The Lottery (14 page)

“Eddie Langlotz?”

“He’s over there, man.”

“Joe Rosencrantz!”

“Impossible — Joe has too much hair on his chest.”

Students collapsed onto one another. They rolled off their chairs and lay gasping on the floor. Sprawled in her seat, Sal gasped with the others until a scattering of harried-looking teachers managed to restore a relative calm. Eyes narrowed, she watched the Leader of the Opposition once again lean into the mike.

Yeah, Mr. Politician, she thought. Follow that one. Follow us.

The man wore a broad grin. Glancing toward Mr. Wroblewski, then back at the student body, he drew a deep breath and said, “Reminds me of my youth.”

Sal rode the second fifteen-hundred-strong eruption of laughter. Around her, students kept forgetting who she was, turning toward her with faces that ached with mirth. Invisible bricks dissolved, the air filled with shimmering waves of light.

“Did you catch who that was?” they kept demanding. “Did you recognize him?”

“Sorry, didn’t recognize that particular paper bag,” Sal replied, but she had a feeling she knew the streaker’s identity. Brad Carter was tall and skinny as a toothpick. Brad Carter wouldn’t know chest hair if it was tattooed on. In fact, remove Brad Carter’s clothes and pull a paper bag over his head, and he’d be a dead ringer for the tall skinny streaker who’d just run screaming across the stage. A massive grin waylaid Sal’s face. Shadow Council had just pulled off a genius move, and she’d been part of it. She’d delivered the message that had triggered an event that would become legend to every S.C. student in succeeding years. The Pony Express was dribble compared to this — the Pony Express ate Shadow Council’s dust. For one glimmering, soul-singing moment, Sal wouldn’t have traded anything for the privilege of being Shadow Council’s shadow.

Up at the mike, the Leader of the Opposition cleared his throat and fifteen hundred students leaned forward, ready for any details he was willing to let fly about his naked screaming youth.

Mister, you can take all afternoon, thought Sal. You can take the rest of my life.

The music door stood open, the sounds of early morning voices and warm-up drills pouring through it. Out in the hallway, Sal stood hesitating. For once, she was on time — just a fluke, it hadn’t been intentional, and it meant she was going to have to sit silent and isolated as a wooden post while everyone around her exchanged morning breath and the requisite jokes. Of late, Brydan had been developing a
chipper relationship with the female oboist to his right. His conversation had a desperate edge, and he turned himself in his wheelchair so that he sat at a forty-five-degree angle to the front of the room, presenting Sal with his back until Pavvie gave a preliminary rap of the baton. Sal knew there was nothing personal in this; Brydan was simply talking at the girl because she happened to be there. Still, a steel rake clawed her gut every time she remembered that a week ago he would have been hard-pressed to remember the oboist’s last name.

Coming through the door, her eyes flicked dangerously toward the back row of risers. Most of the trumpet players were seated, a kaleidoscope of notes streaming from their instruments. At the center of the row sat Willis, trumpet on his knee, consulting with his music partner about a particular passage. As she entered, he looked up. Their eyes met, and she saw him the way he appeared to everyone else — dark shaggy hair, thick sideburns that begged to be stroked, intelligent eyes on the alert for every potential joke, and so tall that even sitting he loomed above the back row of trumpet players, drawing the Concert Band to its peak.

He saw her, and another level opened fleetingly in his face. For a second, it was there — a smile that opened inward, a window letting in light. Then his eyes dropped, and he was again consulting with his trumpet partner. Just inside the door, Sal stood alone in an uproar of saxophones, trombones, and a long unmitigated drumroll, bewildered at what had just come and gone. How could something that lasted a millisecond take her on a spin halfway around the world, its shimmering ache more real than anything she could touch with her hands?

Fetching clarinet #19, she maneuvered through the music stands and into her seat. Beside her, Brydan stiffened and launched into yet another scintillating conversation with the oboist. This morning, however, it hardly seemed to matter. This morning she floated above it all, caught in the ephemeral web of Willis Cass’s smile.

Snapping the latches on her clarinet case, she reached for her reed. There, tucked beside her cleaning swab, was a blue package of Zig-Zag cigarette papers.

Chapter Ten

The girl was always alone, like Sal. No one spoke to her, she drifted through the rush and shove of school hallways as if she was on an alternate plane of reality, visible only to those as lonely as she was. Tauni Morrison never looked at anyone, never began a conversation, never initiated contact in any way. Every noon hour she sat in a back corner of the cafeteria, eating her bag lunch in short quick bites, then disappeared into the library to bury herself in yet another book. Like Color to the Blind, Sal had seen her reading. Sensation and Perception. Shadow Syndromes. What could a kid like her possibly want with books like that?

She was a good student. When Sal racked her brains, she remembered Tauni’s name being called at last year’s award assembly. The MC had spoken her name several times into the mike, and polite applause had rippled across the auditorium, but no one had come forward to receive the plaque.

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.”