Robert Cormier - Beyond the Chocolate War

He glanced out the window, saw the empty street, all grays and shadows like a scene in a black-and-white movie. A car passed, headlights probing the shadows. Nobody in those shadows. No Janza.

"He's not there. We'll probably never see him again. Get some sleep, Goob. I'll be okay. Let's wait and see what happens tomorrow." Felt the need to say more. "I appreciate your call. You're a good friend, Goob. . "

"What are friends for, right, Jerry?"

"Right. ."

After he had hung up, Jerry glanced out the window again.

And saw Janza again. Rain had started to fall, the sidewalks glistened with wetness, but Janza stood there, hands on hips, looking up, black hair plastered to his skull, ignoring the rain.

Jerry thought of the fight last fall and he thought of Trinity and he thought of the chocolates and he thought of his father, and his thoughts were like a tired caravan of images.

Most of all, he thought of Canada. Wistfully. Those beautiful moments on that frozen landscape, the wind whispering in the Talking Church. He suddenly felt homesick for a place that was not really home. Or maybe it was. Or could be.

"I'm going back to Canada," he said, speaking the words aloud to give them life and impact like a pledge that had to be spoken in order to verify its truth.

Back to Canada.

But first — Janza.

While Janza continued to stare up at the building, his short blunt figure dripping with rain, cold and dark and implacable, as if he had emerged from a block of ice.

Carter was reluctant to help.

But then Carter was reluctant about everything these days, walking around school like a zombie.

Obie needed him, however.

"I don't know," Carter said, rubbing his chin. Dark sharp bristles on his chin, cheeks. Carter hadn't shaved yet today. And probably not yesterday.

They were sitting in Obie's car in front of Carter's house. Twilight muffled the neighborhood sounds of evening.

"I thought you were all hot to start a mutiny against Archie," Obie said. "Remember when you called me about the Bishop's visit?"

"What's the Bishop's visit got to do with this?" Carter asked suspiciously.

"Nothing," Obie said, studying the athlete, his bloodshot eyes, damp, pale face. Like he was suffering a hangover or the aftermath of drugs. But Obie knew that Carter didn't do drugs, didn't want to ruin that precious physique. It was evident, however, that Carter was in turmoil. Obie felt, crazily, as if he was looking into a mirror. He didn't know what kind of demons had invaded Carter's life, but he recognized a suffering, kindred soul. "This has got nothing to do with the Bishop's visit. It's got to do with Fair Day. And Skit Night. ."

Carter raked his hand along his unshaved cheek. "What do you want me to do?" he asked, still reluctant.

"It's simple," Obie said. "I need you to create a diversion. For a minute or two." He couldn't spell out the entire scheme. Hell, Carter would head for the hills if he knew the plan.

Now it was Carter's turn to study Obie. Obie had changed in the past few weeks. Not physically, of course: he was the same scrawny kid. But something was different about him. His eyes, for instance. Carter remembered Brother Andrew in Religion describing missionaries who challenged jungles and cannibals as "God's holy men." That was Obie now, the gleam in his eyes, his intensity, his missionary zeal. Carter knew, of course, that Obie had broken up with his girl. Had heard rumors of a gang rape. He also knew that Bunting had split Archie and Obie apart Otherwise he wouldn't trust Obie at all.

"Tell me about the diversion," Carter said.

Obie told him. He required two pieces of action by Carter. The first at the Vigil meeting when the Fool would be chosen. The second during Skit Night.

"Is that all?" Carter asked.

"That's all."

"Then tell me why. Why you need these diversions."

"It's better if you don't know the details, Carter. Then you can't be blamed for anything later."

"Archie's the target, right?"

"Right."

Carter wondered if he should confide in Obie, if he could tell him about the letter to Brother Leon and the telephone call, about these terrible days and nights while he waited for Archie to take his revenge.

But Obie, he realized, was too preoccupied with his own concerns. And suddenly Carter felt a wave of optimism. Obie was taking action against Archie. And this action, whatever it was, could draw Archie's attention away from himself.

"Okay," Carter said.

Obie punched his shoulder. "Terrific," he said.

"Details," Carter ordered.

"Later. But I'll tell you this much. Archie Costello will never be the same again."

"Good," Carter said, slapping his hand against the dashboard, the sound like a gunshot in the car.

"Unfinished business," Obie said, flipping through his notebook, using it as a prop in order to avoid looking Archie in the eye.

"The Fool, right?" Archie asked, running his hand over the hood of his car, flicking a speck of dust off the gleaming metal.

"Right," Obie said.

"And the guillotine," Archie added, studying his car with a critical eye. He disliked dust and dirt, kept the car properly polished and shining all the time. "Frankly, Obie, it doesn't excite me. . "

But then nothing ever excited Archie.

Obie was prepared for that reaction but could not show too much eagerness.

"I've got a few ideas," Obie said.

"What ideas?" Having concluded his inspection of the car, Archie leaned against it now as he fumbled in his pocket for a Hershey.

Obie told him, spelled it all out in detail, as much detail as he dared to risk, knowing Archie would want to provide the final finishing touches. Which he did, of course.

"You surprise me, Obie," Archie said as he opened the car and slid easily behind the wheel. "You're developing a devious mind."

"I learned it all from you, Archie."

But Archie had already roared away, leaving Obie in a cloud of blue exhaust.

As Carter turned into the main corridor, a book slid from the bunch he was carrying and dropped to the floor. The others also spilled out of his hands. Sheepishly, he bent to pick them up. Disgusted with himself, he pondered the possibility that he was losing his coordination along with everything else.

A commotion farther along the corridor caught his attention. A group of guys had gathered at the trophy case across from Brother Leon's office. Marty Heller, pimple-faced, greasy-haired, called down the corridor: "Hey, Carter, take a gander at this. . "

Carter hurried toward the cluster of students, curious about what he would encounter at the trophy case. His case, because most of the trophies in it had been won through his efforts.

Marty Heller stepped back and swept the other kids aside. "Look," he said.

Carter looked. Aware that the other guys were not looking at the trophy case but at him as he looked.

It was a trophy case no longer. A trophy case has trophies and this case no longer had any. It was empty. But not really empty. On the middle shelf stood a small porcelain ashtray, the land purchased in a joke shop or trick store. The ashtray was in the shape of a toilet.

"Who the hell would steal the trophies?" Marty Heller asked in his squeaky off-key voice. His voice had been changing for three years now, was still totally unpredictable.

"They're not stolen," somebody said, a voice Carter did not recognize, probably a Vigil plant, courtesy of Archie Costello.

Stunned silence then, but a silence filled with the knowledge of what the voice meant. There was only one alternative to the theft of the trophies. The Vigils. And everybody knew that.

"Jeez," Marty Heller said, "Brother Leon'll go ape when he finds out. . "

But Brother Leon did not go ape. Because he never found out. He was away for the day at a conference of headmasters and school principals in Worcester. By the time he returned the next day, the trophies were mysteriously back in place, the small toilet gone.