Chapter Thirty

T here 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?