The school uses a lottery system for tiny students. Basically another lottery on top of the one just for getting in. There aren’t many tiny-accessible classes, and a lot of them are spread out from each other. The tram only takes people to The Block and back. If you want specific classes for your degree, you need to trade for it. I wasn’t too far off from what I needed for my English degree.
A lot of stuff is a lottery for us, you know? I feel lucky to be alive, to be here with you, and to go to this school. So many of us have it much worse. It’s not like we’re miserable all the time, I think the context makes life even more worth living. I had to fight to survive to get here. I have to keep fighting. Everyone does whatever it takes. That’s what I need you to understand. We will do whatever it takes to survive.
“Doesn’t that mean..?”
“I’m getting there.”
“Ok, sorry. The switch system confirmed your curfew exception, by the way.”
“Sweet!”
Anyway, I just want to stress that every moment is something like rolling the dice. I’m not just lucky though, and it requires vigilance. It’s exhausting, sure. But I’m proud of it. I got here because I’m a survivor. I choose every day to keep being one, even when I fantasize about it all ending. It will end eventually, and I want that to be on my terms. I’ve seen how it happens when it’s not on our terms. It’s a lottery, and we all lose eventually.
My class lottery position was great. I just needed to talk with a few students ahead of me. They give us these red tickets, our size. Printed specially, and each one has a number. The lower the number, the better. They draw them in batches, starting with lower brackets. You get four tickets each semester, and each is good for one class. You sign up for the classes you want and pick all of your fallbacks if you don’t get the lottery draw. Everyone gets sorted into a class eventually, but you need lower numbers if you want to get the classes you want.
As the numbers get drawn, some students get what they want and still have low numbers left over. They’re pretty valuable, and I’ve seen more than one friendship end over one of them. It’s also heavily enforced by the school. The administration doesn’t care who turns in the ticket so long as it’s orderly. They don’t care what happens. They don’t care what people need to do to get the tickets. Rebecca had one really great ticket. I didn’t know her at the time, because she lived on a different floor in The Block.
“Is that, like, a tiny apartment?”
“Sorta, I guess. It’s more like a beehive? I think.”
“Sounds… strange. That’s where all of you live?”
“Most of us. The ones who can’t afford to usually don’t make it to college.”
“Oh.”
Rebecca and I met during orientation. She was really sweet. A bit skittish, but we all were. Life in The Block isn’t bad but it’s a lot slower and... smaller. Things move so quickly out here, you know? It feels like I’m on a constant runaway tram, which is fun I guess but it never slows down. It speeds up and twists and turns and sometimes people fall off.
Rebecca and I checked over our tickets together in the assembly. They were using that desk at the front of Auditorium B and we had a moment to hang out and chat before they moved us. I didn’t know it at the time but it was sorta expected that we all scream and shout at each other to try and get the classes we wanted. It was like The Wall.
“The wall? Is that like a show?”
“No, like, that bank with the huge wall on it? I don’t remember from giant studies.”
“Oh! Wall Street.”
“Yeah! Hey! Don’t laugh, it’s a dumb name.”
So yeah, it was like The Wall Street. Everyone holding up their tickets and standing on chairs and shouting numbers. Trading and screaming and shuffling. Rebecca, or Becka as I came to call her, sat with me and we just chatted about the classes we hoped to get. As freshmen, we didn’t really know what classes needed which tickets, or even what a good number was. She had one in the single digits. But she was also a psych major, which is basically the most popular tiny profession.
We saw someone get tackled, yelling for a trade. They had some kind of argument and started hitting each other. It took a few others to pull them off. They were fighting over a high-eighties ticket. I looked at Becka and we both sorta knew what she was holding. She decided not to tell anyone about it, at least not right away. We retreated to the edge of the desk while the commotion died down. It didn’t come up again until a few weeks later, when the classes started to appear.
“What do you want?”
“Oh, Um, do they have tiny portions?”
“I’m… not sure. We can always share.”
“Yeah, I don’t mind. It’s just hard to eat a giant leaf rather than a salad.”
“I have a food processor in my dorm, maybe I could make a tiny salad from a regular one?”
“What’s a food processor?”
“It’s… um. I’ll just show you… later. I think.”
“Where now?”
“Hmmm?”
“Where did you go that time?”
“Oh. I thought about putting you in the food processor.”
“Oh.”
I was able to get all the classes I needed that first semester. I actually really wanted this creative writing class and wound up trading one of my tickets away to get a better slot for it. Becka got in too, and we were excited to take it together. Becka liked fantasy stories with knights and dragons and all. She had this book where she was always sketching dragons and stuff. It was nice to have someone to talk about fantasy ideas, and she kinda understood the whole being eaten thing. Maybe not completely, but at least I could talk about it. She would sketch her knights and dragons and I’d talk about my story ideas. We were both so excited to start classes, we couldn’t wait.
“What sort of stuff did you write?”
“For the class? Mostly, uh. Fiction.”
“Yeah?”
“Ok, Ok! Yeah, don’t give me that look. I wrote a lot of smut. Self-indulgent snuff type cringe.”
“Maybe I can read some sometime.”
“I think I might be too embarrassed.”
“Maybe I like you that way.”
Um, It wasn’t hard to find people desperate for low tickets in those days. The upperclassmen sometimes needed a ticket to graduate. Some people couldn’t afford another semester, and if they didn’t get that ticket then they wouldn’t graduate. No job. No money. No room in The Block. It’s not just about getting the teacher you want. Those tickets are about getting the life you want.
It wasn’t long before someone discovered Becka had a ticket to a new life. It’s fine if you have a good ticket but it’s obvious if you have a really good ticket. You know that thing that mice do when they find something good? They try to hide that they’ve got it, so the others don’t see. They try to drag it away somewhere. But the other ones can tell when they’re trying to hide a good nut.
“Like vultures.”
“Like what?”
“Vultures, you know, the ugly bird?”
“I don’t think they have those in the city. We never learned about them.”
“Probably for the best.”
Becka was cagey about her ticket. She really wanted to get into the intro psych class, no matter what. That one hadn’t been drawn yet, and she probably didn’t need to burn that ticket on it. But there was a small chance it was going to fill up before she was drawn with her other tickets. She didn’t want to take the chance. But everyone gossipped, and Becka wasn’t a good liar. People found out. Kacy found out.
Kacy was a bit odd. She was cute but the kind of cute you don’t want to date. It’s hard to explain. I could just tell she was a little off. I don’t have antennae or anything but I know when someone puts off dangerous vibes. We call it the path. If you’re in the path, you’re in danger. It’s not safe to be in anyone’s path. The path is where you get killed. I don’t know if there’s a comparable giant phrase. Some people just like to walk near the path. Kacy was on the path, and people could tell. Surviving as a tiny is sometimes about knowing when to run across the path and when to stay out of it.
Becka was trying to stay out of the path. But she was also gambling. If it were me, I would have spent the ticket on a 101 class at the first opportunity. That thing was a liability. You could trade it away, but then people would know. You don’t want to be caught out in the open with a target on your back. Kacy was in the later stages of her prelaw undergrad, and she needed some important classes. I heard of her shaking people down. She apparently beat the tar out of Frederick, the class president. I think they were dating, and it turned bad. But I wouldn’t put it past Kacy to date him in order to get a ticket out of him. I’m not even sure I would blame her.
I walked into the first class meeting for creative writing, and I saw Kacy arguing with Becka. It was getting nasty. The hair on the back of my neck stood on end, Kacy had dragged both of them onto the path.
We were going to turn in tickets later that day for the final drawing. Classes had already been assigned, but there was always a final draw for people to drop or add in the first week of class. It was the last ditch effort for anyone to swap before all the classes closed, and Beckahad actually failed to make it into intro psych. Her ticket was a silver bullet, a guarantee to get her into the class. Kacy was missing something, I didn’t even know. It didn’t really matter.
They were arguing just outside the tram entrance, in the hallway. You know the one by the west dining hall? Yeah, and it was crowded. It was the first day of class, so the tram had a lot of people. The giant students walked around quickly, getting to their classes as well. The creative writing class was mixed-size so they had the dual entrances. I hung around Becka, I wanted to make sure she was alright and they were sort of blocking the way to the elevator up to the classroom. Kacy was livid, shouting about her career as a lawyer. Becka just mumbled something about her need for the intro psych class. It was really loud, and the ground was shaking constantly. We were at the top of the next hill on the runaway tram.
Kacy made some compelling arguments, tinged with hate. She wanted to be a lawyer, and help tinies. She was going to do some real good in the world. Becka was going to do some real good as well. Kacy felt like she had a lot more potential. She was older and more educated. She was also stronger.
Kacy shoved Becka. Hard. She went flying, and her tote bag spun across the tile to land close to the giant’s footpath. There’s not much separation generally but the entrances to those fucking mixed-size classes… It’s a microbe margin. Beckatried to get up but Kacy was already rifling through her bag. It didn’t take her long to find it. Kacy pulled the red ticket out from the bag and inspected the single digit printed in black. A wicked grin sliced across her face. She wasn’t looking at a ticket, she was looking at the future. Security. Safety.
Beckaflung herself into her, but it was sorta one-sided. Kacy rotated her hips and pushed her away, but Becka at least managed to wrest the ticket back. I took a few steps towards them but the yellow line froze my blood. There’s a sense that keeps us alive, and there’s a reason I’m still here to tell that story. I listen to that sense.
They swung at each other a few times. I yelled, not really sure what to yell. I don’t really remember. What I do remember is that Becka had a death grip on that ticket. Kacy had a terrible look on her face. Kacy looked up, and the terrible grin appeared again. Not really seeing anything but her career. There was a shadow. A scream. A scuffle. A squelch. Kacy pushed Becka over the line, then shoved her again. Becka was crying too much to see she was deep inside the path. I watched in slow motion as the shoe took her. I don’t even remember what it looked like or who it was. Just a shadow, and a splat. Death.
“Amy… I’m sorry.”
“I’m fine. It’s ok.”
“No, it absolutely isn’t. What happened to Kacy?”
I don’t really know. She walked to the spot that used to be Becka. It was all red, smeared into an accident. Whoever did it didn’t notice. Nobody did until one of the giants screamed. By then, Kacy had already carefully walked to Becka’s severed arm and shook the ticket from her vice grip. Even in death, Becka didn’t want to trade that ticket for anything. Kacy shook the blood from it and walked past me. We exchanged looks, but we both knew what had happened. Becka’s sketchbook was on the tile, splayed open. One of her cute half-drawn dragon sketches had some of her blood on it.
I knew I couldn’t report it, and even if I did there was nobody to see it but us. She knew it too. Parts of Becka were splattered on her face and her strange faraway smile had faded. What had happened had happened, and there was nothing more to be done. We both knew that someone had strayed into the path, and paid for it. It was safer for me to just go to class. It was safer for everyone to just move on.
“That’s… so fucked. What do you mean, just move on?”
“What else is there?”
“Well someone should do something, people need to know.”
“People do know.”
“I mean, the specifics. Kacy, does she still go here?”
“Tess, that’s not… That’s not why I told the story, you know?”
“I guess. It’s just so… fucked up.”
“Yeah.”
“I’m sorry. Please, continue. We’re almost to my dorm.”
“I guess that’s the whole story. Look, I don’t blame either of them. It was fucked up, yeah, but I don’t know if I would have done anything differently. I respect Becka, for choosing which shoe to die under, as they say.”
“Do tinies really say that?”
“Yeah, I guess there’s not really a good giant phrase to compare to.”
“We have one. I guess. I think I get it.”
“You do?”
“Maybe. I’m not saying it makes sense but I get it. You want to choose a sexy hill to… I mean a shoe. I guess. To die… under. Instead of on.”
“Do giants die on hills or?”
“Sometimes. Sorta. I mean I get it, choosing to die in a sexy way instead of a meaningless one.”
“It’s less about the sex. It’s about life.”
“That part I don’t get.”
“There are tons of other worse stories, that end for no reason at all. Some giant puts their book down in the tiny study area. Someone sneezes. Someone gets locked out after curfew. People die all the time and they have no choice. Becka chose. She decided her life was more important than how she died.”
“Yeah, and it killed her.”
“I’d rather that than die for no reason. I'd rather choose, and have my dreams splattered with my own blood than get caught under someone too bored to notice. I want to die for a reason.”
“Am I a good enough reason?”
“I’m not sure yet. You still need to buy me that drink.”