by Beth Goobie
Straightening in his burgundy throne, Willis’s demeanor changed. “Okay, listen up, folks. Wroblewski and McCormick are dropping by in five to give us the rundown on our prospective duties. Everyone tighten your asses. Fake respectable.” His glance trailed across Sal as if he’d forgotten her presence. “Victim dismissed,” he said. “When we want you, you’ll know.”
She stumbled to her feet, muscles stiff from gripping panic in one position for so long. Ellen Petric snickered and the circle parted, defining her escape route. At the door she fumbled for the knob, breath locked in her lungs until she reached the hallway, until she was free.
“One more thing,” said Willis, as her hand tightened on the doorknob. “Shadow business is dead secret. No one outside hears about it. Ever.”
She felt the leash about her throat, tightening like the silence in the room. Then someone coughed, the doorknob turned, and she was stepping into a hallway that echoed with a long, indifferent emptiness.
Chapter Five
When she walked into English, she knew the word was out. Her first class after lunch had been Music — there’d been the usual grimaces and sideways glances as instruments squeaked and lips grew puffy and raw, but nothing conspicuous, nothing that loomed out of people’s eyes and said they knew. Now, as Sal walked into English, the clue was the sudden silence that followed her across the room, a force field turning faces down and away as she blundered along the aisle toward her desk. Collapsing into her seat, she banged a thigh and felt again the absence of pain, though her joints were disintegrating and cold waves traveled her gut. Then, suddenly, sensations loomed, her cheeks throbbing with heat, her skin a slow gloating fire. With a loud sucking sound, her sweaty hand slid across the varnished surface of her desk. Biting her lower lip, she swiveled to face the window.
Outside, the sky was a flawless blue, arcing up and away. She stared at it, part of her rising into its blueness, a part that no longer belonged to her because it couldn’t live within anyone as trapped as she was. For she was well and truly trapped. There was no way out. She remembered last year’s winner — Jenny Weaver, a grade eleven student. Brainy, popular, Jenny had decided the whole thing was bogus and hadn’t responded to the summons. Instead, she’d gone on with her life as if nothing had happened. Rather, she’d tried to go on with her life, and some of her friends had initially gone along with the charade, pretending right along with her. Shadow Council had left Jenny alone — completely alone — focusing instead on her friends, applying their quiet, behind-the-scenes, persuasive tactics. One by one, Jenny’s friends had dropped off her phone-call list. No one would sit with her in the cafeteria, and as long as she defied Shadow Council, nobody had signed out books when she’d worked at the library checkout counter. Sal remembered Jenny’s face, how she’d refused to give in, keeping her chin up, her smile bright and hard, and meeting everyone’s eyes, giving each person she encountered the chance to redeem themselves by returning her smile.
No one had smiled back. By Thanksgiving Jenny’s smile had begun to waver, but her face had continued to fight off doubt. Sal could still feel the weight of the other girl’s eyes sliding across her own one afternoon in late October — desperately sure of herself, resolutely carrying a flag for the possibilities of human nature — and the way her own gaze had dribbled away, leaving the lottery winner to stumble on to the next pair of eyes. By Hallowe’en, Jenny Weaver had given up her mask of hope, and on the Day of the Dead had finally presented herself at Shadow Council’s door.
Her term as lottery winner was now over. People were talking to her again, she sat with a circle of friends at lunch time, Jenny Weaver was as popular as she’d ever been. Last year, and the hell it had brought her, seemed to have dropped off the face of the earth, unless you looked directly into her eyes. Just this afternoon on her way to English, Sal had passed the former lottery winner in the hall with two of her friends. Jenny had been talking a mile a minute, her eyes darting like a dragonfly, here, there, landing nowhere, as if everything she saw was an illusion, a shifting hologram of smiles and laughter, and beyond this stretched the long ache of a truth she’d have to carry alone for the rest of her life.
At the front of the classroom, Ms. Demko began to write the day’s assignment on the chalkboard. As usual, the Pony Express broke into a wild gallop as soon as her back turned. Out of the corner of her eye, Sal saw a note progressing along the back row, hand to hand. As it approached, something fierce and painful fluttered in her chest. She dug her teeth savagely into the inside of her lower lip, telling herself she didn’t care and if she did, it was of no consequence — emotions were trash, should be firebombed and tossed into the dustbin of history. The note slid into the hand of the guy to her right. He read the name written on the front, then slowly, deliberately, leaned across the aisle and tapped the shoulder of the girl sitting ahead of Sal. Slipping the note up her sleeve, the girl waited as Ms. Demko fussed through some papers on her desk, before passing it to the student in front of her.
The note should have come through Sal. The Pony Express followed an established route of dependable couriers, and Sal was definitely on it. She’d taken a giddy pride in her elaborate note-passing skills, riding the communal current that sang through the network of note-passers as each message reached its intended destination. It was a small pleasure, a silly one, something so ordinary she’d never noticed the assumption in it.
Everyone loves a victim. There was no arguing with the words of Willis Cass. Ask the Pony Express. Ask Jenny Weaver, or any one of her so-called friends. Sucking a steady flow of blood from the tear in her bottom lip, Sal realized that if she tried to catch Jenny’s eyes at any point during the rest of this year, the other girl would look away.
She didn’t know whether to show for her after-school rendezvous with Kimmie. They were supposed to meet Tina Wong at the bike racks, then head downtown and cruise Midtown Plaza for Tori Amos CDs. But those plans had been made at mid-morning break, just before Sal had received the third scroll and the world had turned its face inside out, displaying the other side of its mask. Since then, everyone’s eyes had been sliding over and around her as if she was made of Teflon, and no one had spoken to her. Which side of the mask did Kimmie belong on? What would her true face reveal?
The same as always, Sal told herself, shoving her books hard into her locker and trying to force back the panic. They’d been friends since grade two, no high-school boycott could interfere with that. Or could it? Kimmie wasn’t all that strong. She might act tough while putting the match to a pile of yearbook pictures, but one glance at the vampire queen in the flesh would have her in tears, running for cover. She’d never be able to resist all of Shadow Council.
How would it happen? What would the moment be like? Sal fought off the knowing that descended upon her, the images flashing through her mind. Would there be words, would they fumble through sentences, trying to get the explanations just right? Or would Kimmie just walk past ...
No, no, she wouldn’t. They’d been friends forever and they would stay friends. Closing her locker firmly, Sal turned toward the exit that would take her out to the bike racks, but found she couldn’t make herself take the necessary first step. Maybe she’d just hang around the front entrance at the other side of the school for a while. That would give Kimmie and Tina extra time to arrive at the bike racks so she wouldn’t have to stand around, fidgeting moronically while everyone stared. Then, when she did make her appearance — just a little late — Kimmie and Tina would already be there waiting. She’d be able to see them as soon as she came around the southeast corner of the school. Immediately, she’d know.
Emerging from the front exit, Sal descended the stairs in a rush of students, then stood hesitating at the bottom. Normally she would have made a beeline for one of the nearby groups, grabbed a swig from someone’s Pepsi and dived laughing into the next available joke. But today she found herself edging inexplicably to the right, in among a row of fir trees that ran along the south sid
e of the building. Not too far in, just enough to take her out of casual observation — all things considered, a practical solution to an unbearable present tense.
To her left, students poured down the stairwell, a constant stream of words and laughter. No one noticed as she stood among the fir trees, an impervious breeze lifting the tiny hairs on her arms. Five minutes passed, and she decided to give it five more. Sometimes Kimmie was late but she was dependable, she always showed. Then, as if some inner signal had been given, Sal looked up to see two girls coming down the stairs. Pressed to the outer rail, they were so close she could have reached out and touched the short chubby girl with the long dark ponytail and the slightly smudged makeup. Kimmie’s eyeliner was always smudged; she was forever rubbing her eyes with the heel of her hand and giving herself a distinctive sunset look. But she had 20/20 vision, and as she came down the stairs that 20/20 gaze kept flicking toward the right, toward the row of fir trees camouflaging the school wall, as if she’d seen ...
Had she seen? Had she? Kimmie paused, head down and gripping the handrail. Sal jammed herself back through the fir trees so fiercely that she collided with the school wall. Branches scraped her face and arms, snapping into place as she fought the wild harsh rhythm of her breathing. Cautiously she peeked out and withdrew with a hiss. Kimmie was still standing motionless, halfway down the stairs, trapped inside a decision she couldn’t force herself to make. Then someone bumped into her from behind and she stumbled forward, gaining momentum. By the time she reached the bottom of the stairs, she was in a full-out run, headed across the lawn.
“Hey, wait up!” called Tina, racing after her. “What’s the rush?”
So that had been it — the moment come and gone. Watching her best friend disappear into the crowd, Sal methodically chewed the inside of her lower lip to a bloody pulp. It hadn’t been that bad, not really. They hadn’t had to fake their way through explanations, hadn’t even had to choke out a single word. It was simply, suddenly, all over — decided, just like that.
Waiting until the stairs cleared, she fought her way out of the fir trees’ manic embrace.
The bike racks were half-empty, a few kids standing around chatting. As she bent to unlock her bike, she could feel the glances, but no one commented or acknowledged her in any way. Straightening, she felt the sky like an enormous boulder pressing down on her back. This, then, was the size and weight of loneliness — everything outside herself. Backing her bike slowly out of the rack, she considered swinging onto the seat but felt too exhausted to do anything but walk.
“Sal!”
For a moment it didn’t register — the wheelchair coasting toward her, the guy with the glasses, goofy grin and oversized ears cruising both sides of his head. Then meaning broke through the numbness, and relief hit her so violently she felt torn open, end to end. Brydan Wallace was speaking to her. She wasn’t alone. Shadow Council didn’t rule.
“Hey Bry — where’s the clarinet? Shirking your musical fate yet again?” Biting down on the tremble in her mouth, she looped her chain-lock around her bike seat.
“Don’t want to overdo things.” Popping a dramatic wheelie, Brydan came to a halt beside her. “Strain these talented lips.”
“Got big plans for those lips?”
“Big plans,” he said, flushing slightly. “Monumental plans.”
They started off down the sidewalk, the flow of students parting to make room for Brydan’s wheelchair. Keeping her head down, Sal coasted through the heavy thud of her heart. It was only a matter of time before someone turned and commented, Brydan realized his mistake, and absolute loneliness descended upon her again.
“This way,” he said, heading down a driveway to avoid the upcoming curb. His map of Saskatoon looked very different from most people’s. Large Xs popped up everywhere: don’t go here, don’t even think about going there. Before meeting him, Sal had never considered the height of the average curb — just one step up from the base of the average wheel.
“Y’know,” said Brydan, veering around a parked car. “I used to have a girlfriend who could put her entire hand in her mouth. She could even get half her foot in.”
“Now that’s using your lips.” In spite of everything, Sal grinned. Turning at the corner, they left the stream of students behind. A car passed slowly, the girl at the wheel belting out an enthusiastic monotone to a song on the radio.
“She’s really good at that note,” commented Brydan. “If she and I got together, we could sing a great minor third.”
“That’d be a great future for your lips.”
“Mmm,” said Brydan, and Sal drifted on the thinking sound of his voice, trying to decipher his thoughts. Would he bring it up? Would he want to talk about it? He was probably wondering the same thing about her, but what if he hadn’t heard? How could she face the moment his face turned inside out and his friendliness vanished?
Coasting to a stop, Brydan pulled a package of Du-Maurier from his shirt pocket and lit up. “Want one?” he asked, quirking an eyebrow.
“No thanks.”
“You a nicotine virgin?”
“I tried it once,” Sal said. “Way back in grade five. I stole one of my brother Dusty’s cigarettes and went into the bathroom on the first floor. I thought I had it all worked out so I wouldn’t get caught — I even blew the smoke out the window so Mom wouldn’t smell it.”
“Did you inhale?”
“Nope. My lungs are still virginal,” Sal confessed. “But our neighbor, Mrs. Hume, just happened to be outside, raking her lawn. When she saw smoke coming out our bathroom window, she called the fire department. I think they sent every fire truck in the city — sirens, flashing lights, police, the whole works.”
“Your first cigarette.” Brydan said it with awe. “Now that could really put a person off.”
“Yeah,” said Sal. “Big Brother never takes his eyes off me.”
It was a hint, coded but obvious. Would he pick up on it? She was sworn to silence — as Willis had said, all Shadow Council business was dead secret, and as of today, she was official Shadow Council business. But Brydan wasn’t sworn to anything, and it was entirely possible that by wheelchairing her home he was declaring a full-fledged revolt against the lottery winner boycott. He had guts. She’d known this, but the awareness had never before opened within her like a gift.
“Big Brother,” said Brydan, turning into Wilson Park, “can go take a boo.”
Sal grinned at the back of his head, the stuck-out billboard quality of his ears. She had the sudden urge to lean forward and grab hold of them, let him carry them both toward the monumental future of his lips.
“Want to come to Shoppers Drug Mart with me?” Brydan balanced his cigarette in one corner of his mouth and gave the park a speculative look. Sal knew that expression — he was about to hunch down and go all out, blood, sweat and speed, toward the horizon.
“What’s the big attraction at Shoppers?” she asked. “Big sale on aftershave?”
Brydan patted his neck thoughtfully. “Yes, I do smell irresistible, don’t I?”
“The flies are swarming.”
Brydan pulled a pout. “Actually,” he said, brightening, “I’ve got a few lottery tickets to cash in. See if my numbers came up.”
Lottery tickets. He was talking in code, letting her know he knew.
“If I win,” he added, grinning broadly, “I’ll buy you whatever your little heart desires. Anything you want in Shoppers will be yours.”
“A lottery winner,” Sal said deliberately, tasting each word, watching him as she spoke. “Must be fate.”
Brydan didn’t blink. “Fate can go take a boo, too.” Then, crouched in his wheelchair, he was off, hands pumping furiously as he careened, a low-flying god, across the park.
Chapter Six
That evening, Sal rocked. Descending into the basement rec room, she slid The Wall Live into the CD player, donned headphones, and blew her mind so far out she drifted among stars and small floating bits of
rock. The stereo was a good one — Dusty had invested most of a part-time job into it — and the headphones had a ten-meter cord, leaving her free to travel in wicked twisting convulsions from one end of the room to the other. She kept pumping the volume up and up, wanting sound to pound through her, slam her with guitar chords and electrocute her brain. Upstairs, her mother puttered heedlessly about the kitchen. To either side, families in other houses went about their routines, putting another mundane day to rest, while down in the bowels of the earth Sal whirled, a vortex of rage, rhythm and pulse.
Shadow Council wasn’t going to get her down. No way were they running her life. Sure, they’d gotten through to Jenny Weaver, but Jenny hadn’t had any real friends. Okay, so maybe Shadow had also gotten through to Kimmie and Tina and a whole host of other decent kids, but there was still one basic difference between this and last year’s lottery winner — she, Sal Hanson, had a friend, a true-blue gut-real friend who’d decided to stick by her. Earlier that afternoon, his numbers had come up at Shoppers Drug Mart — he’d won five dollars and bought her a Sprite and some Cheezies. The empty Cheezies bag was now pinned to her bedroom bulletin board, proof of Shadow Council’s impending demise and the fabulous school year that awaited her.
If Brydan Wallace could give the finger to Shadow Council, so could she.
“Go take a boo!” Sal shouted at the shadows dragging at her heels as she whipped herself around the room. Ah, the air felt good, full of invisible crumbling walls. “Go take a fucking boo!”
Tears streamed down her face, her body throbbed with guitar riffs, she floated on their long shimmering ache. The Wall Live ended and she put on Deep Purple’s Come Hell or High Water, poised to whip herself through “Child In Time” and Ian Gillan’s wordless screams. The song was another of the great classics, introduced to her by her brother, esteemed connoisseur of big loud sound. By the time the connoisseur came home from his evening class, Sal was shuffling about in a stupor, hair plastered to her head, body soaked with sweat. With a wave, Dusty dropped into the beanbag chair across the room and worked his way into a half-eaten bag of Doritos. It was their unspoken agreement — the person wearing the headphones had ascended into an alternate dimension. You didn’t invade. You waited to be invited in.