Robert Cormier - Beyond the Chocolate War

Marty Heller confronted Carter before the bell rang the next morning. "What the hell's going on?" he asked.

"I don't know," Carter told him, hurrying on his way.

But he did know, of course. The knowledge had kept him awake most of the night. And had given him nightmares when he slept.

The cafeteria. First lunch period. A group of guys huddled around the table nearest the entrance to the kitchen. They were staring so intently at a hidden object on the table that everyone else felt it must be a pornographic magazine, something dirty.

Richard Rondell stumbled away from the table in utter disgust. He had in fact expected to see a beautiful dirty picture when he made his way into the group — Rondell was the raunchiest guy in the senior class, with only one thing on his mind — and he was angered to learn what all the excitement was about. Newspaper headlines, for crying out loud.

STUDENT BEHEADED IN MAGIC ACT

And below, in smaller type:

AMATEUR MAGICIAN

GETS PROBATION

The dipping was frayed and wrinkled, edges tattered, obviously ripped from a newspaper. Obie handled it delicately as he held it up for display. He had chosen this moment carefully, making certain that Bannister had been assigned to the second lunch period. The clipping needed only a minimum amount of exposure. Only a few students had to see it. But Obie knew the outcome. The word would be carried to all reaches of the school, exaggerated and embellished probably, racing from student to student, class to class.

By the time the last bell had sounded and everyone headed home or to afternoon jobs, the effect of the newspaper story was firmly established. Now everyone thought that Ray Bannister was a killer.

With a guillotine.

Nobody knew yet that Ray Bannister and the guillotine would become the highlight of Skit Night.

Nobody but Archie Costello and Obie, who'd had the fake newspaper made to order at the magic store in Worcester.

The command came to David Carom from the piano in the parlor as he went down the stairs on his way to take a walk. He had taken a lot of walks in recent days. Had to get out of the house. Away from prying eyes.

The command was earsplitting, a chord played off-key, followed by another, as if a maniac were in the parlor playing madly away at a song no one could recognize.

Except David Caroni.

He walked to the kitchen, through the dining room, drawn by the sound of the broken music. The French doors had been thrown open. His mother, her hair hidden in the white cap she wore when she charged into her spring housecleaning, an event that shook up the entire routine of the Caroni household for at least a month, was dusting the keyboard with a white cloth. David stood transfixed, surprised but somewhat pleased that his mother was the medium through which he would receive the message. He had been waiting for so long. For the sign, the signal, the command, the order. Knowing that it must come and trying to be patient. And now it was here.

He listened, silent, still. His mother, unaware of his presence, continued to produce the discordant music that was telling David what he must do.

David listened, smiling. Listened to what he must do and how he must do it and when it must be done.

At last.

Bunting caught up to Archie at his locker, timing it beautifully, waiting until most everyone else had left the vicinity.

"Hi, Archie," Bunting said, a bit breathless and not sure why.

"What do you say, Bunting?" Archie was arranging his textbooks on the shelf of the locker. Bunting realized that he had never seen Archie Costello carrying books out of the building. Didn't Archie ever do homework?

In Archie's presence, he abandoned all his preconceived notions and the conversation he had been rehearsing in his mind.

"Know what gets me, Archie?" he asked instead, going in a direction he hadn't intended.

"What gets you, Bunting?"

"If I didn't come to find you, you'd never come to find me."

"That's right, Bunting." Archie continued to shuffle his books around on the shelf.

"Suppose I stopped coming around?"

"Then you'd just stop coming around."

Bunting wanted to say: Look at me, will you? Instead: "Wouldn't you want to find out why?"

"Not particularly. It's a free country, Bunting. You can come and go as you please." Archie had opened a book, looked through the pages, speaking absently as if his mind were on more important matters.

Dismayed, Bunting said: "But I thought—" And paused, wondering how he could say what he wanted to say delicately, diplomatically.

"Thought what?"

"I thought, you know, next year. ." And let the sentence dribble away. Archie sometimes made him feel like he was still in the fourth grade, for crissakes.

"Next year?"

Bunting knew that Archie was making him spell it out. He knew he should just walk away, tell Archie Screw you and split. But knew he couldn't There was too much at stake.

"Yes, next year. Making me, like, the Assigner. You know. After you graduate."

Archie replaced the first book on the locker shelf and took down another. A math book, spanking new, it looked as if it had never been opened.

"You are going to be the Assigner, Bunting."

"What did you say?" Bunting asked, blinking.

"I said, Bunting, that you are going to be the Assigner next year."

"Oh." He had a desire to leap and shout, go bounding down the corridor, but maintained his cool. Let the "oh" echo. Had to play it smart. The way Archie always played it. "Don't the Vigils have to vote on it or something?" Bunting said, knowing he had blundered as soon as the words were out of his mouth. Asking that question was definitely not playing it cool.

Archie looked at him for the first time, a pained expression on his face.

"Don't you take my word for it, Bunting?"

"Sure, sure," Bunting said hurriedly. "I just thought—"

"There you go, thinking again, Bunting," Archie said, turning back to the locker, taking down another textbook, looking at it as if he'd never seen it before. "There's one condition, however."

"Name it," Bunting said.

"You'll need an assistant A strong right arm, right?"

"Right," Bunting snapped.

"I know you've got your stooges. Cornacchio and Harley. Keep them around, if you want. But your right arm will be Janza. Emile Janza. ."

"Janza?" Trying not to betray his dismay. Dismay? Hell, disgust. Complete disgust.

"Emile will serve you well. He's an animal, but animals come in handy if they're trained right."

"Right," Bunting said, but thinking: When you're gone, Archie, I'll be boss and I'll choose my own right arms.

"Bunting," Archie said, looking up again, looking at him with those cool blue appraising eyes. "I'll be telling Emile about it. Emile Janza will be looking forward to his job as your assistant. And Emile doesn't like to be disappointed. He's very unpredictable and gets very physical when he's disappointed. Never disappoint Emile Janza, Bunting."

"I won't," Bunting said, trying to swallow and finding it difficult, his throat dry and parched.

"Good," Archie said, studying the book in his hand, turned away from Bunting now.

Bunting stood there, not knowing what else to say. Wanting to ask a million questions about the duties of the Assigner, but not quite sure how to proceed. And afraid to ask another dumb question.

Archie looked up, surprised. "You still here, Bunting?"

"Oh, no," he said, which was stupid. "I'm leaving. I'm just leaving. . "

Archie smiled, a smile as cold as frost on a winter window. "We'll go into details later, Bunting. Okay?"

"Sure," Bunting said, "sure, Archie."

And got out of there as fast as he could, not wanting to risk screwing up the biggest thing — despite Emile Janza — that had ever happened in his life.