Free The Chocolate War by Robert Cormier Page B

The first time she rubbed against him hethought it was an accident and he pulled away, apologetic, leaving a space between them. Then she brushed against him again—that was the night he’d bought her the earrings—and he knew it wasn’t an accident. He’d felt himself hardening and was suddenly ashamed and embarrassed and deliriously happy all at the same time. Him—Tubs Casper, forty pounds overweight which his father never let him forget. Him—with this beautiful girl’s breast pushed against him, not beautiful the way his mother thought a girl was beautiful but beautiful in a ripe wild way, faded blue jeans hugging her hips, those beautiful breasts bouncing under her jersey. She was only fourteen and he was barely fifteen but they were in love, love dammit, and it was only money that kept them apart, money to take the bus to her house because she lived on the other side of town and they’d made plans to meet tomorrow, her birthday, at Monument Park, a picnic sort of, she’d bring the sandwiches and he’d bring the bracelet—he knew the delights that awaited him but he also knew deep down inside that the bracelet was more important than anything else …
    All of which rushed him along now, out of breath and out of shape, trying to raise money that he knew dimly would lead him eventually only to trouble. Where would he raise enough money to pay it all back when the returns weredue at school? But what the hell—he’d worry about it later. Right now he needed to raise the money and Rita loved him—tomorrow she’d probably let him get under her sweater.
    He rang the doorbell of a rich-looking house on Sterns Avenue and prepared his most innocent and sweetest smile for whoever opened the door.
    The woman’s hair was damp and askew, and a little kid, maybe two or three years old, was tugging at her skirt. “Chocolates?” she asked, laughing bitterly as if Paul Consalvo had suggested the most absurd thing in the world. “You want me to buy chocolates?”
    The baby, wearing a soggy-looking droopy diaper, was calling, “Mommy … mommy …” And another kid was howling somewhere in the apartment.
    “It’s for a good cause,” Paul said. “Trinity School!”
    Paul’s nose wrinkled at the smell of pee.
    “Jesus,” the woman said. “Chocolates!”
    “Mommee, mommee …” the kid squalled.
    Paul felt sorry for older people, stuck in their houses and tenements with kids to take care of and housework to do. He thought of his own parents and their useless lives—his father collapsing into his nap every night after supper and his mother looking tired and dragged-out all thetime. What the hell were they living for? He couldn’t wait to get out of the house. “Where’re you going all the time?” his mother asked as he fled the place. How could he tell her that he hated the house, that his mother and father were dead and didn’t know it, that if it wasn’t for television the place would be like a tomb. He couldn’t say that because he really loved them and if the house caught fire in the middle of the night he’d rescue them, he’d be willing to sacrifice his own life for them. But, jeez, it was so boring, so deadly at home—what did they have to live for? They were too old for sex even, although Paul turned away from the thought. He couldn’t believe that his mother and father ever actually …
    “Sorry,” the woman said, shutting the door in his face, still shaking her head in wonder at his sales pitch.
    Paul stood in the doorway, wondering what to do. He’d had rotten luck this afternoon, hadn’t sold a single box. He hated selling them anyway, although it gave him an excuse to get out of the house. But he couldn’t really put his heart in it. He was just going through the motions.
    Outside the apartment house, Paul considered his choices: pressing on with the sale despite his luck today or going home. He crossed the street and rang the doorbell of another apartment building. In an