Robert Cormier - Beyond the Chocolate War

Bunting stood there with the cheerful insolence that was the hallmark of being a sophomore. Obie hated sophomores; most seniors did. Sophomores had lost the timidity of freshmen and hadn't attained the casualness of the juniors or the coolness of the seniors. Sophomores were feeling the first stirrings of arrogance, and believed that the school — and the world — existed for them alone. They barged into places nobody in his right mind would go. One example: Bunting now throwing a glance of triumph and superiority at Obie, smirking maliciously. Obie summoned a small smile to his own lips, a smile that was supposed to communicate to Bunting that he didn't give a damn who gave the report. But despite the sweetness of Laurie's presence in his life, he felt a flicker of jealousy. Not jealousy, exactly. Who could be jealous of a sophomore, for crying out loud? Hate, maybe. But not really for Bunting. A renewal of his hatred for Archie. Or was it hatred, after all? He wasn't sure. He was never sure of anything about Archie. Nobody was.

"Plans are proceeding according to schedule," Bunting sang out "Every guy has been contacted, either directly or indirectly. A lot of guys don't know what it's all about. Nobody gave us any shit, though."

"Bunting, Bunting," Archie said, chiding, like a father scolding an errant son.

"What's the matter?" Bunting asked, puzzled.

"Your language."

"What language?" Not only puzzled but uneasy now.

"That word you used."

"What word?" Voice going up half an octave.

Archie didn't reply, regarding Bunting with utter contempt.

"You mean shit ?" Bunting asked, incredulous.

Archie nodded. "You broke the rule, Bunting. You used profane language. A no-no. Taboo."

Obie shook his head in reluctant admiration. That Archie. Leave it to him. There was, of course, no rule about language. That's what was intriguing about Archie — you never knew what was coming next Obie relaxed now, prepared to enjoy the game, whatever it was, that Archie was playing with Bunting. And he also alerted himself to be on his guard, knowing that he would inevitably become a part of it.

"You mean there's a rule against swearing?" Bunting asked, his confidence rapidly deteriorating.

"That's right, Bunting. The rule — no profane language, no more swearing at Vigil meetings. No taking the name of the Lord in vain." Archie and that mocking voice. Archie shaking his head in simulated disappointment with Bunting. "Hey, Obie, how long has the rule been in effect?"

"Six days," Obie responded automatically.

"See, Bunting? You're ambitious. You want to scale the heights of the Vigils. But you missed out on a new rule."

The other two sophomores — a skinny kid with bulging eyes named Harley and a brooding, sullen kid with an acne-ravaged face called Cornacchio — sat immobilized. They had never seen Archie in action before, and they obviously felt threatened. The Vigil veterans watched the proceedings with amusement, having instantly recognized along with Obie another Archie improvisation.

"Tell Bunting why we adopted the new rule, Carter."

Carter hated this sort of thing. As president of the Vigils, he usually didn't participate in the games but enforced the rules, wielding the gavel, slamming it down on the wooden crate that served as a desk to provide exclamation points to Archie's commands. Carter didn't approve of Archie's psychological games. He liked stuff you could see, something you could hit. The tragedy of Carter's senior year was the ban on boxing imposed by Brother Leon. Carter had been captain of both the boxing team and the football squad. With the boxing team disbanded and the football season a distant memory, he was now captain of exactly nothing. His simple claim to distinction these days was his presidency of the Vigils. And as president he had to respond to Archie, play his games, shadowbox with words.

"We instituted the rule because of the need to clean up the atmosphere," Carter said, the words issuing easily and glibly. The fact that he was a boxer didn't mean he was stupid. "It's impossible to clean up the crap and junk that gets tossed out of cars. But at least we can keep the air pure of profanity."

Archie smiled at him, pleased, and Carter hated himself for responding so quickly to one of Archie's gimmicks.

"And the penalty for anyone who swears, Obie?"

"Whoever breaks the rule," Obie said, mind racing as he pondered all the possibilities, "has to stand naked for one hour at the bus stop downtown at Monument Square." He squirmed, knew instantly by Archie's dour expression that it was a rotten punishment.

"That's right," Archie said, looking at Obie with disgust. "A mild-enough punishment, Bunting, you must admit. That's because we're saving the real good stuff for the second offense. It'll be a nice surprise for whoever swears a second time."

Bunting nodded, abashed, confused, wondering what had happened, how he had become so quickly a victim instead of a perpetrator, realizing, simultaneously, Archie's power and unpredictability. A small part of his brain had also registered the antagonism developing between Archie and Obie, and he tucked it away for future reference.

"Okay," Archie said. "We'll excuse your error this time, Bunting. Next time, though, you get the penalty." His eyes swept the gathering. "That goes for everybody else. No more swearing at Vigil meetings." Again to Bunting: "Go on with your report, please."

Bunting plunged ahead without waiting for any more instructions. But he chose his words carefully.

"Like I said, it looks as if there'll be no trouble. Almost everybody has been alerted. Some of the guys are organizing parties and stuff. A bunch are going to the beaches, Hampton, some to the Cape. Other guys are hitching to Boston. We gave them the word: If you stay in town, stay out of sight. We don't give a sh — We don't care what you do. Just don't come to school, and lay low. . " Bunting couldn't resist glancing at his notebook, knowing this would get a rise out of Obie. "We expect some stragglers, but we're about ninety percent organized."

"I don't want stragglers," Archie said. Deadly, in command, the Archie who ruled the school. "I want one hundred percent."

Bunting nodded. And so did everyone else.

This latest assignment wasn't really an assignment but one of Archie's entertainments, something to break up the boredom that always settles over a school in that no-man's-land of time between spring and summer vacations, when the days seem endless and pointless, when even the teachers are caught in the lethargy and boredom of the stagnant hours. The seniors had lost interest in school and now had their sights set on the coming year; most had already been accepted at colleges. The juniors meanwhile were caught in an in-between stage, almost finished with the junior year and not officially seniors. Even the freshmen were straining a bit, tired of their role as lowly underclassmen, eager to confront the new batch of freshmen arriving in the fall. The school was not really as placid or lethargic as it seemed; there was an undercurrent of restlessness.

Sensing all of this, knowing that only the sophomores were content (but sophomores were a breed apart), Archie had responded with a perfect solution: a day off from school. But not a day arranged through subtle blackmail of Brother Leon. No, this day would have an Archie Costello sting. Every student at Trinity — and there were almost four hundred of them — would simply stay away from class on a certain designated day. They would vanish. No one would be able to find them. When the brothers, began frantically to call the various homes — absenteeism was always checked with a telephone call to the student's home — they would learn that Jimmy or Joey or Kevin or whoever had gone off to school as usual. Thus, the scheme would have a double impact: on the school, and on the homes of the students. And then Archie had gone one step further. He had learned, in advance, the date of the Bishop's visit to Trinity. The traditional annual visit always began before classes with a high mass and holy communion in the school auditorium, which was converted into a chapel for the occasion. This year, the auditorium would be without students.