The Lottery by Beth Goobie Page B

of the stairs, she was in a full-out run, headed across the lawn.
    “Hey, wait up!” called Tina, racing after her. “What’s the rush?”
    So that had been it — the moment come and gone. Watching her best friend disappear into the crowd, Sal methodically chewed the inside of her lower lip to a bloodypulp. It hadn’t been that bad, not really. They hadn’t had to fake their way through explanations, hadn’t even had to choke out a single word. It was simply, suddenly, all over — decided, just like that.
    Waiting until the stairs cleared, she fought her way out of the fir trees’ manic embrace.
    The bike racks were half-empty, a few kids standing around chatting. As she bent to unlock her bike, she could feel the glances, but no one commented or acknowledged her in any way. Straightening, she felt the sky like an enormous boulder pressing down on her back. This, then, was the size and weight of loneliness — everything outside herself. Backing her bike slowly out of the rack, she considered swinging onto the seat but felt too exhausted to do anything but walk.
    “Sal!”
    For a moment it didn’t register — the wheelchair coasting toward her, the guy with the glasses, goofy grin and oversized ears cruising both sides of his head. Then meaning broke through the numbness, and relief hit her so violently she felt torn open, end to end. Brydan Wallace was speaking to her. She wasn’t alone. Shadow Council didn’t rule.
    “Hey Bry — where’s the clarinet? Shirking your musical fate yet again?” Biting down on the tremble in her mouth, she looped her chain-lock around her bike seat.
    “Don’t want to overdo things.” Popping a dramatic wheelie, Brydan came to a halt beside her. “Strain these talented lips.”
    “Got big plans for those lips?”
    “Big plans,” he said, flushing slightly. “Monumental plans.”
    They started off down the sidewalk, the flow of students parting to make room for Brydan’s wheelchair. Keeping her head down, Sal coasted through the heavy thud of her heart. It was only a matter of time before someone turned and commented, Brydan realized his mistake, and absolute loneliness descended upon her again.
    “This way,” he said, heading down a driveway to avoid the upcoming curb. His map of Saskatoon looked very different from most people’s. Large Xs popped up everywhere: don’t go here, don’t even think about going there. Before meeting him, Sal had never considered the height of the average curb — just one step up from the base of the average wheel.
    “Y’know,” said Brydan, veering around a parked car. “I used to have a girlfriend who could put her entire hand in her mouth. She could even get half her foot in.”
    “Now that’s using your lips.” In spite of everything, Sal grinned. Turning at the corner, they left the stream of students behind. A car passed slowly, the girl at the wheel belting out an enthusiastic monotone to a song on the radio.
    “She’s really good at that note,” commented Brydan. “If she and I got together, we could sing a great minor third.”
    “That’d be a great future for your lips.”
    “Mmm,” said Brydan, and Sal drifted on the thinking sound of his voice, trying to decipher his thoughts. Would he bring it up? Would he want to talk about it? He was probably wondering the same thing about her, but whatif he hadn’t heard? How could she face the moment his face turned inside out and his friendliness vanished?
    Coasting to a stop, Brydan pulled a package of Du-Maurier from his shirt pocket and lit up. “Want one?” he asked, quirking an eyebrow.
    “No thanks.”
    “You a nicotine virgin?”
    “I tried it once,” Sal said. “Way back in grade five. I stole one of my brother Dusty’s cigarettes and went into the bathroom on the first floor. I thought I had it all worked out so I wouldn’t get caught — I even blew the smoke out the window so Mom wouldn’t smell it.”
    “Did you inhale?”
    “Nope. My lungs are