Free The Chocolate War by Robert Cormier Page A

Jerry still called out
no
in the morning, staring straightahead, rigid, determined. Forgetting his own troubles for a moment, Goober had tried approaching Jerry as they left the field after practice the day before. But Jerry pulled away. “Let me alone, Goob,” he said. “I know what you want to ask—but don’t.”
    “Parmentier?”
    “Six.”
    And then the gathering of tension. Jerry was next. Goober heard a weird sound, almost as if the class had sucked in its breath all at once.
    “Renault?”
    “No.”
    Pause. You’d think Brother Leon would have gotten used to the situation by now, that he’d skip quickly over Renault’s name. But each day, the teacher’s voice sang out with hope and each day the negative response was given.
    “Santucci?”
    “Three.”
    The Goober exhaled. So did the rest of the class. Strictly by accident, Goober happened to look up as Brother Leon marked down Santucci’s report. He saw Leon’s hand trembling. He had a terrible feeling of doom about to descend on all of them.
    The short fat legs of Tubs Casper carried him through the neighborhood in what for him was record time. He’d have made better time if one of his bicycle tires wasn’t flat, not only flat but definitelybeyond repair and he didn’t have money to buy a new tire. In fact, it was a desperate need for money that sent Tubs scurrying around town like a madman, from one house to another, lugging the chocolates, knocking at doors and ringing doorbells. He also had to do it furtively, afraid that his father or mother might see him. Small chance his father would come across him—he was at work at the plastic shop. But his mother was another thing altogether. She was a nut about the car, like his father said, and couldn’t bear to stay home and was always driving around.
    Tubs’ left arm began to ache from the weight of the chocolates and he shifted his burden to his other arm, taking a moment to pat the reassuring bulge of his wallet. He had already sold three boxes—six dollars—but that wasn’t enough, of course. He was still desperate. He needed a hell of a lot more by tonight and nobody but nobody had bought any chocolates at the last six houses he’d visited. He had saved every cent he could from his allowance and had even sneaked a folded and greasy dollar bill from his father’s pocket last night when he arrived home, half-drunk and wobbly. He hated doing that—stealing from his own father. He vowed to return the money to him as soon as possible. When would that be? Tubs didn’t know. Money, money, money had become the constant need of his life,money and his love for Rita. His allowance barely made it possible for him to take her to the movies and for a coke afterward. Two-fifty each for the movies, fifty cents for two cokes. And his parents hated her for some reason. He had to sneak out to meet her. He had to make phone calls from Ossie Baker’s house. She’s too old for you, his mother said, when actually Tubs himself was six months older. All right, she
looks
old, his mother said. What his mother should have said was, she looks beautiful. She was so beautiful that she made Tubs all shaky inside, like an earthquake going on. At night in bed, he could have one without even touching himself, just thinking of her. And now her birthday was tomorrow and he had to buy her the present she wanted, the bracelet she’d seen in the window of Black’s downtown, that terrible and beautiful bracelet all sparkles and radiance, terrible because of the price tag: $18.95 plus tax.
“Hon,”
—she never called him Tubs—“that’s what I want most in all the world.” Jesus—$18.95 plus the 3 per cent sales tax which Tubs figured out would make a grand total of $19.52, the sales tax amounting to fifty-seven cents. He knew that he didn’t have to buy her the bracelet.
    She was a sweet girl who loved him for himself alone. She walked along the sidewalk with him, her breast brushing his arm, setting him on fire.