Lottery

by Beth Goobie

  “I’ve been watching Ken Goodwin,” said Rolf. “Grade eleven, tattoos, nose stud, general goof case. No mercy on this one.”

  “Demerits?” asked Willis.

  “For breathing,” said Rolf. His smile traveled around the circle.

  “Think subtle,” Willis advised. “We want class, here.”

  Sal could feel their brain waves lengthen into deep thought. Again, the submerged fish swam across her brain. What was it? What exactly was she not getting? She’d been staring so intently at the group in front of her that her perception of light and dark had begun to reverse. How she wanted Shadow Council to overreach themselves — to trip, stumble and plummet from their self-proclaimed heights. For breathing. Fighting the neon surge in her stomach, she raised her hand.

  Willis’s eyes gleamed briefly. “Victim may speak.”

  “Why don’t you pull another Diane Kruisselbrink?”

  “Gotch?” someone snorted.

  “Make it a whole room. A classroom.”

  They were watching her now, hovering on the edge of getting it.

  “Transport an entire classroom outside,” she finished, holding her breath. It was too big, too grandiose. They would never be able to pull it off.

  A tremor ran around the circle as Shadow Council gulped the idea, hook, line, and sinker.

  “What’s his schedule?” asked Willis.

  “Periods one to four — Tech, Calculus, Chemistry, Phys Ed,” said Rolf. “Periods five to eight — English, Physics, Geography and History.”

  “Tech wing won’t work,” said Willis. “Too many windows.”

  “Math is on the south side,” said Judy. “English is — ”

  “There are trees all along the south wall,” broke in Ellen. “From inside you can’t see anything but sky.”

  “His Calculus classroom is next to an exit,” said Rolf. “But how do we convince an entire class?”

  “We don’t,” said Willis. “That’s the target’s duty. We decoy the teacher, the target motivates the class.”

  “What if it rains?” asked Ellen.

  “Even better,” grinned Willis.

  “An entire class might squeal,” said Linda dubiously.

  “Only the target will know the command came from Shadow,” said Willis. “It’ll be part of his duty to keep that quiet. If the class succeeds, it’ll be their glory. If they fail, they’ll be acclaimed for trying.”

  Lifting his right hand, he undulated it slowly through the air. Sal’s eyes narrowed as every member of Shadow Council copied the gesture. With a satisfied smile, Willis leaned his head against the back of his throne and closed his eyes. “Okay, last target. Who’s got the profile on Alexandra Horseley?”

  “Grade ten,” said the guy sitting beside him, an infinitely forgettable jock. “Brown-noser and drama buff. She’s got a small part in A Midsummer Night’s Dream.”

  As the group slipped again into thought, Sal finally saw it — the fidgeting, the head scratching, the chin stroking, and incessant hand signals. The Sign of the Inside wasn’t Shadow’s only secret sign. There was a whole other level of language going on, a constant body code passing between them.

  Willis played with his chin. “Keep studying her, Larry. Find out what her lines are. Maybe we can rewrite a few of them for opening night.”

  “And make her say them in performance?” Judy asked, wide-eyed.

  “Why not?” grinned Willis.

  “It’s just ... kind of not subtle, isn’t it?”

  “Depends on how we rewrite them,” drawled Willis, again undulating his right hand through the air. “Power is unlimited, if you keep a gentle hand on the reins.”

  Sal’s stomach rocked. Did he mean her? No, no, he couldn’t. Their Friday lunch hours were like stepping into a different category of being, nothing touched them there, not even Shadow Council.

  Was anything truly untouchable?

  “Good work, guys,” said Willis. “Our duty for the day is done. You are now free to go and bless the masses of S.C. with your undeniable presence.” Carelessly, he rippled his right hand. “Remember who you are.”

  “Shadow,” the others whispered simultaneously, the sound creeping up the back of Sal’s neck.

  When she handed the envelope to Chris Busatto, he was sitting in an empty corridor, eating his lunch from a cafeteria tray and reading a copy of The Chocolate War. It was Tuesday noon hour, a full twenty-four hours since Shadow Council’s last session. She’d been given the envelope containing Chris’s instructions that morning before homeroom but had delayed delivering it, knowing the duty wasn’t due to take place until the following day. It had been easy enough to track Chris down in the halls. Though they’d rarely exchanged more than brief hellos, she’d breezed past his chubby form hunched in front of the Busattos’ TV enough times. Chris rarely unplugged himself from the TV or computer. For a brief period last year, he’d gone into complete shutdown, directing an invisible channel changer at anyone who’d spoken to him and switching them off.

  He wouldn’t be able to switch Shadow Council off. Delivering this envelope to him would be the equivalent of telling him that he’d been born with a nuclear missile in his gut, set to go off at the first sign of happiness — something he’d always suspected would be his fate, but vaguely, like death.

  “Hey, Chris,” Sal said quietly, coming up behind him. “I’ve got something for you.”

  Fork in mouth, he turned around. As he caught sight of her, his eyes widened. She could almost hear the glass shattering across his brain.

  “It’s for tomorrow. You know — the assembly?” Holding the envelope out to him, Sal tried to smile encouragingly. She wasn’t supposed to talk to targets any more than was absolutely necessary, but Chris was sitting, fork sticking freestyle from his mouth as he raised both hands protectively. The guy was in shock. “It’s just something you’ve got to do once,” she said quickly, “and then it’ll be over, they’ll leave you alone.”

  Chris opened his mouth and the fork fell out. “What is it?”

  “Open the envelope and see.”

  “If I open it, I’ll have to do it.”

  “Of course you have to do it. C’mon, Chris, it won’t be that hard.” Thrusting the envelope at him again, she rattled it impatiently. Didn’t he know how hard it was for her to do this? He looked so much like Kimmie, they could have been twins. Just standing next to him was bringing back memories of pizza parties, sleepovers, and long summer afternoons at Riverdale Pool. It wasn’t fair, making her suffer extra like this.

  “No,” Chris whispered. “I won’t do it, I won’t.”

  “Don’t be silly. Of course you will.”

  “No.” Chris shook his head emphatically, like a bouncing toy. “I won’t, I won’t.”

  Sal’s stomach lurched, and she tasted bile. Why had she left her Ranitidine in her locker? “C’mon, Chris, it’s just one thing and then you’re done. No problem-o.” Placing the envelope firmly on his tray, she set off down the hall. There — her part in this was done, she could wash her hands and leave the rest to fate. No one was special, there were no exceptions. Chris was just going to have to take his turn playing victim like everyone else.

  The envelope whizzed past her feet, a spinning blur.

  “Chris!” she wailed desperately, chasing after it. “You have to do this or they’ll punish you. That’ll be ten times worse.”

  “My psychiatrist says I don’t have to listen to other kids bugging me.” Chris stared at her over the top of The Chocolate War, wide-eyed and curiously defiant. In all the years she’d known him, this was the first time she’d heard him speak clearly.

  “Well, your psychiatrist is wrong.”

  “Maybe I should get you an appointment.” Raising his book, Chris blocked her out, and Sal’s shoulders caved in an avalanche of defeat. She’d done her best, he’d have to face the music himself.

  “Maybe,” she sighed, stooping to pick up the envelope.

  She had to turn hi
m in. Sal knew this was what Shadow Council would expect her to do under the circumstances. If she didn’t, Chris Busatto wouldn’t be the only one suffering the consequences. In a situation like this, it was everyone for herself — Chris certainly hadn’t shown her any consideration, and neither had anyone else. Envelope in hand, Sal headed toward the Celts’ clubroom. There was the door, looming in an endless nightmare of doors, and here now was the knock — three short and two long — the knock of agony and defeat.

  The door opened and she found herself looking into Linda’s scowling face.

  “We’re not open,” the girl snapped. “I don’t recall summoning you.”

  “Chris Busatto refused his duty.” Sal’s hand shook as she extended the envelope. Here at last she had a way of proving her loyalty and appeasing Linda’s constant suspicion.

  “What d’you expect me to do with it?”

  “But he wouldn’t take it.” Confused, Sal faltered. “D’you want me to throw it into the garbage?”

  “Who is it?” Coming up behind Linda, Marvin slid an arm around her waist. She leaned against him, smiling. They seemed to be alone in the room.

  “It’s the victim,” said Linda. “Apparently, Chris Busatto refused his duty.”

  “So get her to do it,” said Marvin, nuzzling her neck.

  “That’s an idea,” purred Linda, her eyes traveling Sal’s face.

  “But I don’t have any demerits,” protested Sal.

  “Five demerits,” singsonged Linda. “It’s your duty to make sure the targets do their duties. If you fail, you get five demerits. Five demerits equals one duty. Presto, you get Chris Busatto’s duty.”

  “But I’ve got English that period.” Sal’s mind scattered like Pick-Up Sticks. “I’ll have to skip.”

  “And whose problem is that?”

  The door closed, and Sal rode out the detonation of her stomach. It wasn’t fair. She’d done her part, it wasn’t her fault the target had backed out. Why was she being punished for his actions? There had to be a predictable system of penalties, built on a reliable version of right and wrong. Sure, the definition of morality was bound to change depending upon the tyrant in charge, but there had to be some kind of order, some way of protecting your ass.

  Maybe that was the point — the victim’s ass belonged to everyone.

  Slowly Sal tore open the envelope and slid out the enclosed note. As she scanned it, she could hear Willis’s voice dictating the contents inside her head: Time: Wednesday afternoon, Period 7. Location: Future Careers Assembly, Auditorium. Duty: Crawl under the chairs with a paper bag, soliciting donations for the red-hot love nest of Wroblewski and Tuziak. Avoid all teachers.

  Blinking back tears, she headed to her locker for another dose of Ranitidine.

  Chapter Fourteen

  On hands and knees, Sal studied the row of feet before her. The pair dead ahead were giant size, genetic defects from the twilight zone. Reaching forward, she tugged at the sweat sock bagging around the left ankle. The startled foot shot forward and a head appeared, dangling upside down in front of her.

  “Excuse me,” said Sal, holding out a paper bag. “I’m soliciting donations for the red-hot love nest of Wroblewski and Tuziak.”

  “Who?” hissed the face, adjusting the glasses that rode its forehead.

  “Wroblewski and Tuziak,” repeated Sal.

  The upside down features contorted into a grin. “No kidding.”

  “Anything you’ve got.”

  “Just a sec.” The face disappeared, then reappeared with several others, all grinning profusely.

  “Aren’t you a cute little doggie,” cooed a pair of vermilion lips.

  “Donations?” Sal pressured, ducking the hand that reached to pat her head. The auditorium lighting system was a washout below knee-level, the faces before her indistinct, distorted by shadow. Mouths that hovered above eyes definitely gave her vertigo.

  A pen cap and a wad of gum dropped into her bag.

  “Thanks,” said Sal, backing up and shifting sideways toward another pair of runners, smaller this time and crossed at the ankles. “Soliciting donations,” she repeated to the quizzical face that dropped in front of her, curtained by a dark fall of hair. “For Wroblewski and Tuziak’s red-hot love nest.”

  Cherry-red lips pursed and giggled. “Let me see if anyone’s got something.” The hair ascended out of sight while Sal crouched, trying to shrink her butt into invisibility. How often did teachers patrol the back row? She tensed, waiting as curious faces ducked in and out of the space in front of her, and finally objects began descending into her outstretched bag — an expired bus pass, a few cinnamon hearts, a condom.

  The cherry-red lips dropped down in front of her again. “That enough?”

  “Are there any teachers nearby?” Sal hissed.

  “Mr. Whittley and Ms. Lalani are at the end of this row.”

  Sal considered. That put them about fifteen chairs to her right. Not great, but she’d already worked her way up and down most of the back row and she had to penetrate the solid mass in front of her at some point. “Let me through,” she said, and the running shoes slid apart to grant her passage. Pressing forward, she discovered that she was too tall to crawl under the chair seat and was going to have to slither on her stomach. As she flattened herself, the girl to her right shifted her legs so that any view coming from the end of the row would be blocked. Rocked by a small explosion of gratitude, Sal tapped the new pair of ankles directly in front of her and held out her bag.

  “Soliciting donations for the red-hot love nest of Wroblewski and Tuziak,” she hissed.

  “Wroblewski and Tuziak?” grinned a mouth that reeked of tuna fish. “Since when?”

  “Since Saturday afternoon at the Hotel Pat,” said Sal. “Donations?”

  “I’ll check with my buds,” said the face and disappeared. Pressed against the auditorium floor, Sal waited. Her back was getting sore, her neck was developing a crick, and she kept bracing herself against the inevitability of someone using her butt as a foot rest.

  A bouquet of delighted faces appeared and objects began raining into her bag — a lighter, a SAVE THE TREES button, a package of Kleenex, a tampon. As she wriggled onward into the next aisle, legs extended on either side, protecting her from the roving eyes of teachers, and when she reached out to tap the next pair of ankles, she found a face already waiting, upside down and grinning.

  Before she had a chance to recite her line, the face quipped, “I heard. Believe me, I’ve got just the thing for Wroblewski and Tuziak.” Once again, junk paraphernalia came pouring into her bag. She moved forward, legs on both sides shifting to protect her passage, and again discovered that the students ahead of her had already been contacted and were ready with donations. As she slithered deeper into the mass of bodies suspended on creaking seats above her, the pattern repeated itself, word of her approach rippling ahead so that the next row was always prepared for her outstretched bag. No one shrieked or kicked back in surprise, not once was her butt poked or violated. Though not a single member of the grade eleven or twelve class would have spoken to her in the halls, here in the semi-dark auditorium where she was forced to grovel, snake-like and utterly humiliated beneath their asses, the senior students of S.C. grinned down at Sal, patted her shoulder and rearranged their bodies to shield her from hostile view. Several students offered her sticks of Juicy Fruit, and one guy proffered a half-drunk can of Sprite. At one point, she was carefully redirected to escape contact with a teacher sitting three rows up.

  On and off, Sal could hear Mr. Wroblewski introducing speakers from various colleges and universities. His aloof, thin-lipped expression floated through her head as she held out her paper bag, urging the faces before her to consider the contributions they could make to Wroblewski’s and Tuziak’s future happiness. S.C.’s principal wasn’t well-liked by the student body. Though Sal had never run afoul of him personally, she had no sympathy to waste on someone who supported teen curfews and had threate
ned to install surveillance cameras in the school halls. As she crawled beneath the creaking sea of chairs, her heart gradually retreated down her throat and she almost began to enjoy the shadowy mass conspiracy, ground-level in the dark. Then, approximately fifteen rows into the crowd of coughing fidgeting students, she tapped a pair of sloppily laced Reeboks and watched them slide apart to reveal the upside-down grin of Shadow Council’s president. Five centimeters apart, they stared at one another, Willis’s grin quickly fading as Sal stuck out her bag, repeating the phrase she’d been instructed to give. “Excuse me. I’m soliciting donations for the red-hot love nest of Wroblewski and Tuziak.”

  “You are fucking not,” Willis hissed emphatically. “It’s supposed to be Chris Somebody-Or-Other.”

  “He refused the duty,” Sal hissed back, “so Linda said I had to do it. I think she has a key to the clubroom. She and Marvin were in there today at lunch hour.”

  Willis’s face contorted. “Give me that bag,” he said, plucking it from her hand. “Consider yourself officially relieved of this duty.” Without another word, he ascended out of sight.

  Stunned, Sal dissolved into the floor. Relief had sucked the life right out of her and she couldn’t move, couldn’t remember how to operate without the adrenalin rush of fear. Slowly, she worked the dead weight of her legs up into the aisle behind her, then backed her upper half out from under Willis’s chair. As she struggled to her feet, hands helped her negotiate the narrow aisle, guiding her toward an empty chair.

  “Sit here,” someone whispered into her ear, “until this goddam bitch of an assembly is over.”

  Swamped by exhaustion, Sal took her seat along with the rest of the human race. Darkness rolled thickly through her head. While Mr. Wroblewski gave his closing remarks, she rubbed floor grit from her face and worked a gum wad out of her hair. When the bodies surrounding her erupted from their chairs, she allowed an unfamiliar arm to tuck itself through hers and guide her to the auditorium door. Wearily, she turned to express her gratitude, but the arm had already untucked itself and vanished, leaving her standing once again alone and apart in the busy corridor.