The Lottery (3 page)

“I remember,” Sal said in her best supportive voice.

“Remember when she invited me to that Brad Pitt movie, then sent dweebie Ron Josephson to meet me instead of coming herself? I would never go out with Ron Josephson! He’s got velcro hands. I can still feel them stuck to my boobs.” Kimmie’s chest heaved.

“We’ll burn him too,” Sal murmured comfortingly.

“And remember that song she taught the kids? There was a verse about each counselor.” Kimmie warbled, choking out the words. “We’re from happy Camp Sunshine, we love all our counselors, Kimmie Bufatso, we’ll eat her for supper.”

“How did she ever get away with it?” Sal said wonderingly, repeating the question she’d asked the first time Kimmie had told this story.

“Oh, it’s just a mispronunciation.” Kimmie pitched her voice high, mimicking Linda’s mocking voice. “That’s what she’d say if anyone asked, but she taught it to the kids that way. She’d grin at me every time they sang it, and those little buggers loved to sing it. This afternoon I passed her in the hall at school, and she sang the whole verse to me. Real loud — everyone heard it.”

Kimmie’s lips tightened, and she gazed stonily into the candle flame. A quick anger grabbed Sal’s throat. Kimmie was always on some kind of diet and looking for a pair of jeans that would make her look thinner. She’d try on four or five outfits every morning before she left for school, moaning her way through each one. She wasn’t that chubby, but nothing Sal said made any difference. Kimmie believed she looked like the Michelin Tire Man, and the slightest comment about her figure sent her into a funk for days.

“Allow me,” said Sal, reaching for one of the Linda Paboni cutouts.

“No,” said Kimmie, chewing fiercely on her ponytail. “It’s my karma, I want to do it.”

“Why don’t you burn the whole pile at once?” suggested Sal, sinking back into her sprawl. “Blow her sky-high.”

“Genius thinking, Sal.” Clamping the pile of clippings with her tweezers, Kimmie fed them to the flame, and an entire school year of Linda Paboni’s acid comments and dirty tricks went up in a brilliant whoosh. Lying on her back, Sal watched the airborne embers with a kind of awe. Fragments of Linda Paboni’s demise swirled above the candle on aimless demon wings.

“That felt so good,” sighed Kimmie, rubbing more soot into her tear-smudged makeup. “If she sings that damn song again, can I borrow your yearbook for another burn?”

“My yearbook is your yearbook,” promised Sal. “But I think we should write a Sunshine Happy Day camper verse about her and sing it the next time we pass her in the hall.”

“Can’t,” said Kimmie immediately. “It’d be instant death. She made Shadow this year, didn’t you know?”

“No,” Sal faltered, a sudden ooze opening in her brain. “I didn’t.”

“She made Shadow, so she’s untouchable.” Scooping Linda Paboni’s ashes into a neat pile, Kimmie scattered them again with a vengeful breath. “But I feel better. I thought about doing this alone, but I wanted you to be here. Just because ... well, y’know.”

“Don’t worry.” Sal traced her fingers through the ashes, sketching the meaningless pattern of her thoughts. “She’s toast now, and your psyche has been completely reborn.”

“Maybe.” Leaning forward, Kimmie blew out the candle with a sharp hard gust.

Dusty was at the wheel, the cassette deck blasting AC/ DC, while his best friend Lizard hung out the passenger window, giving a running commentary on what he called the “sidewalk scenery.” Sandwiched between them, Sal braced her knees against the dash in a vain attempt to avoid anything remotely resembling a hairy, jitterbugging, male leg. It was 7:45, the evening yet young, all three of them sucking down Slurpees as Dusty tooled along Broadway Avenue, headed for the suburbs and slower-moving life forms. Sal’s birthday was in the spring, but Dusty had decided she needed a lot of practice well ahead of her driver’s exam to work up her confidence. Although this also had their mother’s overwhelming approval, Sal figured her confidence was already well-worked. She intended to ace that exam mid-afternoon on the day of her birth. Sweet sixteen and she’d be sweet behind the wheel, cruising every available millimeter of asphalt — she’d know Saskatoon like the back of her hand.

Suddenly curious, Sal held up the back of her hand and squinted at it. She could see nothing of interest, just a plethora of small blond hairs, another plethora of small brown freckles, and three or four bumpy blue veins. It was actually quite a dumb saying — no one ever bothered to look at the back of their hand. Now, if she was going to invent a cliché, she’d come up with one that made sense, something like “She knew Saskatoon like the tip of her nose.” Everyone carried around a detailed soul-destroying map of the nose-zone blackheads and zits they’d groaned over that morning in the mirror.

Noting Sal’s intense interest in her hand, Lizard grabbed her wrist and mashed his face into her palm.
“Yup,” he proclaimed loudly. “Definitely not human. Definitely the body part of an alien.”

“Dusty!” Sal shrieked. Lizard was busily rubbing his oily greasy nose into her palm, infecting her with several deadly viruses. Talk about aliens — the guy acted as if he came from the planet of reverse social functions, where “please” and “thank you” were swear words.

Dusty whooped and turned down a side street. “Re-lease the alien, Liz,” he ordered. “She’s about to take us into deep space.”

Sticking out his meaty tongue, Lizard swiped it all over Sal’s hand before leaning back with a satisfied smirk. Horrified, she stared at the gob glimmering on her skin. Talk about germ warfare. She hated it when her brother’s friends treated her like a fifteen-year-old doormat, somebody’s pet.

“Hey, Sal!” Dusty was standing outside the car, holding the driver’s door open. “Earth to Sal.”

Climbing out, she grabbed the front of his t-shirt and used it to wipe all foreign body fluids from her hand. “Where do you get your friends?” she hissed. “The mirror?”

Dusty parked his butt in the middle of the front seat and drained the last of his Slurpee. “Okay, this is major clutch time, got it? We’re gonna let Sal lurch and jerk and whiplash our brains until she’s slipping gears like a well-oiled machine.”

The car was at least a decade older than Sal, an ancient Volvo with an insane muffler their mother was always ordering Dusty to get fixed. Dusty liked noise. With the kind of parties he attended, he said no one would hear him coming unless he ran a sonic boom off his muffler that
could be heard at least a kilometer in advance of his arrival. Winters, he stored his hockey equipment in the back seat. Summers, it was basketballs, soccer balls, frisbees, and all the laundry he hadn’t gotten around to “doing something about’’ yet. The car was an armpit. Sal wouldn’t go near it unless he opened all the windows and drove up and down the block first, airing it out. Or unless she needed a driving lesson.

Sliding behind the wheel, she slurped the last of her drink and tossed the empty container onto the floor beside Lizard’s feet. Technically, she and Dusty were family — they had the same last name, blood type, narrow face and brown hair, even a similar style of gold-rimmed glasses. Everyone seeing them together for the first time commented on how much they looked alike, but still Dusty could be counted on to side with his rat-fink friends every time. She’d just have to deal with this one herself. Cautiously, Sal slid Lizard a sideways glance. Brush cut, baseball cap on backwards, smug grin all over his broad tanned face. Hmm. White t-shirt, three-quarters of a Slurpee to go. The world was his oyster. Sal looked around quickly, but no traffic could be seen coming down this side of Taylor Street. Unsuspecting, Lizard lifted the 7-Eleven cup to his lips.

Grinding into first, Sal stalled with a mighty lurch, and Lizard was snorting Pepsi ice crystals, spilling them all over his snow-white shirt.

“Sal!” Dusty howled. “I do NOT like that sound.”

Sal collapsed against the driver’s door, convulsed with helpless giggles.

“Get her!” Lizard choked, lunging toward her. His face streamed Pepsi rivulets. Ice crystals decorated his hair.

“Don’t be such a nit, Liz.” Leaning forward, Dusty effectively blocked Lizard’s access to Sal’s throat. “You know Sal and first gear. It was an accident.”

“Ah!” cried Lizard, lifting both hands in a gesture of defeat. “An accident. Of course.” He slumped against the seat, tugging disgustedly at his soaked t-shirt. Sal’s giggles accelerated into the hyperventilation stage.

“Not too subtle, sis,” Dusty hissed, then turned down AC/DC and announced loudly, “Okay, let’s get this show on the road. How ‘bout you turn in there, Sal?”

Crunching into first gear, Sal turned into the indicated parking lot and surveyed the possibilities. It was the teachers’ parking area at Walter Murray Collegiate, which meant she was on enemy turf. Year after year, Walter Murray wiped their feet on S.C. in sports events. Maybe she could take out the parking lot barrier fence, or leave a skid mark as her signature. She’d watched Dusty spin enough donuts — all it took was a quick turn of the wheel. And Lizard still had a third of his Slurpee to go ...

Dusty’s firm hand came down on the wheel. “Whoa, Sal. Whatever it is you’re thinking about doing, you can stop thinking about doing it right now!”

Sal put on a very docile look. So, it was to be yet another boring driving lesson. Moping visibly, she drove back and forth across the asphalt as per Dusty’s instructions, approximately one hundred kilometers per second behind her imagination.

“That’s good,” purred Dusty, locking his hands behind his head and stretching. “Now, shift second into third. So good, Sal, soooo good. Now, slow it down. Beeeautiful. Put it in reverse. Gooood. I like that sound, Sal, I like it just fine. Now, first to second ...”

“So, S.C. found out who this year’s lottery winner is yet?”

They were driving back across the city, Dusty at the wheel, AC/DC once again ruling the ionosphere. Lizard had asked the question. Trapped in his lap, Sal was wrapped tightly in his arms. When she and Dusty had switched places, Lizard had come in for the kill, pouring the rest of his Slurpee down the front of her t-shirt and pressing his own soaked t-shirt to her back. Obviously, he’d missed the point — his t-shirt was white, hers was black — but she didn’t bother explaining. Or struggling. Lizard loved a victim.

“No,” Sal replied, ignoring a sudden scattering of heartbeats.

“Shadow’s late this year,” Lizard commented.

“They still pulling that crap?” asked Dusty.

Sal shot him a glance. His mouth had tightened, two lines pulling down the right corner. She knew the signs — this one was the prelude to a gigantic mood switch.

“Hey, it’s a tradition,” Lizard said shortly. “Goes back over thirty years, to the early 70s.”

“So do the Bee Gees,” scoffed Dusty. “Garbage can of history, man.”

“The lotto winner gets perks.” Lizard’s left knee started jiggling.

“Kiss-my-ass perks.” Dusty’s fingers slapped erratically against the steering wheel. Abruptly, he leaned over and turned up the volume on the cassette deck. Lizard said nothing, his left knee manic. The sudden tension in the car made AC/DC sound like an understatement. Lizard’s profile was fixed in a rigid glare out the side window, every part of his face mirroring Dusty’s frowning stare out the front. Why would a casual reference to the lottery winner
set them off like this? Sal gave a tentative wriggle to see if the change in mood meant she’d escaped Lizard’s reptilian consciousness, but his arms tightened immediately. If he didn’t forgive her soon, their clothes would dry, pasting them together for life.

“Uh, Liz?” This had to be done real casual — so smooth, the question would seem to be asking itself.

“Huh?”

She could feel the word form in his stomach. No surprise — that was where his brain usually hung out. “You were on Shadow Council, weren’t you?”

“How’d you know that?”

“You’re in the Celts’ yearbook picture.”

“Oh yeah.” Lizard started rolling down the rim of his Slurpee cup. “What were you doing looking that far back?”

She was keeping it cool, her voice careful as a creeping cat. Leave no obvious tracks. “You guys graduated two years ago. It’s not ancient history.”

“Guess not,” said Lizard. Dusty’s fingers continued to slap the steering wheel, a short hard staccato, full of the unspoken. “Yeah,” Lizard muttered uneasily. “I was on Shadow during my grad year.”

“So,” hedged Sal. “Exactly how does the lottery winner get informed? There’s a scroll, right?”

“Black ribbon, red seal,” Lizard said promptly. “Delivered directly to the lottery winner, and then the good times begin.”

Dusty snorted and Sal shot him a runaway glance. This was getting really interesting, but she knew her brother — if she asked him anything straight out, he’d slam the lid on everything.

“So, uh, what does the scroll say?”

“That’s a secret between Shadow and the lottery winner,” Lizard said immediately. “Internal security. Dead secret or I’m dead, even two years after I graduated.”

“But the scroll does say something, doesn’t it?” Sal probed carefully.

“Yeah, sure it does. Otherwise, why send it?”

“And there’s only one?” Sal’s heart was picking up the pace.

“Yeah, there’s only one scroll.” Lizard was beginning to sound confused. “One scroll, secret message, black ribbon, red seal. It’s legend, everyone knows it.”

“What’re you asking for, Sal?” Dusty shut off AC/ DC. They were stopped for a red light, his face turned toward hers, holding the intense scrutiny he reserved for her. They both had their father’s eyes — large, greenish-hazel. Sometimes, when Dusty looked directly at her, it was like staring straight into her own mind, the eyes of someone who could see deep inside, someone who knew. She’d choke, the air suddenly dark, the ground going into a swerve beneath her feet.

“Just wondering,” Sal said coolly, leaning against Lizard’s sticky chest and bracing her knees against the dash. “Everyone wonders, y’know. That sucker could be anyone.”

“One lucky bastard a year,” Lizard said evenly, still staring out the side window.

“Just so long as it wasn’t you, eh, Liz?” Dusty asked quietly. The light turned green and he ground the gears into first, lurching the car across the intersection.