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THE CHOCOLATE WAR EBOOK

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[New York, New York]: Random House Children's Books, A high school freshman discovers the devastating consequences of refusing to join in the school's annual fund raising drive and arousing the wrath of the school bullies. Add tags for "The chocolate war". ______ __ THE CHOCOLATE WAR ROBET CORMIER ______ This one's for my son, Peter. With love. __________CHAPTER ON. Editorial Reviews. nissart.info Review. Does Jerry Renault dare to disturb the universe? You wouldn't think that his refusal to sell chocolates during his.


The Chocolate War Ebook

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Read "The Chocolate War" by Robert Cormier available from Rakuten Kobo. Sign up today and get $5 off your first download. One of the most. One of the most controversial YA novels of all time, The Chocolate War is a modern masterpiece that speaks to fans of S. E. Hinton's The I picked this up from the library's ebook service and was quite surprised to see that it. When Jerry refuses to be bullied into selling chocolates, he becomes a hero, but his I picked this up from the library's ebook service and was quite surprised to.

Robert Cormier Publisher: Random House Children's Books, Chocolate war series , bk.

Secondary senior high school: English View all editions and formats Summary: A high school freshman discovers the devastating consequences of refusing to join in the school's annual fund raising drive and arousing the wrath of the school bullies. Click here for access and availability Click for more information Click for more information Click for more information Click for more information Click for more information Click for more information Click for more information Click for more information Click for more information Click for more information 3M Cloud Library Check Cloud Library for availibility.

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Reviews User-contributed reviews Add a review and share your thoughts with other readers. Be the first. Add a review and share your thoughts with other readers. Similar Items Related Subjects: Gangs -- Juvenile fiction. Peer pressure -- Juvenile fiction. Fund raising -- Juvenile fiction.

High schools -- Juvenile fiction. High schools -- Fiction. Fund raising -- Fiction. Gangs -- Fiction. Peer Pressure Fund raising. High schools. Peer pressure. Preparatory school students. Linked Data More info about Linked Data. Primary Entity http: Book , schema: CreativeWork , schema: This malformed URI has been treated as a string - 'http: Intangible ;. Click here for access and availability " ;. InformationResource , genont: Home About Help Search.

All rights reserved. Privacy Policy Terms and Conditions. Remember me on this computer. Cancel Forgot your password? The chocolates, for instance, were good for a dozen assignments. Obie looked down at the field where the guys were skirmishing in the shadow of the goal posts. Sadness seized him. I should have gone out for football, he thought.

He had wanted to he'd been hot stuff with Pop Warner at St. Instead, he had ended up as Secretary of The Vigils.

But, hell, he couldn't even tell his parents about it.

The chocolate war

The shadows of the goal posts definitely resembled a network of crosses, empty crucifixes. That's enough symbolism for one day, Obie told himself. If he hurried he could make the four o'clock bus to work. Desire weakened his stomach. A waterfall of blond hair splashed on her bare shoulders. He studied the photograph surreptitiously and then closed the magazine and put it back where it belonged, on the top shelf. He glanced around to see if he'd been observed. But the owner was busy at the far end of the place.

Why did he always feel so guilty whenever he looked at Playboy and the other magazines? A lot of guys bought them, passed them around at school, hid them in the covers of notebooks, even resold them. He sometimes saw copies scattered casually on coffee tables in the homes of his friends. He had once bought a girlie magazine, paying for it with trembling fingers a dollar and a quarter, his finances shot down in flames until his next allowance.

And he didn't know what to do with the damn thing once it was in his possession. Sneaking it home on the bus, hiding it in the bottom drawer of his room, he was terrified of discovery.

Finally, tired of smuggling it into the bathroom for swift perusals, and weary of his deceit, and haunted by the fear that his mother would find the magazine, Jerry had sneaked it out of the house and dropped it into a catchbasin. He listened to it splash dismally below, bidding a wistful farewell to the squandered buck and a quarter. A longing filled him: Would a girl ever love him?

The one devastating sorrow he carried within him was the fear that he would die before holding a girl's breast in his hand. Out at the bus stop, Jerry leaned against a telephone pole, body weary, echoing the assault of the football practices.

For three days his body had absorbed punishment. But he was still on the roster, luckily. Idly, he watched the people on the Common across the street. He saw them every day. Flower Children. Street People. Everybody had a different name for them. They came out in the spring and stayed until October, hanging around, calling taunts to passersby occasionally but most of the time quiet, languid and peaceful.

He was fascinated by them and sometimes envied their old clothes, their sloppiness, the way they didn't seem to give a damn about anything. Trinity was one of the last schools to retain a dress code shirt and tie.

He watched a cloud of smoke swirl around a girl in a floppy hat. He didn't know. A lot of things he didn't know. Absorbed in his thoughts, he didn't notice that one of the street people had detached himself from the others and was crossing the street, dodging cars deftly. Standing here and staring. He didn't think anybody said man any more except as a joke. But this guy wasn't joking.

That why you stare? Look, I don't stare. You stand here and look at us. With your homework books and your nice shirt and your blue-and-white tie. He confronted only strangers, nobody from school. You are. Going to school every day. And back home on the bus. And do your homework. Middle-aged at fourteen, fifteen. Already caught in a routine. Jerry swung away from the guy. You're missing a lot of things in the world, better not miss that bus" Jerry walked to the bus like a sleepwalker.

He hated confrontations. His heart hammered. He climbed aboard, dropped his token in the coin box and lurched to his seat as the bus moved away from the curb. He sat down, breathed deeply, closed his eyes. Go get your bus, square boy. He opened his eyes and slitted them against the invasion of the sun through the window.

The Chocolate War - eBook

You're missing a lot of things in the world, better not miss that bus. A big put-on, of course. That was their specialty, people like that.

Putting people on. Nothing else to do with their lives, piddling away their lives. And yet Yet, what? He thought of his life going to school and coming home. Even though his tie was loose, dangling on his shirt, he yanked it off. He looked up at the advertising placards above the windows, wanting to turn his thoughts away from the confrontation.

Why not? Jerry closed his eyes, exhausted suddenly, and it seemed like too much of an effort even to think. He usually didn't blow his cool that easily, particularly with someone like Brother Leon.

But the image of twenty thousand boxes of chocolates being delivered here to Trinity was ridiculous. Then he saw the mustache of moistness on Brother Leon's upper lip, the watery eyes and the dampness on his forehead. Something clicked. This wasn't the calm and deadly Leon who could hold a class in the palm of his hand.

This was someone riddled with cracks and crevices. Archie became absolutely still, afraid that the rapid beating of his heart might betray his sudden knowledge, the proof of what he'd always suspected, not only of Brother Leon but most grownups, most adults: A smart one, Leon, hard to pin down. Even though he was sweating like a madman, his voice remained calm, reasoned. The chocolate sale is an annual event. The boys have come to expect it.

If they can sell ten thousand boxes of chocolates in other years, why not twenty thousand this year? And these are special chocolates, Archie.

High profit. A special deal. He was here in Leon's office by special invitation. Let Leon talk to the real Archie, not the kid who sat in his algebra class.

We were that is, I was able to pick them up at a bargain price. Beautiful boxes, gift boxes, and in perfect condition. They've been stored under the best of conditions since last spring. All we have to do is remove the purple ribbons that say Mother and we're in business. We can sell them for two dollars a box and make a profit of almost a dollar on each one. That means everybody's got to sell fifty boxes. Usually, the guys have a quota of twenty-five boxes each to sell and the price is a dollar.

That's a lot of selling for this school, Brother Leon. For any school. But Trinity is special, isn't it? If I didn't think the boys of Trinity could do it, do you think I would take a risk? Aren't we capable of what others aren't? He had never been particularly friendly with Leon or any other Trinity teacher. And Leon was a special breed. On the surface, he was one of those pale, ingratiating kind of men who tiptoed through life on small, quick feet. He looked like a henpecked husband, a pushover, a sucker.

He was the Assistant Headmaster of the school but actually served as a flunky for the Head. Like an errand boy. But all this was deceptive. In the classroom, Leon was another person altogether. Smirking, sarcastic. His thin, high voice venomous. He could hold your attention like a cobra. Instead of fangs, he used his teacher's pointer, flicking out here, there, everywhere. He watched the class like a hawk, suspicious, searching out cheaters or daydreamers, probing for weaknesses in the students and then exploiting those weaknesses.

He had never takes an Archie. Not yet. Many are closing down. Prices are going up and we have only so many sources of income. As you know, Archie, we're not one of those exclusive boarding schools. And we don't have any wealthy alumni to draw on.

We're a day school, dedicated to preparing young men from middle class homes for college. There are no rich men's sons here.

Take yourself, for instance. Your father operates an insurance agency. He makes a good salary but he's hardly wealthy, is he?

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Take Tommy Desjardins. His father's a dentist--very well off, they have two cars, a summer home and that's about tops for the parents of Trinity boys. It irritated him when grownups resorted to student language like put down. We have to find revenue wherever possible. Football barely pays for itself we haven't had a winning season for three years.

The interest in boxing has fallen off now that television doesn't feature boxing anymore The school was hushed around them, so hushed that Archie wondered whether the office was soundproof. Classes were over for the day, of 12 course, but that was the time when a lot of other action got started. Particularly Vigil action.

He's scheduled to enter the hospital tomorrow. Tests and things. The outlook isn't good Was he going to make a ridiculous pitch for the chocolate sale to be a success in honor of the sick Headmaster? The school will be my responsibility. But this time Archie felt a waiting in the silence. He had a feeling that Leon was about to make his point. He knew now why he was here.

Leon didn't mean Archie's help he meant the help of The Vigils. And didn't dare put in into words. No one was allowed to breathe a word about The Vigils.

Officially, The Vigils did not exist. How could a school condone an organization like The Vigils? The school allowed it to function by ignoring it completely, pretending it wasn't there. But it was there, all right, Archie thought bitterly.

It was there because it served a purpose. The Vigils kept things under control. Without The Vigils, Trinity might have been torn apart like other schools had been, by demonstrations, protests, all that crap.

Archie was surprised by Leon's audacity, knowing his connection with The Vigils and bringing him in here this way. As you said, Archie twenty thousand boxes, that's a lot of chocolates. The school always gives the boys a bonus. A day off from school when every chocolate has been sold.

Last year we were taken to Boston to a stage show. Archie let the silence stretch. Archie decided to plunge. To see how far he could go. I'm just one guy. He was cool. In command.

Let Leon sweat. Archie was sweet and cool. I'm not a member of the Student Council. The beads of perspiration still danced on his forehead but he had become stiff and cold. Archie could feel the coldness more than cold, an icy hate coming across the desk like a deadly ray from some bleak and lethal planet. Have I gone too far, he wondered. I've got this guy for algebra, my weakest subject. Their eyes met, held.

A showdown now? At this moment? Would that be the smart thing to do? Archie believed in always doing the smart thing. Not the thing you ached to do, not the impulsive act, but the thing that would pay off later. That's why he was The Assigner. That's why The Vigils depended on him. Hell, The Vigils were the school.

And he, Archie Costello, was The Vigils. That's why Leon had called him here, that's why Leon was practically begging for his help. Archie suddenly had a terrific craving for a Hershey. Leon could be like money in the bank, for future use. And it hung. Leon didn't pick it up. Neither did Archie. They looked at each other for a long moment. He had never been able to use those words The Vigils aloud to a teacher, had had to deny the existence of the organization for so long that it was beautiful to use them, to see the surprise on Leon's pale perspiring face.

Then he pushed back his chair and left the office without waiting for the teacher's dismissal. Yes, what? But the kid Goubert stammered and then said, "Yes, sir. Despite his height, he was easily six one, he reminded Archie of a child, someone who didn't belong here, as if he'd been caught sneaking into an Adults Only movie.

He was too skinny, of course. And he had the look of a loser. Vigil bait. Archie was always puzzled about whatever there was inside of him that enjoyed these performances toying with kids, leading them on, humiliating them, finally.

He'd earned the job of Assigner because. But something more than that, something nobody could find words to describe. Archie knew what it was and recognized it, although it eluded a definition. One night while watching an old Marx Brothers movie on the Late Show, he was held entranced by a scene where the brothers were searching for a missing painting. Groucho said, "We'll search every room in the house. That's what Archie did built the house nobody could anticipate a need for, except himself, a house that was invisible to everyone else.

He always treated them with tenderness, as if a bond existed between them. Someone snickered. Archie stiffened, shot a look at Carter, a withering look that said, tell them to cut the crap. Carter snapped his fingers, which sounded in the quiet storage room like the banging of a gavel. The Vigils were grouped as usual in a circle around Archie and the kid receiving the assignment.

The small room behind the gym was windowless with only one door leading to the gymnasium itself: The silence was deafening after the snap of Carter's fingers. Nobody fooled around with Carter. Carter was the president of The Vigils because the president was always a football player the muscle someone like Archie needed. But 15 everyone knew that the head of The Vigils was The Assigner, Archie Costello, who was always one step ahead of them all.

The Goober looked frightened. He was one of those kids who always wanted to please everybody. The guy who never got the girl but worshipped her in secret while the big shot hero rode off in the sunset with her in the end. Archie let it gather. He could feel a heightening of interest in the room. It always happened this way when an assignment was about to be given. He knew what they were thinking what's Archie come up with this time?

Sometimes Archie resented them. The members of The Vigils did nothing but enforce the rules. Carter was muscle and Obie an errand boy. Archie alone was always under pressure, devising the assignments, working them out. As if he was some kind of machine. Press a button: What did they know about the agonies of it all? The nights he tossed and turned?

The times he felt used up, empty? And yet he couldn't deny that he exulted in moments like this, the guys leaning forward in anticipation, the mystery that surrounded them all, the kid Goober white-faced and frightened, the place so quiet you could almost hear your own heartbeat. And all eyes on him: My father. He has a tool chest. Know what they use screwdrivers for, Goober? I mean, to put screws into things. And Archie let it pass.

A relief to the tension. Not really lousy, though. Great; in fact. Beautiful, in fact.

Worth all the sweat. Room nineteen. Second floor. Afternoon, evening, all night, if necessary. The brothers, most of them, the ones who count, will be off to a conference at Provincial headquarters in Maine. The janitor is taking a day off. There'll be no one in the building after three in the afternoon. No one but you, Goober. You and your screwdriver. The chairs, the desks, the blackboards.

Now, with your little screwdriver--maybe you'd better bring along various and assorted sizes, just in case you start to loosen. Don't take out the screws. Just loosen them until they reach that point where they're almost ready to fall out, everything hanging there by a thread Then, others joined in the laughter as they envisioned the result of the assignment.

Archie let himself be caressed by the laughter of admiration, knowing that he'd scored again. They were always waiting for him to fail, to fall flat on his face, but he'd scored once more. There's a lot of desks and chairs in there. We guarantee you won't be disturbed. The Goober nodded, accepting the assignment like a sentence of doom, the way all the others did, knowing there was no way out, no reprieve, no appeal.

The law of The Vigils was final, everyone at Trinity knew that. Somebody whispered, "Wow. But a different kind of tension. Tension with teeth in it. For Archie. He braced himself. Reaching under the abandoned teacher's desk he sat behind as presiding officer, Carter pulled out a small black box.

He shook it and the sound of marbles could be heard clicking together inside. Obie came forward, holding a key in his hand.

Was that a smile on Obie's face? Archie couldn't be sure. He wondered, does Obie really hate me? Do they all hate me? Not that it mattered. Not while Archie held the power. He would conquer all, even the black box. Carter took the key from Obie and held it up. The black box was his nemesis. It contained six marbles: It was an ingenious idea thought up by someone long before Archie's time, someone who was wise enough or a bastard enough to realize that an assigner could go off the deep end if there wasn't some kind of control.

The box provided the control. After every assignment, it was presented to Archie. If Archie drew a white marble, the assignment stood as ordered. If Archie drew the black marble, it would be necessary for Archie himself to carry out the assignment, to perform the duty he had assigned for others.

He had beaten the black box for three years could he do it again? Or was his luck running out? Would the law of averages catch up to him? A tremor ran along his arm as he extended his hand toward the box. He hoped no one had noticed. Reaching inside, he grabbed a marble, concealed it in the palm of his hand.

He withdrew his hand, held the arm straight out, calmly now, without shiver or tremor. He opened his hand. The marble was white. The corner of Archie's mouth twitched as the tension of his body relaxed. He had beaten them again. He had won again. I am Archie. I cannot lose. Carter snapped his fingers and the meeting began to break up. Suddenly, Archie felt empty, used up, discarded. He looked at the kid Goober who stood there in bewilderment, looking as if he were going to cry.

Archie almost felt sorry for the kid. But not quite. Jerry knew the symptoms--all the guys knew them. Most of them were freshmen and had been in Leon's class only a month or so but the teacher's pattern had already emerged. First, Leon gave them a reading assignment.

Then he'd pace up and down, up and down, restless, sighing, wandering through the aisles, the blackboard pointer poised in his hand, the pointer he used either like a conductor's baton or a musketeer's sword.

He'd use the tip to push around a book on a desk or to flick a kid's necktie, scratching gently down some guy's back, poking the pointer as if he were a rubbish collector picking his way through the debris of the classroom. One day, the pointer had rested on Jerry's head for a moment, and then passed on. Unaccountably, Jerry had shivered, as if he had just escaped some terrible fate.

Now, aware of Leon prowling ceaselessly around the classroom, Jerry kept his eyes on paper although he didn't feel like reading. Two more periods. He looked forward to football practice.

After days of calisthenics, the coach had said that probably he'd let them use the ball this afternoon. Using words like crap and bull and slipping in a few damns and hells once in a while.

Actually, he did shock. Maybe because the words were so startling as they issued from this pale and inoffensive looking little man. Later on, you found out that he wasn't inoffensive, of course. Now, everyone looked up at Leon as that word crap echoed in the room. Ten minutes left time enough for Leon to perform, to play one of his games.

The class looked at him in a kind of horrible fascination. The brother's glance went slowly around the room, like the ray of a lighthouse sweeping a familiar coast, searching for hidden defects.

Jerry felt a sense of dread and anticipation, both at the same time. Bailey went quietly to the front of the room. Jerry could see a vein throbbing in the boy's temple. A line must be drawn between teachers and students. We teachers would love to be one of the boys, of course. But that line of separation must remain. An invisible line, perhaps, but still there. You 19 see its handiwork, bending the trees, stirring the leaves The boy leaped backward in pain and surprise.

Had it been an accident? Or another of Leon's little cruelties? Now all eyes were on the stricken Bailey. Brother Leon studied him, looking at him as if he were a specimen under a microscope, as if the specimen contained the germ of some deadly disease.

You had to hand it to Leon he was a superb actor. He loved to read short stories aloud, taking all the parts, providing all the sound effects. Nobody yawned or fell asleep in Leon's class. You had to be alert every minute, just as everyone was alert now, looking at Bailey, wondering what Leon's next move would be. Under Leon's steady gaze, Bailey had stopped stroking his cheek, even though a pink welt had appeared, like an evil stain spreading on his flesh. Somehow, the tables were turned.

Now it seemed as if Bailey had been at fault all along, that Bailey had committed an error, had stood in the wrong place at the wrong time and had caused his own misfortune. Jerry squirmed in his chair. Leon gave him the creeps, the way he could change the atmosphere in a room without even speaking a word.

But not looking at Bailey, looking at the class as if they were all in on a joke that Bailey knew nothing about. As if the class and Leon were banded together in a secret conspiracy. A pause. The noise comes after the flash, after the silence. That's the kind of silence that blazed in the classroom now.

Bailey stood speechless, his mouth an open wound. Bailey shook his head frantically. Jerry felt his own head shaking, joining Bailey in silent denial. Your marks all A's, no less. Every test, every paper, every homework assignment. Only a genius is capable of that sort of performance. Do you claim to be a genius, Bailey? And it came. They laughed. Hey, what's going on here, Jerry wondered even as he laughed with them. Because Bailey did somehow look like a genius or at least a caricature of the mad scientists in old movies.

Bailey stood alone at the front of the class, as if he was facing a firing squad. Jerry felt his cheeks getting warm, throbbing with the warmth. All those A's that implies perfection. Is that the answer, Bailey?

And his lungs burned. He realized he'd been holding his breath. He gulped air, carefully, not wanting to move a muscle.

He wished he was invisible. He wished he wasn't here in the classroom. He wanted to be out on the football field, fading back, looking for a receiver. The class was utterly silent.

Jerry could hear the hum of the electric clock he'd never realized before that electric clocks hummed. And, of course, you're not. He could taste the hate in his 21 stomach it was acid, foul, burning.

And a liar. You rat, Jerry thought. You bastard. A voice boomed from the rear of the classroom. The bell rang, ending the period. Feet scuffled as the boys pushed back their chairs, preparing to leave, to get out of that terrible place.

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Softly but heard by everyone. Brother Leon regarded them pityingly, shaking his head, a sad and dismal smile on his lips. Do you know who's the best one here? The bravest of all?

He denied cheating. He stood up to my accusations. He stood his ground! But you, gentlemen, you sat there and enjoyed yourselves. And those of you who didn't enjoy yourselves allowed it to happen, allowed me to proceed. You turned this classroom into Nazi Germany for a few moments.

Yes, yes, someone finally protested. Aw, let the kid alone. Leon ignored the noise. He turned to Bailey, touched the top of his head with the pointer as if he were bestowing knighthood.

I'm proud of you. You passed the biggest test of all you were true to yourself. He gestured toward the class he was a great one for gestures. They're the cheaters. They cheated you today.

They're the ones who doubted you I never did. The amusement was there because it was obvious what Emile Janza was doing he was siphoning gas from a car, watching it flow into a glass jug. Emile giggled. He, too, was amused that Archie should have discovered him performing such an act.

The car, parked at the far end of the school's parking lot, belonged to a senior by the name of Carlson. Emile didn't bother to reply. He grinned knowingly at Archie. Carlson wouldn't do anything about it at all. He was a thin, mild kid who hated getting involved in messes. Not too many people defied Emile Janza, anyway, whether they were fat or skinny, mild or not.

Emile was a brute which was kind of funny because he didn't look like a brute. He wasn't big or overly strong. In fact, he was small for a tackle on the football team.

But he was an animal and he didn't play by the rules. Not if he could help it. His small eyes were imbedded in pale flesh, eyes that seldom smiled despite the giggle and the grin that sometimes flashed across his face, especially when he knew he was reaching people.

That's what Emile Janza called it reaching people. Like whistling softly in class so that it got on the teacher's nerves, a barely perceptible whistle that could drive a teacher up the wall.

That's why Emile Janza reversed the usual process. Wise guys usually sat in back. Emile didn't. He chose seats near the front where he'd be in better position to harass the teacher. Whistling, grunting, belching, tapping his foot, stirring restlessly, sniffling. Hell, if you did that kind of stuff from the back of the room the teacher wouldn't notice. But Emile didn't harass only teachers. He found that the world was full of willing victims, especially kids his own age. He had discovered a truth early in life--in the fourth grade, in fact.

Nobody wanted trouble, nobody wanted to make trouble, nobody wanted a showdown. The knowledge was a revelation. It opened doors. You could take a kid's lunch or even his lunch money and nothing usually happened because most kids wanted peace at any price. Of course, you have to choose your victims carefully because there were exceptions. Those who protested found that it was easier to let Emile have his way. Who wanted to get hurt?

Later, Emile stumbled upon another truth, although it was hard to put into words. He found that people had a fear of being embarrassed or humiliated, of being singled out for special attention.

Like in a bus. You could call out to a kid, especially one who blushes easily, and say, "Jeez, you got bad breath, know that? Don't you ever brush your teeth? What a dirty thing to do. Stuff like that in the cafeteria, during lunch, in study class: But it was better in public places, with strabgers nearby, especially girls.

That's when the kids squirmed. As a result, people went around being extra nice to Emile Janza.

And Emile basked in that treatment. Emile was not stupid but he was not exactly bright in class. However, he managed to squeak by no F's, only a couple of D's, all of which satisfied his father whom Emile regarded as stupid and whose major dream was to have his son graduate from a fancy private school like Trinity.

His father didn't know how cruddy the place was. He was never sure whether Archie Costello was serious or not. Emile never fooled around with Archie. In fact, Archie was one of the few people in the world Emile respected. Maybe even feared. Archie and The Vigils. Who else would siphon gas in the middle of the day? Out in the open like this? He wished he could share with Archie some of the other stuff. But he couldn't. Somehow, it was too private but often he wanted to tell people about it.

How he got a kick out of things. For instance, when he went to the john at school, he seldom flushed the toilet and got a kick out of picturing the next kid who'd go in and find the mess in the bowl.

And if you told anybody, it would be hard to explain. Like how he sometimes felt actually horny when he roughhoused a kid or tackled a guy viciously in football and gave him an extra jab when he had him on the ground. How could you tell anybody about that? And yet he felt that Archie would understand.

Birds of a feather, that was it. Despite that picture. The picture that haunted his life. Archie began to walk away. How about the picture? Actually, Archie hated people like Janza even though he could admire their handiwork.

People like Janza were animals. But they came in handy. Janza and the picture like money in the bank. Emile Janza watched the departing figure of Archie Costello. Someday, he'd be like Archie cool, a member of The Vigils.

Emile kicked at the rear tire of Carlson's car. Somehow he was disappointed that Carlson hadn't caught him siphoning the gas. His long arms and legs moved flowingly and flawlessly, his body floating as if his feet weren't touching the ground.

When he ran, he forgot about his acne and his awkwardness and the shyness that paralyzed him when a girl looked his way. Even his thoughts became sharper, and 24 things were simple and uncomplicated he could solve math problems when he ran or memorize football play patterns. Often he rose early in the morning, before anyone else, and poured himself liquid through the sunrise streets, and everything seemed beautiful, everything in its proper orbit, nothing impossible, the entire world attainable.

When he ran, he even loved the pain, the hurt of the running, the burning in his lungs and the spasms that sometimes gripped his calves. He loved it because he knew he could endure the pain, and even go beyond it. He had never pushed himself to the limit but he felt all this reserve strength inside of him: And it sang in him as he ran, his heart pumping blood joyfully through his body.

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He'd gone out for football and there was a good feeling when he caught one of Jerry Renault's passes and outran everybody for a score.

But it was the running he loved. The neighbors would see him waterfalling down High Street, carried by the momentum of his speed, and they'd cry out, "Going for the Olympics, Goob? But he wasn't running now. He was in Brother Eugene's homeroom and he was terrified. He was fifteen years old and six-one-and-a-half and too old to cry but tears blurred his vision, as if the room was under water.

He was ashamed and disgusted with himself but he couldn't help it. The tears were from frustration as well as terror. And the terror was different from any other kind he'd ever known: Like waking up from a bad dream in which a monster was gaining on you and breathing a sigh of relief as you realized you were safe in your bed and then looking toward the moonlit doorway and seeing the monster stalking toward your bed.

And knowing you'd stumbled from one nightmare into another and how do you find your way back to the real world? He knew that he was in the real world at this moment, of course. Everything was real enough. The screwdrivers and the pliers were real. So were the desks and chairs and the blackboards.Lois Lowry.

Francis lost most of his face when he fell on a grenade in France. But the kid Goubert stammered and then said, "Yes, sir. The coach lumbered toward them, still scowling. Stephen Chbosky. But I went with three, because the writing is mostly solid and great in spots.

Item s unavailable for download. The second play called for a pass. Hell, it wasn't his funeral. It opened doors.