The Earth Dwellers

I might be only twelve years old, but even I don’t think it feels like the right rules. I mean, what if my dad gets picked and not my mom? Or my sister, Tina, and not me? Or what if everyone except me gets picked? What would I do then? Who will I live with until the meteor comes?

But there’s no arguing with the government people. Once they decide something, that’s it. End of story. Only for the rest of us, it’s not the end of the story—it’s only the begi

My mom gave me this diary this morning so I could “share my experiences and pass them down to my children.” I think she’s being rather optimistic, but I didn’t tell her that. I’m scared I’m not doing a very good job with it so far; I mean, I haven’t even told you my name. A

At school I have lots of friends, but it’s not like I’m stuck up about it or anything. I just get along with most people, I guess. Not that we have school anymore. Ever since the a

It’s been a little boring, too, so I started playing this game I made up. I cut up a hundred strips of paper. On four of them I wrote “A

My parents are out for some registration thing they had to do in advance of The Lottery tonight, and my sister is in her room listening to her iPod and obsessing over some guy that she hopes will get chosen with her. She thinks it would be so romantic to go underground with this guy, like something out of a movie. Although I’ve seen the guy, and he is cute, this isn’t a movie. In any case, I’m alone again so I play my game for another two hours. I pick out one hundred and thirty three strips of paper.

None of them have a name on it.

Not a good sign for tonight.

I’m thankful when my parents get home because I’m feeling depressed about the game. I don’t tell my mom though because she’s been telling me all week not to play it.

Mom makes lunch—salami and provolone cheese, my favorite!—while Dad scoops ice cream into tall glasses and pours Root beer on top. All the while they keep up a constant chatter about how nice and su

After lunch, the day whizzes by, like it’s sprouted wings and flown south for the winter. Tina refuses to come out of her room. I don’t feel like going outside either, but I finally give in to my parents and follow them to the backyard. We sit cross-legged in the grass for a while, which feels weird and awkward, probably because it’s something we’ve never done before—I mean, why would we?

Dad has a ball, which we pass around. Each time someone catches it, they have to say something that they love about the person who threw it to them. Although I know what Tina would call the game—“Totally cheese ball!”—I kind of like it. Not only do my parents say some really nice things about me—my dad says I’m “as pretty as a flower,” and my mom says my sense of humor “is as good as your father’s,” which is saying something, because Dad’s pretty fu

Tina finally makes an appearance, although she doesn’t talk much, just types out “later texts” on her phone, which I guess are texts she’ll send to Brady—her guy—after The Lottery is over. She says they’re all positive messages which will help their karma, so they both get picked. I don’t ask her what messages she’s sending for me so I’ll get picked. I also don’t tell her that she never gets chosen in my game.

Di

When we finish, we get dressed in nice clothes, as if we’re going to church. Dad says there will be lots of photographers at each of the local Lotteries, taking pictures for future history books. I wear a medium-length purple dress with amethyst beading that Tina once admitted makes me look “all grown up.” When we meet downstairs she gives me a nod as if to say, “Nice choice,” which makes me smile. She, on the other hand, tries to slip past Dad in a tiny black skirt and a tight, low-cut red blouse. He makes her change twice before she finally gets it right. I guess even on Lottery Day, he’s still a dad.

Dad wears his best suit and a pink tie that almost makes him look like another person. Mom is in her favorite blue gown—the one with all the sparkles.

Like everyone else, we walk to the school, where The Lottery will be held. It’s slow going, because Tina and Mom are wearing heels, clopping along with short strides. I’m glad I wore my ballet flats.

Dozens of other families are doing the same, and we greet many of them with cheerful cries of “Hello!” and “How are you?” They answer with the same forced cheerfulness.

We arrive at the school and enter the auditorium through the propped-open double doors. Dad hands some papers to man at a desk who then signals us forward. Already the hall is half full. Ushers direct us up one of the aisles and into the next available row. Normally I’d want to sit by one of my friends, Maddy or Bridget or Haley, who I spot sitting a few rows forward, but I know tonight is meant to be spent with family. Even Tina sits with us, which she never does these days.

Despite all the greetings and warm wishes that were exchanged outside of the auditorium doors, once inside, no one speaks to each other, or even smiles. It’s like we all know that the others are our enemies, people who will strip us of our wi

Not long after we arrive, the auditorium fills up. I stare at the empty stage, where I once stood dressed like a tree in the school play, The Wizard of Oz. Now it looks barren and desolate, like a hot, dusty stretch of desert. Mom checks her watch and shows it to me: one minute until eight o’clock. Time for The Lottery.

She squeezes my hand and holds on.

All is silent in the hall, not even a whispered comment breaking the quiet. Footsteps echo onto the stage as a man who I recognize from TV moves across to a podium in the center. A local politician. The mayor or governor or something like that. The man in charge tonight.

When he reaches the stand, the microphone cuts his face in half, so he lowers it until it’s even with his lips. He speaks, his voice magnified and deep, like the real Wizard of Oz from the movie.

“Residents of the Sawcutter School District of the great state of Pe