once again. Every morning he dreaded the roll call, the necessity of facing Brother Leon, saying
No
and watching Leon’s reaction—how the teacher tried to pass off Jerry’s rebellion as if it didn’t matter, putting on a pathetic pretense of indifference but a pretense that was so transparent, so phony. It had been funny and terrible at the same time, watching Leon call the roll and waiting for his name to be called, and finally his name blazing in the air and the defiant
No
. The teacher might have been able to carry off his act successfully, except for his eyes. His eyes gave him away. His face was always under control but his eyes showed his vulnerability,
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