by Beth Goobie
Whatever was going on inside that girl’s head, it kept her up and out of reach, far away from the chaos that surrounded her. It was almost as if she’d divided herself into two parts, then sent her mind as far from her body as it could travel, maintaining minimal contact like a radio kept at low volume, so quiet it was only the faintest murmur in the ear.
Her next summons came Wednesday morning. Inserted into her French textbook, a black cutout of a human shadow oozed across the first page of Chapitre Quatre, that day’s classwork. Flipped over, it displayed a white bell pasted on the back, bearing the message: Twelve o’clock sharp. You know where. Picking it up, Sal stared at its eerie distorted shape. How could Shadow Council have known which page she would turn to on that particular morning? Who could have told them?
Kimmie, of course. Though they never spoke, never even made eye contact, the two girls were still trapped in the same French class three times a week. And as the lottery victim’s former best friend, Kimmie was probably high on Shadow Council’s list of official suckers by now. But then, so was Sal. It wasn’t as if she was in any position to lay blame. And it could have been any other member of the class. All it would have taken was a quick question slid into a casual conversation. The respondent probably hadn’t had a clue she was being ransacked for information.
But how had they gotten the message into her textbook? The book had been in her locker. Supposedly no one knew the combination to her lock except front office personnel. Did Shadow Council have access to school records? No, Sal thought, it was far more likely someone had been spying over her shoulder one day as she fiddled with her lock. It wasn’t as if she was compulsively neurotic about hiding her combination. It had never crossed her mind that anyone would have the slightest interest in breaking into her locker — the only things she kept there were her schoolbooks and compass set, the bare minimum required to keep a high-school student functional. Still, it was the only private pocket of space in the entire building that belonged to her. How many times had they been into her locker? Had they had her combination last year too? What else did they know about her? Exactly how paranoid was Shadow Council causing her to become?
From her position on the footstool, she watched them. Today she’d been placed off to one side of the room. When she’d knocked at twelve o’clock sharp, Rolf had opened the door and said, “From now on, you will give the victim’s knock.” He’d rapped a specific rhythm on the door — three short taps, then two long — and made her repeat it several times before leading her to the footstool in a far corner of the room.
“Sit,” he’d said, and returned to his own seat. Unsure if he wanted her nose stuck to the wall, Sal had hesitated, then taken a steadying breath and faced the room. To her surprise, only Shadow Council’s Executive was present. Once she was seated they ignored her, treating her as if she was nothing more than an irrelevant comatose object that had been parked in a corner until needed. Since this wasn’t far from the truth, Sal settled into her coma, counted acid surges in her stomach, and waited.
They were arguing. It seemed to have something to do with two male students and a punishment. Gradually Sal pieced together the events surrounding the original crime — a drunken beach party and some boisterous lyrics that hadn’t been particularly respectful of Shadow Council. Apparently one of Shadow’s suckers had been lurking in the darkness beyond the firelight, listening in.
“We have to hit fast and hard,” said Linda, making a quick chopping motion. “We can’t let disrespect for Shadow stand unanswered. And it has to be obvious, something that rubs their noses in the dirt so no one’ll dare do it again.”
“Rubbing noses in the dirt can get people’s backs up,” murmured Willis, stroking his chin. “Put out one fire, start three others.”
“No one’ll play with matches if they explode in their faces,” snapped Linda. “We hit hard this time, we won’t have to hit again.”
Jaw jutting, she perched on a couch arm and surveyed the two guys. Linda Paboni obviously needed work on her group discussion skills. At the couch’s other end sprawled Willis, head back, eyes sketching a world map across the ceiling — further territory to conquer. Seated opposite, in one of the armchairs, was Rolf, secretary’s binder open in his lap, doodling.
“You have to understand the male ego,” Willis said slowly. “The way it works.”
“Believe me, I know how it works,” said Linda.
“The guys were drunk,” said Willis. “When guys get drunk, their brains are one-hundred proof. You can’t expect them to behave like rational human beings.”
“Can you ever?” muttered Linda.
“Their brains swell,” continued Willis, still studying his ceiling dream world. “Beerheads think big. Their thoughts get oversized, too big for their actual brain matter. They see themselves as superheroes, the King Kong clan. They have to take on the biggest threat in their lives, prove they’re the tough guys.”
“That doesn’t mean they can mouth off about Shadow,” said Linda, making another chopping motion.
On the edge of the discussion, Rolf doodled thoughtfully.
“In a way, it’s a compliment to Shadow,” said Willis. “We were the biggest thing they could jaw off about.”
“I hardly think being called a pig’s ass is a compliment,” Linda said drily.
“Labatts’ poetry,” shrugged Willis. “Molson Canadian sonnets. We get uptight over this, they’ll be jerking our chain every time they pop a beer.”
“We have to do something,” said Rolf, rubbing his pencil against the bridge of his nose. “The pig’s was the first of many asses we got shoved up in that song.”
“But we make it work for us,” said Willis, finally pulling himself down out of the ceiling. “These guys are big mouths. They want to be seen as tough guys, full of derring-do.”
“We hang them out to dry.” Linda was really into the chop-chop gestures today. “Show them what wimps they really are.”
Slowly Willis shook his head. “We give them a duty that proves how tough they are,” he said softly, “only we make it work for us. We win their loyalty and we come out on top. From now on, Labatts will be singing our praises every time, guaranteed.”
“These guys are your friends?” Linda asked suspiciously.
Pursing his lips, Willis stared directly at her. “What d’you take me for?”
Linda’s eyes dropped. “Okay, so what are you suggesting?”
“Something big,” said Willis. “A sign, or a banner.”
Instinctively their faces turned toward the window, growing vague with thought.
“A monument to Shadow,” mused Willis.
“And they have to put it up!” said Rolf excitedly.
“Except it has to be indirect,” said Willis. “Everyone will know it’s Shadow, but it can’t point directly to us.”
Another pause fell on the three, their bodies drooping, their jaws growing slack.
“Walter Murray Collegiate,” said Linda suddenly. “Right over the front entrance.”
Rolf’s face broke into an easy grin. “A banner to S.C., so it looks like it means Saskatoon Collegiate.”
Linda was looking excited. “What about S.C. Is The Power. Or maybe S.C. Is Watching You.”
“Too obvious,” said Willis. “Sounds like Shadow.”
“I guess,” grunted Linda.
“It has to be tied to something else,” said Willis. “Something S.C. is doing.”
“The football game, Friday after school!” exclaimed Rolf.
Willis snapped his fingers. “That old banner we have in storage — S.C. RULES. It’ll look like a football prank, but the word will get around. The two guys will bask in the glory, but since they were doing our bidding, we’ll look good too. I guarantee you that pigs’ asses will go extinct as far as Shadow’s concerned.”
“Yeah,” said Linda, looking pleased. “Good thinking, guys.”
“But how will they get the banner up on Walter Murray?” asked Rolf. �
��The roof’s at least two storeys high.”
“Not off Taylor Street,” said Linda. “My dad teaches there so I know the building. There’s a side entrance that’s low, just one storey high. It’s covered by several trees so no one’ll notice them climbing onto the roof from the outside, and there are no windows anywhere along that side of the building so no one’ll see them from the inside. They’ll have to haul the ladder up with them because the roof takes a hike a couple of times, but if they’re quick they should be able to manage it.”
The three high-fived one another.
“Okay, now for the instructions,” said Willis. “Write the same thing for both of them, and don’t include any names, theirs or Shadow’s.”
A knock sounded on the door. Instantly, Shadow Council’s Executive stiffened, Linda’s eyes darting toward Sal.
“We aren’t officially open,” she hissed.
“We’re always official,” Willis replied calmly. “This just so happens to be a Celts Exec meeting and we’re working out our fall schedule. Go see who it is.”
“What about her?” asked Linda, pointing at Sal.
“Victim, come sit over here.” Willis glanced toward Sal without making direct eye contact. “We’ll say you came to deliver infomation from — ” He hesitated.
“ — Pavvie,” said Sal, sliding into the burgundy armchair. “About the fall concert publicity.”
“Yeah,” agreed Willis, closing his eyes, a smile sifting through the layers of his expression. “Good thinking, victim.”
“Fine,” snapped Linda, getting up and opening the door. In the hall stood a teacher holding a stack of posters. A quick conversation ensued — the posters concerned an upcoming mock United Nations assembly for high-school students that S.C. was hosting. Smiling, Linda accepted the armload of posters along with a list of delivery points. The satisfied teacher thanked the three Celts, and the door closed behind him.
“See?” said Willis. “No sweat. They want to believe, so they believe. No one ever looks further than what they want to see. Now, where were we?”
He was right. The teacher had seen the hard concrete evidence — Sal Hanson, lottery victim, sitting in the Celts’ clubroom — and had walked off without batting an eyelash. The floor heaved uneasily and Sal gripped the arms of her chair, unsure if she was expected to remain where she was or return to the footstool. She felt illegal in the burgundy armchair, as if the soft cushion beneath her butt was too good for her, but no one had ordered her back to her corner. Better to remain silent and not attract attention by moving.
“Okay, shoot.” Tearing two pages from his binder, Rolf poised his pen, awaiting Willis’s dictation.
“Time, colon,” dictated Willis. “Friday, October first, nine-fifteen AM. Place, colon, Walter Murray Collegiate. Duty, colon, use a ladder to get onto the roof from the Taylor Street entrance and drape the S.C. RULES banner across the front of the building. Note, long dash, and then write the following in capital letters, do not cover the windows, exclamation mark.”
“Gotcha,” said Rolf, writing it down, then copying it onto a second page.
“How will they get the banner?” asked Linda.
“It will mysteriously materialize somewhere in their vicinity,” said Willis.
“Locker mania,” grinned Rolf. Placing the instructions inside two envelopes, he sealed them. “Victim approach,” he ordered, without looking up.
Startled, Sal stood and took two steps toward him. She was almost brushing his knees.
“Two envelopes,” said Rolf brusquely, handing them to her. “And two locker combinations.” He placed a small piece of paper in her hand. “Make sure you put the envelopes where they’ll be seen immediately.”
Sal stared at the piece of paper. On it were written two locker numbers and two corresponding lock combinations. How many student locker combinations did Shadow Council have in its possession? “Someone’ll see me,” she protested. “I’ll get caught.”
“Not my problem,” shrugged Rolf.
Sal’s eyes flicked toward Willis, but he stared back, his face blank as the envelopes in her hand. Numbly, she started toward the door.
From behind her came Willis’s soft voice. “Pony Express.”
He was right, she realized. This was another version of the Pony Express — a little more malicious toward its targets and a lot more deadly for its courier, but it operated on essentially the same principles. How had Willis known about her Pony Express expertise?
“Victim dismissed,” said Rolf.
She left the room quickly. Except for 8 AM, the halls were emptiest at lunch hour. If she worked fast, she should be able to get this done before the one o’clock bell.
Friday morning at nine-fifteen, Sal stood holding her bike and watching from a nearby bus stop as two male figures wearing black balaclavas appeared on the roof of Walter Murray Collegiate. Unrolling a long red-and-gold banner, they worked quickly, draping it so that it hung across the front of the building, but not so far down that it covered the windows and could be seen from inside. Stretched to full length, the banner was an easy ten meters, the letters a brilliant gold. And upside-down, Sal realized with a flash of panic. Only it didn’t look as if the balaclavaed guys had noticed. Kneeling at opposite ends of the banner, they seemed to be anchoring it. This accomplished, they would head back to the ladder and down off the roof. Once their feet touched ground, it was unlikely they would climb back up to correct their mistake.
Mounting her bike, Sal rode frantically across Taylor Street and onto the school lawn. “Hey!” She waved her arms, trying to yell quietly. “S.C., S.C.! Shadow!”
At the word “shadow,” one of the guys glanced down and saw her. Placing one hand above her head and one at her waist, Sal rotated them one hundred and eighty degrees. Upside-down, she thought maniacally at the two watching guys. Upside-down, beerheads.
Leaning forward, the first guy peered over the edge of the roof, then gave her the thumbs-up signal. As she watched, the balaclavaed figures righted and anchored the banner, then retreated swiftly across the roof, leaving the banner suspended in red-and-gold glory across the front of Walter Murray Collegiate. S.C. RULES. Sal observed it with a mixture of pride and dread. Not until that moment had she realized she’d wanted the venture to succeed, she wanted Shadow Council to rule.
No, she didn’t. She didn’t want a small group of ego-terrorists running fifteen hundred students with threats and mind games. And she certainly didn’t want them jerking her life around for the next nine months. Then why the brilliant thread of satisfaction — no elation — that glimmered through her as she stared up at the red-and-gold banner? Why had she skipped her first-period math class, risking detention and her mother’s wrath, to watch this happen?
Suddenly she realized she was a dead giveaway, gawking gleefully upward on the front lawn of enemy turf. Mounting her bike she pedaled off furiously, glancing back several times to anchor the vision of the rebel banner firmly in her memory. Even after she turned the corner, it continued to hang gleaming across the center of her thoughts, a gorgeous claim to supremacy, a third-finger salute suspended through all that was mundane.
The luminous notes of Willis’s trumpet could be heard halfway down the hall. Entering the music room, Sal returned Pavvie’s quick nod, grateful for his reticence. The man rarely spoke unless absolutely necessary, the only person at S.C. who talked less than Sal herself, unless you counted Tauni Morrison. Maybe he was another person who needed a tube of black lipstick to find the mouth in his face.
As she opened the practice room door, Willis gave a dramatic flurry of notes.
“Everyone’s talking about it. It’s all over the school.” Sal’s face broke into an exuberant grin. “Did you see it?”
Eyebrows raised, Willis pointed to the open door. She closed it.
“Of course I saw it,” he said immediately, lifting his trumpet and releasing several glad notes. “Snapped a few Kodak memories while I was at it.”
&
nbsp; Sal hit the nearest chair with a thud. “You were there?”
“I had a spare, so I thought I’d watch from my car. I caught you on film, making your genius tactical move. Way to go, Sally-O. I’ll make you an extra copy.”
“You will?”
“You were part of it. Part of the team.”
A delicate shyness winged across Sal’s face. Ducking her head, she began assembling her clarinet. Willis tooted softly into the silence, something low-lying and blue.
“You practice this week?”
“Couple times,” she admitted reluctantly. It wasn’t easy, surrendering her perception of herself as an eternally carefree, wimp-lipped third clarinetist. “I tried those cigarette papers you put in my case. They really helped. Thanks.”
“Good. I want to try out a new piece with you. Something I wrote.”
“You wrote this?” She stared in astonishment as he slid a sheet of composition paper onto the music stand in front of her, full of penciled-in notes and treble clefs.
“It was originally for two trumpets,” Willis said, settling back again, “but clarinet and trumpet play in the same key so I didn’t have to transpose.”
She could feel him watching her as she scanned the piece. It was in the key of G, mostly half and quarter notes, with a few eighth notes scattered throughout. She should be able to handle it, unless he wanted it in cut time.
“Willis?” She was frightened at the question that loomed through her, terrified she was about to lose the only good thing she had going in her life, but she had to ask. She had to. “Why are you doing this?”
“Doing what?”
“Meeting me here. Practicing with me.” She kept her eyes down as she spoke, watching her fingers fiddle with the clarinet keys.
He shrugged. “Because I want to.”
“But you’re not supposed to. You never act like this at Shadow meetings.”
“It’s our secret,” he grinned.
Still staring down, she swallowed the slimy balloon in her throat. “You’ve got friends. You don’t ... need me.”
Willis shifted, suddenly uncomfortable. “I don’t have friends.”