The Chocolate War (12 page)

“How’d you make out, Danny?” Kevin asked, trying to ignore his mother who stood near the phone making sounds at him. Kevin had learned long ago to translate whatever she was saying into gibberish. She could talk her head off now and the words reached his ears without meaning. A wild trick.

“I made out terrible,” Danny whined. He
always sounded like he had to blow his nose. “I sold one box—to my aunt.”

“The one with diabetes?”

Danny howled. One thing about Danny, he was a great audience. But not Kevin’s mother. She was still chattering away. Kevin knew what was bugging her. She never wanted him to eat when he was on the telephone. His mother didn’t realize that eating wasn’t something you did
separately
. Eating went along with whatever you happened to be doing at the time. You could eat doing anything. Well, almost anything. It’s not polite to be on the phone with your mouth full of food, she always said. But right this minute, Danny also had
his
mouth full of food at the other end of the line. So who the hell was being impolite to who? Or whom? Screw it.

“I think maybe that Renault kid’s got the right idea, after all,” Kevin said, his mouth thick with peanut butter which, he wished he could explain to his mother, gave his words more resonance, like a disc jockey’s.

“The freshman who’s giving Brother Leon a hard time?”

“Yeah. He came flat out and said he wasn’t going to sell the junk.”

“I thought it was a Vigils thing,” Danny said tentatively.

“It
was
,” Kevin said, leering in triumph as his mother gave up and went into the kitchen. “But
now it’s something else.” He wondered whether he was saying too much. “He was supposed to take the chocolates a couple of days ago. The assignment was over. But he still refused to take them.”

Kevin could hear Danny chewing like a madman.

“What’re you eating, anyway? Sounds delicious.”

Danny howled again. “Chocolates. I bought a box myself. The least I could do for good old Trinity.”

An awkward silence fell between them. Kevin was in line to become a member of The Vigils next year when he became a junior. No one could be sure, of course, but there had been some hints from the guys. His best friend, Danny, knew about the possibility—and he also knew that there was a certain secrecy about The Vigils that had to be maintained. They usually avoided Vigil talk although Kevin often had inside information about assignments and stuff and he often fed it to Danny in bits and pieces, finding it hard not to show off a bit. Yet he was always afraid that Danny might say something about The Vigils to some other guys, strictly by accident, and screw up the whole situation. They had reached that point now in their conversation.

“What happens now?” Danny asked, still unsure about poking his nose in but made reckless by curiosity.

“I don’t know,” Kevin said truthfully. “Maybe The Vigils will take some action. Maybe they don’t give a hell. But I’ll tell you one thing.”

“What?”

“I’m getting sick of selling stuff. Jeez, my father’s starting to call me ‘my son, the salesman.’ ”

Danny guffawed again. Kevin was a natural mimic. “Yeah, I know what you mean. I’m getting tired of this selling crap. The kid’s probably got the right idea.”

Kevin agreed.

“For two cents, I’d stop,” Danny said.

“Got change for a nickel?” Kevin said, all in fun, of course, but thinking how beautiful—bee-yoo-tee-f—it would be not to have to sell anything anymore. He looked up to find his mother approaching him again, her mouth moving and sounds coming out, and he sighed, tuning her out, like shutting off the sound on television while the picture remained.

“Know what?” Howie Anderson asked.

“What?” Richy Rondell answered, lazily, dreamily. He was watching a girl approach. Fantastic looking. Tight sweater, clinging, low-slung jeans. Jesus.

“I think the Renault kid is right about the chocolates,” Howie said. He’d seen the girl too, as
she moved along the sidewalk in front of Crane’s Drug Store. But it didn’t break his train of thought. Watching girls and devouring them with your eyes—rape by eyeball—was something you did automatically. “I’m not going to sell them anymore, either.”

The girl paused to look at newspapers in a metal rack outside the store. Richy gazed at her with wistful lust. Suddenly he realized what Howie had said. “You’re not?” he asked. Without taking his eyes off the girl—her back was turned now and he feasted himself on her rounded jeans—he pondered the meaning of what Howie had said, sensing the importance of the moment. Howie Anderson wasn’t just another Trinity student. He was president of the junior class, an unusual guy. High honor student and varsity guard on the football team. He could also hold his own in the ring and almost knocked out that monster Carter in the intramural matches last year. His hand could shoot up in class to show he had the answer to a tough question. But that same hand could also shoot out and floor you if you screwed around with him. An intellectual roughneck—that’s what one teacher had called him a while back. A freshman-nobody like Renault not selling chocolates—that was nothing. But Howie Anderson—that was
something
.

“It’s the principle of the thing,” Howie went on.

Richy plunged his hand in his pocket, grabbing shamelessly, something he couldn’t resist whenever he got excited, about a girl or anything else.

“What principle, Howie?”

“This is what I mean,” Howie said. “We pay tuition to go to Trinity, don’t we? Right. Hell, I’m not even a Catholic, a lot of guys aren’t, but they sell us a bill of goods that Trinity is the best prep school for college you can find around here. There’s a case full of trophies in the auditorium—debating, football, boxing. And what happens? They turn us into salesmen. I have to listen to all this religious crap and even go to chapel. And sell chocolates on top of it all.” He spat and a beautiful spray hit a mailbox, dripping down like a teardrop. “And now along comes a freshman. A
child
. He says no. He says ‘I’m not going to sell the chocolates.’ Simple. Beautiful. Something I never thought of before—just stop selling them.”

Richy watched the girl drifting away.

“I’m with you, Howie. As of this moment, no more selling of chocolates.” The girl was almost out of sight now, blocked from view by other people walking by. “Want to make it official? I mean, call a meeting of the class?”

Howie pondered the question.

“No, Richy. This is the age of do your thing.
Let everybody do his thing. If a kid wants to sell, let him. If he doesn’t, the same thing applies.”

Howie’s voice rang with authority, as if he was delivering a pronouncement to the world. Richy listened with a kind of awe. He was glad that Howie let him hang around—maybe some of Howie’s leadership qualities would rub off on him. His eyes went to the street again, looking for another girl to enjoy.

The odor of sweat filled the air—a gym’s sour perfume. Even though the place was deserted, the aftermath of that final period of calisthenics lingered, the stink of boy sweat; armpits and feet. And the rotten smell of old sneakers. That was one of the reasons why Archie had never been attracted to sports—he hated the secretions of the human body, pee or perspiration. He hated athletics because it speeded up the process of sweat. He couldn’t stand the sight of greasy, oozing athletes drenched in their own body fluids. At least football players wore uniforms, but boxers wore only the trunks. Take a guy like Carter, bugling with muscles, every pore oozing sweat. Put him in boxing trunks and the sight was almost obscene. That’s why Archie avoided the gym. He was a legend in the school for dreaming up ways of avoiding Phys. Ed. But he was here now waiting for Obie. Obie had left a note in Archie’s locker.
Meet me in the gym after
last period
. Obie loved dramatics. He also knew that Archie despised the gym and yet asked to be met here. Oh, Obie, how you must hate me, Archie thought, undisturbed by the knowledge. It was good to have people hate you—it kept you sharp. And then when you put the needle in them, the way he did constantly to Obie, you felt justified, you didn’t have to worry about your conscience.

But at this minute he was getting annoyed with Obie. Where the hell was he? Sitting down on one of the bleacher seats, Archie found a sudden and unexpected peace in the deserted gymnasium. His moments of peace were becoming less frequent all the time. The Vigils—those assignments, the constant pressure. More assignments due and everybody waiting for what Archie would come up with. And Archie hollow and empty sometimes, no ideas at all. And his lousy marks. He was certain to flunk English this term, simply because English was mostly reading and he didn’t have time anymore to spend four or five hours every night reading a lousy book. Anyway, between The Vigils and worrying about his marks, he didn’t seem to have any time to himself anymore, not even time for girls, no time to hang around Miss Jerome’s, the girls’ high school across town where, when school let out for the day, you could let your eyes devour some luscious sights and usually talk one of them into
the car, for a ride home. With detours. Instead, here he was every day, involved with assignments and homework, juggling all this activity and then getting stupid notes from Obie. Meet me in the gym …

Finally, Obie made his entrance. He didn’t just walk in. He had to make a production out of it. He had to peek around the door and sniff the air and act like he was the spy coming in from the cold, for Christ’s sake.

“Hey, Obie, I’m over here,” Archie called dryly.

“Hi, Archie,” Obie said as his leather heels clicked on the gym floor. There was a rule in the school—only sneakers on the gym floor but everybody ignored it except when there was a brother around.

“What do you want, Obie?” Archie asked, getting down to business without preliminaries, keeping his voice flat and dry as the Sahara. The fact that he had showed up for the meeting had been an admission of curiosity. Archie didn’t want to overdo it by acting too eager for Obie’s company and whatever he had to say. “I haven’t much time. Important things await.”

“This is important too,” Obie said. Obie had a thin sharp face with a permanent worried look. That’s why he was such an obvious stooge, an errand boy. The kind of kid you couldn’t help kicking when he was down. And you also knew this—that he would get up again and vow
revenge and never have the nerve or the know-how to take that revenge. “Remember that kid Renault? The chocolate assignment?”

“What about him?”

“He’s still not selling the chocolates.”

“So?”

“So—remember? His orders were not to sell them for ten school days. Okay. So the ten days came and went and he’s still saying no.”

“So what?”

This is what infuriated Obie—the way Archie tried so hard not to be impressed, to always play it cool. You could tell him that The Bomb was going to be dropped and he’d probably say “So what?” It got under Obie’s skin, mostly because he suspected that it was an act, that Archie wasn’t as cool as he pretended to be. And Obie was awaiting his chance to find out.

“Well, there’s all kinds of rumors around the school. First of all, a lot of kids think that The Vigils are in on the deal, that Renault still isn’t selling them because he’s still carrying out the assignment. Then there are some kids who know the assignment is over and think that Renault is leading some kind of revolt against the sale. They say Brother Leon is climbing the wall every day …”

“Beautiful,” Archie said, showing reaction to Obie’s news at last.

“Every morning Leon calls the roll and every day this kid, a freshman, sits there, and won’t sell the goddam chocolates.”

“Beautiful.”

“You said that.”

“Continue,” Archie said, ignoring Obie’s sarcasm.

“Well, I understand that the sale is going lousy. Nobody wants to sell the chocolates in the first place and it’s turned into a kind of farce in some classes.”

Obie sat down on the bleacher seat beside Archie, pausing to let the report sink in.

Archie sniffed the air and said, “This gymnasium stinks.” Pretending indifference to Obie’s report but his thoughts racing, pondering the possibilities.

Obie poured it on. “The eager beavers, the brownnosers are out selling chocolates like madmen. So are Leon’s pets, his special boys. So are the kids who still believe in school spirit.” He sighed. “Anyway, there’s a lot going on.”

Archie was busy contemplating the far side of the gym, as if something interesting was going on over there. Obie followed his gaze—nothing. “Well, what do you think, Archie?” he asked.

“What do you mean—what do I think?”

“The situation. Renault. Brother Leon. The chocolates. The kids out there taking sides …”

“We’ll see, we’ll see,” Archie said. “I don’t know whether The Vigils should get involved or not.” He yawned.

That phony yawn irritated Obie. “Hey, look, Archie. The Vigils are involved whether you know it or not.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Look, you told the kid to refuse the chocolates in the first place. That’s what started all this stuff. But the kid went beyond that. He was supposed to start selling after the assignment was over. So, now he’s defying The Vigils. And a lot of guys know that. We are involved, Archie, whether we want to be or not.”

Obie could see that he had scored. He saw something flash in Archie’s eyes, like looking at a blank window and observing a ghost peeking out.

“Nobody defies The Vigils, Obie …”

“That’s what Renault’s doing.”

“… and gets away with it.”

Archie had that dreamy look again and his lower lip drooped. “Here’s what to do. Arrange to have Renault appear before The Vigils. Check up on the sale—get the totals, facts and figures.”

“Right,” Obie said, writing in his notebook. As much as he hated Archie, he loved to see him when he was swinging into action. Obie decided to add more fuel to the flames. “Another thing,
Archie. Didn’t The Vigils promise Leon way back they’d back him in the chocolate sale?”

Obie had scored again. Archie turned to him, surprise scrawled on his face. But he recovered quickly. “Let me worry about Leon. You just run your errands, Obie.”