Free Icy Sparks by Gwyn Hyman Rubio Page A

time during the day, even more enjoyable than recess because all I had to do was listen.
    â€œâ€˜The Lottery,’ by Shirley Jackson,” Mrs. Stilton began. She read to us about a peaceful little town, not unlike Ginseng, where every summer the townsfolk gathered together in the square to participate in a drawing. So this will be a happy story, I decided, wiggling my toes, feeling them relax inside my patent-leather shoes. Janie Lou had told me that St. Michael’s Church in Dewberry, where Mrs. Stilton worshiped, had bingo every Saturday. “Catholics love gambling,” Janie Lou had said. So suddenly it seemed right and proper that Mrs. Stilton would be reading a story about a lottery.
    In the story, the children were the first ones to come to the square. They were out of school for the summer and had too much free time on their hands.
    Clearing her throat, Mrs. Stilton lowered the book, looked up at us, and asked, “Class, does this little town sound familiar?” I lifted my head slightly above my folded arms and saw an eerie smile creeping over her face. “Does this little town sound familiar?” she repeated.
    â€œYes, ma’am,” the students said.
    â€œYes, ma’am,” I mumbled, saliva painting my arm.
    â€œWhy?” Mrs. Stilton asked.
    â€œBecause it’s small, like Ginseng,” Lucy Daniels said.
    â€œWhat else?” Mrs. Stilton asked.
    â€œBecause it has coal and farmers and tractors,” Irwin Leach said.
    I wondered if Shirley Jackson was from a small Kentucky town. I sat up and raised my hand. Ginseng was bigger than the town in her story; but still, they were alike.
    â€œWhat is it, Icy?” Mrs. Stilton said.
    â€œIs Shirley Jackson from Kentucky?”
    Mrs. Stilton scowled. Ignoring me, she said, “Class, I just wanted to see if you were paying attention.”
    I’ll have to be more careful, I thought, again resting my head in my arms. Mrs. Stilton was reading to us, but that didn’t mean she had changed.
    I closed my eyes again, and my mind drifted off, conjuring up my own fantasies. Ginseng could have its own drawing, and it would be fun! Grand, even! Much better than the one in the story. A convertible from Don Scoggin’s Used Car Lot would go to the winner. In my mind’s eye, I saw the whole of Ginseng gathering around the courthouse on a clear, sunny morning. Matanni and Patanni were there, along with Miss Emily. Even Mamie Tillman was present. She was smiling, and her stomach was flat. Mayor Anglin, who was in charge, put his finger to his lips and hushed the crowd. “Citizens of Ginseng, I now declare the drawing open,” he said in a serious voice.
    I fancied myself waiting for the winner’s name to be called. Nervously, I stood on one foot, then the other, not expecting to win. Never had my luck been good. Still, I was hopeful. I imagined Matanni and Patanni with their fingers crossed and saw Miss Emily, holding her breath. Slowly, Mayor Anglin lifted the top off an old cracker barrel, inserted his fat hand inside, swished around the slips of paper, and dramatically selected one. His face contorted as he held the slip—arm’s length from his eyes—swallowed deeply, and grandly announced, “The winner of this year’s Chevy convertible is Miss Icy Sparks!”
    Feeling light-headed, I slumped forward.
    â€œCome on up here!” he yelled with a broad wave of his arm.
    Patanni grabbed me under the armpits and pulled me up while Miss Emily retrieved an ice cube from her cup and pressed it against my forehead. Quickly, I revived. With my head held high, I walked forward, stopping reverently in front of Mayor Anglin, and extended my palm.
    â€œCongratulations!” he said, before dropping a set of silver keys into my hand.
    Eagerly, my fingers wrapped around them.
    All at once, my baby-blue convertible was whipping around mountain curves. With my blond hair streaming behind