The Lottery (11 page)

Chapter Eight

“Ready for a higher gear?” Dangling his car keys, Dusty lounged in the bedroom doorway. “Learner’s permit heaven, coming right up.”

“Where’s Lizard?” Sprawled on her bed, Sal regarded her brother over a Batman comic.

“Sucking Slurpees somewhere else,” he replied. “C’mon, I drove all the way home with my windows open, airing out my car for your supreme nostrils.”

“Mmm,” said Sal. “I’ll need a Slurpee.”

“Slurpees are essential to a learning driver’s focus,” agreed her brother.

“And a bag of Doritos.”

“You drive a hard bargain, fair lady.” Dusty clapped a hand over his heart. “But moonlight hath no pleasure without your fair company.”

“That’s two ‘fair’s’ in two sentences,” Sal pointed out severely. “You’re going to have to work on your adjectives.”

“And you could use some work on your gratitude.” Dusty tossed her the car keys. “You’re taking us on a back-alley tour to the 7-Eleven for Slurpees.”

“Back alleys!” wailed Sal. “Give me Broadway Avenue, the Lawson Heights Mall!”

“Back alleys,” scowled her brother, “at a top speed of ten klicks. Come along, little roadrunner.”

Ten minutes later she was putt-putting up and down central Saskatoon’s back-alley garbage route while Dusty lounged in the passenger seat, subjecting her to his creative instruction techniques. “Watch out for the baby crawling out from behind that garbage bin,” he said casually, his head resting against the back of the seat.

“What baby?” screeched Sal, slamming on the brakes.

“Not a real baby,” grumbled Dusty, peeling himself off the dash. “A metaphorical baby. Always drive past every parked car as if a baby was about to crawl out from behind it. Metaphorical babies should always be on a good driver’s mind.”

“I wish I had a metaphorical brother,” muttered Sal, edging her foot off the brake. An uneasy silence descended as she practiced U-turns in the parking lot of a Mennonite church. Dusty was pulling at his lower lip, extending it like a wad of chewing gum. Something was definitely brewing in her brother’s psych-major brain — Sal could feel him peering at her through a metaphorical hedge, trying to figure her out. Sudden understanding flared through her. This wasn’t a casual off-the-cuff driving lesson, it was a setup. As she nosed the car out of the parking lot and down the alley, Dusty emitted a delicate sigh. She braced herself.

“Sally-Sis,” he asked softly, “what’s wrong? What’s got you lower than a carpet?”

He looked deeply stressed, as if asking the question
broke some cosmic privacy rule. Avoiding her pointed glance, he squinted straight ahead, his eyes rescuing metaphorical babies from every imaginable catastrophe. When Dusty was fifteen, the family dog Spot had died of overdone old age. Dusty had cried for weeks, until their mother had flat-out refused to get another pet. Dusty had a heart like a cooked beet — soft, the color of a deep bruise.

“Nothing’s wrong.” Sal’s voice was unnecessarily loud, a thick shoulder of a voice. “You’re taking too many psych courses, okay?”

Dusty cleared his throat tentatively. “Look Sal, maybe you think I don’t pay attention, but I have noticed that Kimmie hasn’t been around lately. I’ve ... been watching you, and you seem different. Quieter. It’s not like — ”

“I’m quieter tonight because of you and all your goddam metaphorical babies!” Sal was a capped volcano about to explode, her fury so sudden she felt dizzy. “How d’you expect me to learn to drive if I’ve got to worry about babies crawling out of everywhere? Don’t you remember what happened to me in a car? D’you think it’s easy — ”

Her brain tilted and the scene in front of her changed, the back alley swerving into darkness, headlights making their fateful brilliant arc across a two-lane highway. Screaming, there was that screaming again, the sound of high-pitched terror.

“Sal. Sally-Sis, it’s okay, you’re okay now.” Dusty’s arm tightened around her shoulders and she hunched over the steering wheel, locked into dry heaves. “It’s okay,” he kept repeating, a soft mantra in her ear. “Everything’s okay now.”

“What?” she asked, groggy as if coming out of deep sleep, the right side of her brain split with pain. She wished someone would pull the axe out of her head. “What happened?”

“It’s me,” Dusty said softly. “I’m a stupid ass, that’s all. You want me to drive?”

She noticed his foot rammed on the brake. “Did I hit something?”

“No, everything’s fine. You just need a break.”

“My head hurts. Right here.” She touched her right temple.

“Just a headache. All those metaphorical babies, like you said.”

“I guess.” Sal climbed in the passenger door completely exhausted, as if she’d been swimming through mud. Giving Dusty her back, she curled into the upholstery’s familiar sag — it cradled her like a friend, the kind who’d never desert her, never go wrong. Warm tears slid down her cheek and she wanted to suck her thumb. How could Dusty ask such dumb questions when it was obvious she was stressed out about a landscape teeming with crawling infants? Babies could really scoot when they got going. What if she hit one of them? Even metaphorical babies bled. Dusty should know better than to stress her out with metaphors that had anything to do with car accidents and blood.

Nuzzling the upholstery, she was asleep before the car reached the end of the alley.

“What the hell d’you think you’re doing?” snapped Linda Paboni.

Sal stood before them a second time, one hand on the doorknob, half in, half out of the open doorway. Facing her was the full circle of Shadow Council’s power, nine of the most influential students in the school. Members of Student Council, Athletic Council, and the prominent clubs,
they’d all been chosen for the respect they commanded from their peers. Each one maintained a B+ average or higher — there were no slackers here, no third clarinetists. Linda Paboni had been one of last year’s Citizenship Cup recipients.

Sal opted for a numb silence. She had no idea what she was doing, why she’d been summoned, if she could answer this question without demerits, or if her stomach would survive its current battery-acid state.

“Come in,” said Willis, his voice picking up her feet and moving her into the room. Somehow the door closed behind her.

It was Tuesday morning, 8:10. Five minutes late for band practice, she’d arrived to find Rolf waiting outside the music room. Raising the three fingers on his right hand, he’d said, “Follow,” then turned and started off down the empty hall.

She’d followed.

“Come sit down,” said Willis, and she walked the tightrope of his voice toward the footstool at the center of the circle. Seated, she watched his long hypnotic fingers stroke his chin.

“Yesterday,” said Willis, “you received your first duty.”

Sal hesitated. It wasn’t exactly a question, but he seemed to expect a reply. Keeping her eyes on his chin, she nodded.

“And what was this duty?”

“To deliver the plastic tabs.”

“Deliver them where?” asked Willis.

She was beginning to get it. One side of her brain took a sickening lurch into the other. “To the names on the list.”

“Exactly!” snapped Linda Paboni.

An electric current was lifting tiny hairs up and down the length of Sal’s back, but she fought the urge to swivel around and face the vampire queen. So this was the reason she’d been placed at the center of a circle — no matter which direction she faced, she was in a position of weakness.

“Then why the hell did you give three tabs to teachers?” This voice came from Sal’s left. If she turned her head slightly, she could just see the guy. He looked jockish. What was his name — Mark? No, Marvin Fissett.

“But they weren’t in their homerooms,” Sal protested faintly. “How was I supposed to find them? I didn’t even know who most of them were.”

“Ask around,” hissed the girl seated beside Willis. Not, Sal noted, Ellen Petric. Today it was Judy Sinclair — another drama star.

“But no one will talk to me,” said Sal. “No one’s allowed to talk to the lottery winner.”

“That doesn’t mean you go handing Shadow business to teachers,” snapped Linda. “You never, ever, involve teachers.”

Sal swallowed acid and took a chance. “But how do I find out who a target is if I can’t ask anyone for help?”

The room settled into a pause as everyone digested her question.

“She is in grade ten,” Rolf said finally, doodling in his secretary’s binder. “Jenny was in grade eleven — she knew just about everyone.”

“What did they do other years when the victim was in grade nine or ten?” asked Judy.

“Before Jenny, the victim was Carlos Ferraro. He was in
grade twelve. Before that it was Ian Ecott, grade eleven.” Rolf shrugged. “Before that was before my time. Anyone else remember?”

“There was a grade nine victim five years ago,” said Willis.

“Oh yeah.” Linda sounded thoughtful. “How did Shadow handle that one?”

“Before my time,” Willis shrugged.

“We’ll have to give her the sign,” Rolf said suddenly.

“I don’t think so.” Linda’s tone made her distaste for the suggestion obvious.

“Why not?” asked Rolf.

“We shouldn’t be handing out signs to victims,” said Linda.

“It’s just one victim,” said Willis, “and one sign.”

“I don’t like it,” said Linda.

“Got any other suggestions?” Willis asked softly.

“No,” said Linda huffily. “I don’t.”

“Rolf, teach her the sign,” said Willis.

“Victim, turn to receive the sign,” said Rolf.

Sal’s stomach was about to give up the biscuit big time. She swung a dizzy quarter circle toward Rolf, and Linda Paboni came into view, her long red hair scooped into a utilitarian ponytail, her thin body hunched like a ferret’s. If anyone was typecast for Shadow Council, it was Linda. She was on the yearbook and cafeteria committees as well as Athletic Council, and had joined various teams and clubs, even Masks and Selves, the creative writing group. The entire school cringed before her presence. Wherever she went she left a trail of blood.

“This is the Sign of the Inside,” said Rolf, raising his left index finger and rubbing the left side of his nose.
“When you use this sign, anyone who knows it will offer you assistance.”

Sal raised her hand.

“Victim may speak,” said Rolf.

“How will I know who knows the sign?” asked Sal.

“Use it and you’ll find out,” snapped Linda.

Sal raised her hand again.

“Victim may speak,” said Rolf.

“What if no one around me knows the sign?”

“Someone will,” said Rolf. “Like Linda said, you’ll find out.”

“But you use it only for Shadow business,” Linda said sharply. “If we find out you’ve been using it for anything else, there’ll be retribution. Just like there should be for delivering those tabs to teachers. One demerit, at least.”

“No demerit,” said Willis.

All eyes swung toward Willis, Sal traveling her footstool until she once again faced Shadow Council’s president.

“Her instructions were unclear,” said Willis. “They didn’t say deliver directly to the names on the list, it just said deliver. If we’re unclear, this is what happens.”

“But to a teacher?” demanded Linda.

“She won’t do it again,” said Willis. “Who was responsible for the instructions?”

“I was,” said Ellen Petric miserably. “But I didn’t know she was that stupid.”

“Ellen gets one demerit,” said Willis casually. “Victim dismissed.”

The air vibrated with frank astonishment as Shadow Council’s eight other members stared at their president. Rocked by a wave of nausea, Sal clutched her seat. She’d definitely been on one too many rotations around the footstool.

“Victim dismissed,” Willis repeated, looking directly at her, his face devoid of friendliness.

The invisible leash tightened around Sal’s throat, jerking her to her feet and dragging her to the door. Hand on the knob, she paused, waiting for a last set of instructions, but none came. Then she was through the door and beyond it, bent double in the empty hallway, gasping and gasping as if she’d never before breathed free air.

The line to the till inched forward. A package of tampons in her hand, Sal shifted her weight to the other foot and heaved an enormous sigh. It was a busy day at Shoppers Drug Mart. Everyone seemed to be buying cigarettes and lottery tickets, and paying for them with their bank cards. If only there was a separate line for emergency purchases like tampons. She always tried to mark her period due date on her bedroom calendar, but there’d been so much on her mind this month that she’d forgotten it. Actually, she usually forgot it. Anything that had to do with blood freaked her out, even that kind of blood, the kind that gave life.

Miserably she recounted heads — still eight people in the line ahead of her. In the past five minutes, the clerk had processed two customers. Today everyone was buying lottery tickets. It had to be a big jackpot. Curious, Sal watched the lottery hotline and there it came, the neon letters splitting, then rejoining and flashing. This week the Super 7 was worth fifteen million bucks. No wonder so many Saskatooners were lining up to buy tickets. All across the country, there were probably millions standing in lines like this one, waiting to invest in their lucky numbers. Out of all those dreamers would emerge several fluke winners,
their numbers selected by chance. It was a weird system, Sal thought. All those guaranteed losers paying for the dreams of a few winners, yet everyone seemed feverishly eager to fork over their last dollar. Why would so many people invest in a system with such lousy odds, instead of going out and creating their own happiness?