The Lottery (19 page)

And she needed him. “So, why d’you think I’m here?”

For the first time he looked startled, his dark eyes faltering.

“I could blow your cover,” she continued. “Squeal to Shadow, earn you a few demerits, maybe even get you kicked off.”

A flush blew across his face, and he worked up a rueful smile. She saw it — the interest she’d piqued, the fear.

“Okay,” he said. “So why are you here?”

She shrugged. “I’m not sure. Maybe I like it inside the question.”

He nodded, and the same pause touched them both.

“Why don’t you try it?” he asked. “Write some music for two parts and bring it next week.” Rifling through a stack of textbooks, he handed her a book of composition paper.

“Not that much,” she said, panicky. “Just one or two sheets.”

“I’ve got lots at home.”

Sal opened the softcovered book and stared at the empty pages of musical staffs. What kind of joke was this? Until a few weeks ago, she’d never even thought of practicing.

“Up there where the hawks fly,” said Willis. “All that blue. I’m in limbo too.”

Their eyes met. No, she wanted to tell him, it’s not the same, but he wouldn’t comprehend. Willis Cass had never been forced to live her kind of truth.

Chapter Thirteen

Sal sat on her footstool in the corner, a silent pair of eyes. Today most of Shadow Council had been late in arriving, and for the first time she’d been able to observe them coming through the door. As each member entered, she’d been startled to see them give the Sign of the Inside, even Willis. Gesture completed, his eyes had flicked toward her position in the corner where they’d rested a millisecond too long on her face. Then he’d folded his body casually into the burgundy armchair and drawled, “I am calling this shadowy meeting of S.C.’s ruling elite to order. Get your brains in gear, comrades. We are now officially think-tanking.”

It was Monday lunch hour. The weekend had been a bust — one long miserable trek from Superstore to Canadian Tire to Sears as Ms. Hanson had caught up on shopping. Both Sal and her mother loathed shopping, and the experience hadn’t brought them any closer. On top of this, Dusty had decided he was no longer speaking to Sal, and the weather
had been cold and rainy, keeping her indoors. Sal’s head buzzed and her eyes ached from too much
TV
. Hunched on the footstool, she sucked at the permanent raw spot clarinet #19 seemed to be donating to the inside of her bottom lip. The minutes dragged as the Celts’ business was discussed. Every time there was a knock at the door, she was called into the circle to sit on the couch, then summarily ordered back to the footstool when the teacher or club rep departed. Finally the air changed its pulse as the Celts took off their masks, Shadow Council emerged, and the session mutated into a general foraging session for potential targets and the best possible methods for destroying lives. Because that was what Shadow Council was, Sal thought, studying them — a predatory horde that fed on other people’s fear. What they did in this room was natural instinct for them, something they considered their right, their privilege. This session where they bartered, casually tossing malice back and forth, was like a hawk dreaming. To them, it was beautiful.

“Make Jean Maharaj strip in front of the entire cafeteria at rush hour, and make it my duty to jump her,” grinned Rolf.

“Give Brad Carter a repeat performance, only this time he streaks through a faculty meeting without a paper bag,” sang out Linda.

“Get a skinny minor niner crawling around under the chairs at the next assembly, gluing people’s shoes to the floor,” sniggered Ellen.

The hawk’s song was ecstasy to the hawk. To the prey that lived beneath it, the sound meant terror, but who had the right to tell the hawk it couldn’t be hawklike?

“Assign the chess club the duty of making a hundred toilet-paper carnations and sticking them all over Ms. Tuziak’s car with a Wish I Were Married sign,” said Marvin.

Ms. Tuziak was a front-office secretary, not Shadow Council’s usual prey. A cautious interest stole across Willis’s face. “Why Tuziak?”

“She and our esteemed Principal Wroblewski are having an affair,” said Marvin. “I saw them coming out of the Patricia Hotel together on Saturday afternoon. Real chummy.”

Thoughtful whistles pierced the air.

“The Pat?” Willis said scornfully. “Wroblewski should get some class. Okay, let’s get down to business. Who’s next on the target list?”

Rolf flipped through his binder. “Fawzia Evans, Chris Busatto, Ken Goodwin and Alexandra Horseley.”

Chris Busatto! Sal’s teeth dug into the inside of her lower lip, tearing off a flap of freshly healed skin. Kimmie’s older brother was a shy mumbler who talked inside his mouth and kept his eyes at knee level. Giving him a duty would be almost as mean as giving one to Tauni Morrison.

“Okay.” Willis stroked his chin. “Everyone focus. Fawzia Evans. Grade nine, right? Who’s been watching her?”

“I have.” Ellen squirmed nervously, tapping her knee. “She’s a library freak. Shelves books every lunch hour.”

“Why was she chosen?” asked Willis.

“Random,” said Rolf. “This was a Walk — the — Halls selection. I closed my eyes, took three steps, then opened them. Whoever I saw first went down on the list.”

“Marvelous,” said Willis, clapping several times. “Random patterning negates a single source.”

Rolf gave a contented beam.

“So we think of a library duty,” Willis continued, linking his hands behind his head. “Something in her natural biosphere. Something to do with shelving books.”

The air thickened with thought. It was obvious from Shadow Council’s overworked expressions that they didn’t spend much time in the library.

“Put the books upside down?” suggested Ellen tentatively.

Grunts met this proposal, and a disconsolate silence again took over the room. Leaned against the wall, Sal sucked a steady stream of blood from her lower lip as she sent her gaze back and forth across the group. Beneath her concern for Chris Busatto, a thought kept rippling through her brain like an underwater fish — something she couldn’t quite pull into words.

“Non-fiction,” said Linda suddenly. “Dewey decimal system. It’s got subject headings.”

“So?” asked Willis.

“So we get her to trade them around. Stack the geology section on the Shakespeare shelf, Shakespeare in the second world war section. Poetry in architecture, that kind of thing.”

“Brilliant,” said Willis, clapping again. “Understated. Subtle chaos. How about you and Rolf work out the details on that one?”

Linda nodded, her mouth twitching with satisfaction. Glancing at Marvin, she made a few chop-chop gestures. He chop-chopped back.

“Next target,” said Willis.

“Chris Busatto,” said Judy. “I studied him. He’s in grade eleven, kind of a blah kid. Puts in his time and gets the hell out.”

Sal chewed deeper into her lower lip. Was it possible they’d chosen Chris because of her friendship with Kimmie? Ex-friendship, she reminded herself bitterly. Shadow
Council would have nothing to gain by trying to get at her through her ex-best friend’s brother. Besides, Rolf had said this had been a random selection. Chris had merely been in the wrong place at the wrong time, like Fawzia Evans.

“A blah kid,” mused Willis, stroking his chin. “What about the assembly suggestion? Crawling under the chairs. There’s a Future Options assembly coming up for the grade eleven and twelve students later this week.”

“And he goes around gluing shoes to the floor?” Linda asked dubiously.

“No,” said Willis. “Asking for donations — any kind of donation. To the future of Wroblewski and Tuziak.”

A grin of sheer ecstasy rippled through the group.

“How big is Busatto?” asked Marvin.

“My height,” said Judy. “Short for a guy. He’s chubby though.”

“Even better,” smiled Willis. “Next target?”

So that was it — Chris had been processed for execution as casually as a fruit fly. Nothing had been mentioned about the personal details of his life, his night terrors, sleepwalking, and frequent appointments with the school counselor. Probably Shadow Council didn’t have access to this kind of information. Should she raise her hand and say something, expose Chris’s weakness? But wouldn’t the smell of blood bring the hawks in for a quicker kill?

He’s a blah kid — all things considered, this was probably Chris’s best camouflage.

“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.