Authors: Robert Cormier
“You!” Leon said again, a wicked whisper that spilled into Archie’s face the foul aftertaste of Leon’s breakfast—the smell of stale bacon and eggs. “You did this,” Leon said, digging the fingernails of one hand into Archie’s shoulder while pointing to the chaos of Room Nineteen with the other.
Curious students from other classes had now gathered around the two entrances to the room, drawn by the crash and clatter. Some of them regarded the rubble with awe. Others glanced curiously at Brother Leon and Archie. No matter where they looked, it was great—an interruption
of school routine, a diversion in the deadly order of the day.
“Didn’t I tell you I wanted everything to go smoothly? No incidents? No funny business?”
The worst part of Leon’s fury was the way he whispered, this terrible tortured hissing from his mouth, giving his words a tone more deadly than a shout or a yell. At the same time his grip on Archie’s shoulder got tighter and Archie winced with pain.
“I didn’t do anything. I didn’t promise anything,” Archie said automatically. Always deny everything, never apologize, never admit anything.
Leon pushed Archie up against a wall as the boys began to fill the corridor, pouring into Room Nineteen to view the destruction, and milling around outside; talking and gesturing, shaking their heads in wonder—the legend had already begun.
“I’m in charge, don’t you see? This entire school is now my responsibility. The chocolate sale is ready to start and you pull something like this.” Leon released him without warning, and Archie hung there as if suspended in mid-air. He turned and saw some guys staring at Leon and him. Staring at him! Archie Costello humiliated by this sniveling bastard of a teacher. His sweet moment of triumph spoiled by this nut and his ridiculous chocolate sale!
He watched Leon storming away, pushing his way through the tumultuous corridor, disappearing into the swarming stream of boys. Archie massaged his shoulder, gingerly feeling the spot where Leon’s fingernails had bitten deep. Then he thrust himself into the crowd, pushing aside the guys gathered near the doorway. He stood at the entrance, drinking in the beautiful debris of Room Nineteen—his masterpiece. He saw Brother Eugene still standing there in the midst of the shambles, tears actually running down his cheeks.
Beautiful, beautiful.
Screw Brother Leon.
“TRY IT AGAIN,” the coach bellowed, his voice hoarse. The danger point—his voice always got hoarse when he lost his patience, when he was in danger of blowing his top.
Jerry picked himself up. His mouth was dry and he tried to suck spit into it. His ribs hurt, his entire left side was on fire. He stalked back to his position behind Adamo who played center. The other guys were already lined up, tense, waiting, aware that the coach wasn’t happy with them. Not happy? Hell, he was furious, disgusted. He had arranged this special practice giving his freshmen a chance to scrimmage against a few members of the varsity, to show off all he had taught them and they were doing lousy, rotten, terrible.
There was no huddle. the coach barked the number of the next play, a play designed to suck in Carter, the big beefy varsity guard who looked as if he could chew freshmen up and spit them out. But the coach had said, “We’ll have some
surprises for Carter.” It was tradition at Trinity to toss star players against the Freshmen and to build plays designed to stop the stars. This was the only reward the Freshman team reaped because most of them were too young or too small to play varsity.
Jerry crouched behind Adamo. He was determined to make this play work. He knew that the previous play hadn’t worked because his timing was off and because he hadn’t seen Carter come crashing out of nowhere. He had expected Carter to blitz and instead the big guard had pulled back and skirted the line, annihilating Jerry from behind. What infuriated Jerry was that Carter toppled him gently, lowering him to the ground almost tenderly as if to prove his superiority. I don’t have to murder you, kid, it’s easy enough this way, Carter seemed to be saying. But this was the seventh consecutive play and the damage of being tackled play after play was taking its toll.
“All right, guys, this is it. Make or break.”
“It’s all over, fellas,” Carter taunted.
Jerry called the signals, hoping his voice sounded confident. He didn’t feel confident. And yet he hadn’t given up hope. Every play was a new beginning and even though something always seemed to go wrong he felt that they were on the verge of clicking. He had confidence in guys like Goober and Adamo and Croteau.
Sooner or later, they had to click, all the work had to pay off. That is, if the coach didn’t cut them all off the squad first.
Jerry’s hands were joined like a duck’s bill waiting to swallow the ball. At his signal, Adamo slapped the ball into his palms and Jerry began to fade at the same instant, to the right, slanted, swift, his arm already coming up, ready to be cocked, ready for the pass. He saw Carter snaking through the line again, like some monstrous reptile in his helmet, but suddenly Carter became all arms and legs tossing and turning in the air, hit devastatingly low by Croteau. Carter collapsed on Croteau and both of them fell in a tangle of bodies. Jerry felt a sudden sense of freedom. He continued to fade, fade, easy, easy, stalling until he could spot The Goober, tall and rangy, down-field where he’d be waiting if he had managed to elude the safetyman. Suddenly Jerry spotted Goober’s waving hand. Jerry avoided fingers that tore at his sleeve and he unloosed the ball. Someone brushed his hip but he shrugged off the blow. The pass was beautiful. He could tell it was beautiful, straight on target, even though he couldn’t watch its progress, because he was dumped violently to the ground by Carter who had somehow recovered after being demolished. As he hit the ground, Jerry heard the yells and the cheers that told him The Goober had caught the pass and gone on to score.
“Good, good, good, good.” The coach’s voice, raucous in triumph.
Jerry struggled to his feet. Carter slapped him on the ass, signaling his approval.
The coach lumbered toward them, still scowling. But then he never smiled.
“Renault,” the coach said, all hoarseness gone. “We just might make a quarterback out of you yet, you skinny little son of a bitch.”
With the fellows standing all around him and his breath coming in gasps and Goober arriving with the ball, Jerry knew a moment of absolute bliss, absolute happiness.
There was a legend in the school that the coach hadn’t accepted you as a player until he’d called you a son of a bitch.
The guys lined up again. Jerry was sweet poetry and music as he waited for the ball to be slapped into his hand.
When he returned to the school after practice, he found a letter scotch-taped to the door of his locker. A summons from The Vigils. Subject: Assignment.
“ADAMO?”
“Yes.”
“Beauvais?”
“Yes.”
“Crane?”
“Yo.” Crane, the comedian. Never a straight answer.
“Caroni?”
“Yes.”
Everyone could see that Brother Leon was enjoying himself. This is what he liked—to be in command and everything going smoothly, the students responding to their names smartly, accepting the chocolates, showing school spirit. The Goober was depressed, thinking about school spirit. Ever since Room Nineteen had collapsed, he had lived in a state of mild shock. He awoke each morning depressed, knowing even before he opened his eyes that something was wrong, something had gone askew in his life. And then he’d remember: Room Nineteen. The
first day or two had been kind of exciting. Word had gotten around that the destruction of Room Nineteen was the result of his assignment by The Vigils. Although no one mentioned the subject to him, he found himself a kind of underground hero. Even the seniors looked at him with awe and respect. Guys patted him on the ass when he passed by, an old Trinity mark of distinction. But as the days went on, an uneasiness stole across the campus. There were rumors. The place was always filled with rumors but this time they grew out of the Room Nineteen incident. The chocolate sale was postponed for a week and Brother Leon, speaking at chapel, gave a weak explanation. The Head was hospitalized, there was a lot of paperwork involved, etc. etc. There were also rumors that Leon was carrying on a quiet investigation of Room Nineteen. Poor Brother Eugene had not been seen since that devastating morning. He’d had a nervous breakdown, someone said. Others reported that there had been a death in his family and he’d been called away. Anyway, it all heaped itself upon The Goober and he found it hard to sleep at night. Despite the adulation of the guys at school, he felt as if there was some kind of distance between him and the fellows. They admired him, sure, but didn’t want to get too close in case something backfired. One afternoon, he’d met Archie Costello in the corridor and Archie had pulled him aside. “If they call
you in for questioning, you know nothing,” Archie said. Goober had no way of knowing this was the kind of thing Archie loved to do—intimidate someone, get him worrying. Since then, The Goober had walked around in a state of apprehension, expecting to see his name on a Wanted sign on the bulletin board, for crying out loud. He didn’t want the adulation of the fellows anymore—he simply wanted to be The Goober, to play football and to run in the morning. He dreaded a summons from Brother Leon, wondering if he could stand up under questioning, whether he could look into those moist eyes of Brother Leon’s and actually lie to him.
“Goubert?”
He realized that Brother Leon had been calling his name, two or three times.
“Yes,” The Goober replied.
Brother Leon paused, looking at him questioningly. The Goober shriveled.
“You don’t seem to be entirely with us today, Goubert,” Leon said. “At least, not in spirit.”
“I’m sorry, Brother Leon.”
“Speaking of spirit, Goubert, you realize, don’t you, how this chocolate sale goes beyond a mere sale or routine project, don’t you?”
“Yes, Brother Leon.” Was Leon baiting him?
“The most beautiful part of the sale, Goubert, is that it’s a project completely by students. The students sell the chocolates. The school merely
administers the project. It’s
your
sale,
your
project.”
Bullshit, someone whispered, out of Leon’s hearing.
“Yes, Brother Leon,” Goober said, relieved, realizing that the teacher was too much involved with the chocolates to be assessing Goober’s innocence or guilt.
“Then you accept the fifty boxes?”
“Yes,” Goober said with eagerness. Fifty boxes was a lot of chocolates but he was glad to say yes and get out of the spotlight.
Leon’s hand moved ceremoniously as he wrote down Goober’s name.
“Hartnett?”
“Yes.”
“Johnson?”
“Why not?”
Leon accepted this small hint of mockery from Johnson because he was in such a good mood. The Goober wondered whether he himself would ever be in a good mood again. And he was puzzled. Why should he be feeling so lousy about Room Nineteen? Was it the destruction? Actually, the desks and chairs had been put back together again in one day. Leon had thought he was inflicting punishment on the fellows selected to do the job but the discipline backfired. Each screw, each piece of furniture was a reminder of that marvelous event. Fellows even volunteered
for the job. Then, why this terrible guilt? Because of Brother Eugene? Probably. Whenever Goober walked by Room Nineteen now, he couldn’t resist glancing in.
The room would never be the same again, of course. The furniture creaked weirdly, as if it would collapse again without warning. The various teachers who used the room were uneasy—you could tell they were apprehensive. Once in a while, some guy would drop a book just to see the teacher flinch or leap in panic.
Immersed in his thoughts, The Goober didn’t realize that a terrible silence had enveloped the classroom. But he became aware of the stillness when he glanced up to see Brother Leon’s face, paler now than ever, and the eyes glistening like sun-splashed pools.
“Renault?”
The silence continued.
The Goober glanced toward Jerry three desks away. Jerry sat stiffly, elbows resting on the desk, staring straight ahead, as if he were in a trance.
“You
are
here, aren’t you, Renault?” Leon asked, trying to turn the moment into a joke. But his effort had the opposite effect. No one laughed.
“Last call, Renault.”
“No,” Jerry said.
The Goober wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly. Jerry had spoken so quietly, barely moving his
lips, that his answer had been indistinct even in that utter quiet.
“What?” From Leon.
“No.”
Confusion now. Someone laughed. A classroom joke was always appreciated, anything to fracture the dullness of routine.
“Did you say
no
, Renault?” Brother Leon asked, his voice testy.
“Yes.”
“Yes, what?”
The exchange delighted the classroom. A giggle from somewhere and then a snort, followed by the strange mood that took hold of a classroom when the unusual occurred, the way students sensed a difference in the climate, an alteration of atmosphere, like the seasons changing.
“Let me get this straight, Renault,” Brother Leon said and his voice brought the room under his command again. “I called your name. Your response could have been either
yes
or
no. Yes
means that like every other student in this school you agree to sell a certain amount of chocolates, in this case fifty boxes.
No
—and let me point out that the sale is strictly voluntary, Trinity forces no one to participate against his wishes, this is the great glory of Trinity
—no
means you don’t wish to sell the chocolates, that you refuse to participate. Now, what is your answer? Yes or no?”
“No.”
The Goober stared at Jerry in disbelief. Was this Jerry Renault who always looked a little worried, a little unsure of himself even after completing a beautiful pass, who always seemed kind of bewildered—was this him actually defying Brother Leon? Not only Brother Leon but a Trinity tradition? Then, looking at Leon, Goober saw the teacher as if in Technicolor, blood beating in his cheeks, his moist eyes like specimens in laboratory test tubes. Finally, Brother Leon inclined his head, the pencil moving in his hand as he made some kind of horrible mark beside Jerry’s name.