Free The Chocolate War by Robert Cormier

chances in a school raffle—one hundred and twenty-five books, twelve tickets in each book—and received a special pin at the Awards Assembly at the end of the school year. The only honorhe had ever won—purple and gold (the school colors), shaped like a triangle, symbolizing the trinity. His parents had beamed with pride. He was lousy at sports and a squeaker at studies—just barely squeaking by—but, like his mother said, you did your best and God took care of the rest. Of course, it took planning. That’s why John made out his lists ahead of time. Sometimes he even visited his regular customers before a sale began to let them know what was coming. He liked nothing better than getting out there on the street and ringing the doorbells and seeing the money pile up, money he would turn in the next day at roll call, and how the Brother in the homeroom would smile down on him. He remembered with a glow when he went up to the stage for his award last year and how the Headmaster had talked about Service To The School, and how “John Sulkey exemplified these special attributes” (the exact words which still echoed in John’s mind, especially when he saw those undistinguished rows of
C
’s and
D
’s on his report card every term). Anyway. Another sale. Chocolates. Double last year’s price but John was confident. Brother Leon had promised to put up a special honor roll on the bulletin board in the main first-floor corridor for those who made their quota or exceeded it. A quota of fifty boxes. Higher than ever before, which made John happy. It would be harder for the other guys tomeet the quota—already they were groaning and moaning—but John was supremely confident. In fact, when Brother Leon had told them about the special honor roll, John Sulkey could have sworn he was looking directly at him—as if Brother Leon was counting personally on him to set a good example.
    So, let’s see, the new housing development on Maple Terrace. Maybe he should make a special campaign in that neighborhood this year. There were nine or ten new homes there. But first of all, the old faithfuls, the people who had become regular customers: Mrs. Swanson who sometimes smelled of liquor but was always eager to buy anything although she kept him talking too long, rambling on about people John Sulkey didn’t even know; and good ole reliable Uncle Louie who was always simonizing his car although simonizing cars seemed part of the Dark Ages these days; and then the Capolettis at the end of the street who always invited him in for something to eat, cold pizza that John wasn’t exactly crazy about and the smell of garlic that almost knocked you down but you had to make sacrifices, big and small, for the sake of Service To The School …
    “Adamo?”
    “Four.”
    “Beauvais?”
    “One.”
    Brother Leon paused and looked up.
    “Beauvais, Beauvais. You can do better than that. Only one? Why, last year you set a record for the number of boxes sold in a week.”
    “I’m a slow starter,” Beauvais said. He was a good-natured kid, not exactly a whiz in his studies but likeable, without an enemy in the world. “Check me next week,” he said.
    The class laughed and the Brother joined in the laughter. The Goober laughed, too, grateful for the small relaxation of tension. He found that in recent days the kids in class had a tendency to laugh at things that weren’t really funny, simply because they seemed to be looking for something to divert them for a few moments, to prolong the roll call, prolong it until the
R
’s were reached. Everyone knew what would happen when Renault’s name came up. It was as if by laughing they could ignore the situation.
    “Fontaine?”
    “Ten!”
    A burst of applause led by Brother Leon himself.
    “Wonderful, Fontaine. True spirit, a wonderful display of spirit.”
    Goober found it hard to resist looking at Jerry. His friend sat stiff and tense, his knuckles white. This was the fourth day of the sale and