Authors: Robert Cormier
“Right.” Brian leaped to the task under Carter’s watchful gaze. His fingers trembled and he cautioned himself to make no mistakes. Let it be one-fifty exactly.
“Right on the nose,” Brian reported.
And then came the weird part.
“Let me see the roster,” Carter said.
Brian handed over the list of names, each name with boxes beside it in which returns were noted as they arrived, corresponding to the master list on the big boards in the assembly hall. After studying the roster for a few minutes, Carter told Brian to credit various students with sales returns. Brian made the entries as Carter called them out: Huart, thirteen … DeLillo, nine … Lemoine … sixteen. And so on, until the entire seventy-five boxes had been distributed among seven or eight students.
“Those guys worked hard selling the chocolates,” Carter said, a silly smile on his face. “I want to make sure they get credit.”
“Right,” Brian said, not making waves. He knew, of course, that none of the fellows chosen by Carter had sold the chocolates. But that was not his business.
“How many guys reached the fifty quota today?” Carter asked.
Brian consulted his figures. “Six, counting Huart and LeBlanc. Those sales they just made put them over the top.” Brian actually was able to keep a straight face.
“Know what, Cochran? You’re a bright boy. You’re cool. You catch on fast.”
Fast? Hell, they’d been juggling the sales all week long and Brian hadn’t caught on for two entire days. He was tempted now to ask Carter if the campaign had turned into a Vigils project—like one of Archie Costello’s assignments—but decided to hold down his curiosity.
Before the afternoon had ended, the sale of four hundred and seventy-five boxes had been received—cold, cold cash—as the teams returned to school with horns blowing, high with the hilarity of success.
When Brother Leon arrived, they totaled the sales together and discovered that fifteen thousand and ten boxes of chocolates had been sold thus far. Only five thousand to go—or four thousand,
nine hundred and ninety to be exact, as Brother Leon pointed out in that fussy meticulous way of his. But Leon wasn’t a problem today. He, too, seemed giddy, high, his wet eyes sparkling with the success of the sale.
He actually called Brian by his first name.
When Brian went to the assembly hall to post the latest figures, a cheering bunch of fellows applauded as he made the entries. No one had ever applauded Brian Cochran before and he felt like a football hero, of all things.
THERE WAS NO NECESSITY for the chocolate roll call now because most of the students were bringing their returns directly to Brian Cochran in the office. But Brother Leon persisted anyway. The Goober noticed that the teacher now took a delight in the process, making a big deal of it. He read off the latest sales as reported to Brian Cochran, reciting them to the class in detail, lingering over the names and the totals, wringing as much drama and satisfaction out of the situation as possible. And he had stooges or frightened kids like David Caroni who sang out their reports in the classroom as Leon basked in the totals.
“Let’s see, Hartnett,” Leon said, shaking his head in pleased surprise. “The report says you sold fifteen boxes yesterday, bringing your total to forty-three. Wonderful!” And he’d glanced slyly at Jerry.
It was all ridiculous, of course, because Hartnett hadn’t sold any chocolates at all. The sales
had been made by the teams of fellows who went out every afternoon. The school had become chocolate crazy. But not Goober. As a show of sympathy to Jerry, he had decided to stop selling the chocolates altogether and his total had remained unchanged for the past week at twenty-seven. It was little enough to do.
“Mallan,” Leon was calling out.
“Seven.”
“Let me see now, Mallan. Why, that brings your total to forty-seven. Congratulations, Mallan. I’m sure you’ll be selling those three remaining boxes today.”
Goober shriveled in his seat. Next would be Parmentier. And then Jerry. He glanced toward Jerry, saw him sitting erect in his chair as if he was looking forward to having his name called.
“Parmentier.”
“Seven.”
“Parmentier, Parmentier,” Leon marveled. “That makes your total, yes, by George, fifty! You’ve made the quota, Parmentier. Good boy, good boy! A round of cheers, gentlemen.”
Goober faked his cheer—little enough.
The pause. And then Leon’s voice sang out, “Renault!” That was the exact description—sang. His voice exultant, lyrical. Goober realized Leon didn’t care now whether Jerry sold chocolates or not.
“No,” Jerry answered, his own voice clear and forceful, ringing with a triumph of its own.
Maybe both of them could win. Maybe a showdown could be averted, after all. The sale was winding down. It could end in a stalemate and eventually be forgotten, absorbed by other school activities.
“Brother Leon.”
All eyes turned to Harold Darcy who had spoken.
“Yes, Harold.”
“May I ask a question?”
A frown of annoyance from the teacher. He’d been having such a great time that he resented the interruption.
“Yes, yes, Darcy.”
“Would you ask Renault why he isn’t selling the chocolates like everybody else?”
The sound of a car horn could be heard from two or three blocks away. Brother Leon’s face was guarded. “Why do you want to know?” he asked.
“I figure it’s my right to know. The right of everybody to know.” He looked around for support. Somebody called out, “Right on.” Darcy said, “Everybody else is doing his part, why isn’t Renault?”
“Would you care to answer that, Renault?” the teacher said, the moist eyes flashing, the malice unmistakable.
Jerry paused, face flushed. “It’s a free country,” he said, words which touched off a ripple of laughter. Someone snickered. Brother Leon looked positively joyous and Goober felt nauseous.
“I’m afraid you’ll have to be more original than that, Renault,” Brother Leon said, playing to his audience, as usual.
Goober could see the color rising to Jerry’s cheeks. He was also aware of a change in the class, a subtle alteration of mood and atmosphere. Until this particular roll call, the class had been neutral, indifferent toward Jerry’s position, maintaining a live-and-let-live attitude. Today however, the air was filled with resentment. More than resentment—hostility. Take Harold Darcy. Ordinarily he was a regular kid, minding his own business with no tinge of the crusader or fanatic about him. And suddenly here he was challenging Jerry.
“Did you say this sale was voluntary, Brother Leon?” Jerry asked.
“Yes,” the teacher said, hanging back as if he were trying to fade into the background, letting Jerry betray himself with his own words.
“Then I don’t feel that I have to sell the chocolates.”
A ripple of resentment across the classroom.
“You think you’re better than we are?” Darcy shot out.
“No.”
“Then who do you think you are?” Phil Beauvais asked.
“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?
“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 asked.
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 ain’t 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 big 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?”
Janza 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 …”