The Chocolate War by Robert Cormier Page B

signs, the kid shook his head. “Boy, you really let Leon that bastard have it. Beautiful.” He blew out smoke. Jerry’s eyes stung.
    “Oh,” he said, feeling stupid. And surprised. Funny, all this time he had thought of the situation as a private battle between Brother Leon and himself, as if the two of them were alone on the planet. Now, he realized that it had gone beyond that.
    “I’m so sick of selling the frigging chocolates,” the kid said. He had a terrible case of acne, his face like a relief map. And his fingers were stained with nicotine. “I’ve been at Trinity two years—I transferred from Monument High when I was a freshman—and Christ I’m getting tired of selling stuff.” He tried to blow a smoke ring but failed. Worse than that—the smoke blew back in Jerry’s face, stinging his eyes. “If it isn’t chocolates, it’s Christmas cards. If it isn’t Christmas cards, it’s soap. If it isn’t soap, it’s calendars. But you know what?”
    “What?” Jerry asked, wanting to get back to his geography.
    “I never thought of just saying no. Like you did.”
    “I’ve got some studying to do,” Jerry said, not knowing what to say, really.
    “Boy, you’re cool, know that?” the kid said admiringly.
    Jerry blushed with pleasure despite himself. Who didn’t want to be admired? And yet he felt guilty, knowing that he was accepting the kid’s admiration under false pretenses, that he wasn’t cool at all, not at all. His head pounded and his stomach moved menacingly and he realized he had to face Brother Leon and the roll call again this morning. And all the mornings to come.
    The Goober was waiting for him at the school’s entrance, standing tense and troubled among the other fellows waiting for school to start, like prisoners resigned to execution, taking their final drags from cigarettes before the bells began to ring. The Goober motioned Jerry aside. Jerry followed him guiltily. He realized that Goober wasn’t the cheerful happy-go-lucky kid he’d known when school first started. What had happened? He’d been so wrapped up in his own concerns that he hadn’t bothered about Goob.
    “Jeez, Jerry, what did you do it for?” Goober asked, drawing him away from the others.
    “Do what?”
    But he knew what Goober meant.
    “The chocolates.”
    “I don’t know, Goob,” Jerry said. It was no usefaking out Goober the way he had faked out that kid on the bus. “That’s the truth—I don’t know.”
    “You’re asking for trouble, Jerry. Brother Leon spells trouble.”
    “Look, Goob,” Jerry said, wanting to reassure his friend, wanting to wipe that look of concern from his face. “It’s not the end of the world. Four hundred kids in this school are going to sell chocolates. What does it matter if I don’t?”
    “It’s not that simple, Jerry. Brother Leon won’t let you get away with it.”
    The warning bell sounded. Cigarettes were flipped into the gutter or mashed into the sand-filled receptacle near the door. Last drags were inhaled lingeringly. Guys who’d been sitting in cars listening to rock on the radio switched them off and slammed the doors behind them.
    “Nice going, kid,” somebody said, hurrying by, the pat on the ass Trinity’s traditional gesture of friendship. Jerry didn’t see who it was.
    “Keep it up, Jerry.” This, a corner-of-the-mouth whisper from Adamo who hated Leon with a vengeance.
    “See how the word is spreading?” Goober hissed. “What’s more important—football and your marks or the lousy chocolate sale?”
    The bell rang again. It meant two minutes left to get to your locker and then to your homeroom.
    A senior by the name of Benson approachedthem. Seniors were trouble for freshmen. It was better to be ignored by them than to be noticed. But Benson was clearly headed in their direction. He was a nut, known for his lack of inhibitions, his complete disregard of the rules.
    As he neared Jerry and Goober, he began a Jimmy Cagney imitation,