They gathered at the break of dawn. The parents of Atwoodian School muttered and moaned about getting up so early, but they knew they had to meet at the playground, around six in the morning. In some villages there were so many parents that their school took a whole week to conduct the election and had to be started in the summer, a whole month before school reconvened. But in Rotherwell, a small town for northern New Jersey, the whole process took less than an hour, so it could begin at six in the morning and still be through in time for these parents to return home before their children woke up. No one spoke of the risks of leaving elementary-aged children alone in bed because everyone did the same thing, so they came to an unspoken understanding that the risks were cancelled out.
 
The parents of the fifth graders assembled first, of course. Elementary school was almost over for them, and the feeling of liberty made them giddy, causing some to break into boisterous conversation. Soon, though, the group fractured as the non-working parents huddled together to whisper about middle school events that would be shared with the working parents too late for their children to participate. This was a tried and tested strategy for elementary school, so it was likely to be useful in middle school. The working parents realized this, but they lacked time or interest in forming a group of their own. They just stood there, scattered about the playground and looking uncomfortable as they longed to be back in a meeting room or commuting on the train.
 
It was Freya Marwood who had brought the box of Stanley cups. This queen of the non-working parents had personalized each cup with the name and photograph of every fifth-grade child. She beamed with pride as she handed a cup to each of parent. “You don’t have to thank me,” she said before anyone had attempted to say anything. “It really was no trouble.”
 
All were expected to stay for the ceremony and smile as they placed their cups in the center of the non-working parents’ circle. They were not to place their cups in the center of any other circle, and they were not to slip away early from the event, pretending that they had another meeting to attend. There were rules, and they had always been followed. The Stanley Cups were a new variation of the rules because, before, it had been an embroidered bag made of fabric, and before that, it was an engraved wooden fork. Each time, the queen parent would hand out the gift that had been purchased by the king parent (a shadowy figure who rarely attended school events). That was the way things were, and a gift to mark the occasion seemed to make sense. Many important events were marked by some kind of souvenir. But no one could make sense of the playground being chosen as the venue for such a serious event, and no one knew how or why Freya had become the queen on so many successive occasions. This narrow-faced, poison-smiled woman had a way of cutting off other people’s conversations and making sure that her opinion prevailed as the truth. Most were afraid of her because she had so many followers around Rotherwell, even though no one quite understood the purpose of their pursuit.
 
“You all have the app,” she said after she cleared her throat. There was hesitation, but eventually Roberta, one of the working parents, answered, “Yes, Freya, we have it.”
 
The original elections would have been conducted using pieces of paper in a box, or maybe even chips of wood, but someone had decided that an app was the best way forward. There had been objections, not least because most parents didn’t know who had designed the app or who was privy to the information that was loaded. They claimed that the whole process was anonymous, but who could really tell?
 
The night before the election, Freya asked June West, her friend and neighbor, to help her test the app so they didn’t have to worry about it failing on the day. June found it surprising that someone like Freya, so vivacious and thoughtless, could have the foresight to plan for an occasion. Of course, there was the chance that Freya was already trying to manipulate the result, so the whole process became less about justice and safety and more about personal vendettas.
 
There was a great deal of humming and hawing before the election could take place. As queen of this ceremony, Freya was required to engage with the key stakeholders involved; namely the principal and school counselor. Ever since everyone’s children started at kindergarten, the parents had known that these two people decided what was normal and what, most importantly for the election, was abnormal.
 
“There’s talk of ending these elections,” one of the working parents muttered. No one knew her name because she often appeared and reappeared without engaging in much conversation. No one liked her because the only things she spoke of were complaints and recriminations. “They say there’s no need for so much parental involvement. They say that the teaching staff should be the ones to run school events. That way, it eliminates the biases that parents inevitably have,” she continued, “and I think that they have a point. I mean, some of these parents are outright bullies against some of the kids at this school.” She waited for one of the other parents to reply. She probably thought that some of the others might agree with her, at least one or two of the working parents. But all she got was one of the mothers who shook her head and whispered, “I’m not sure about that.”
 
“I wish she would just get on with it,” the nameless parent said to no one in particular. “I wish she would just get it done with.”
 
“You are reminded to choose wisely,” Freya declared, as others had declared for so many years before her. Some thought it unnecessary to add this wording, but Freya could not abide independent thought. “These are the words that have been spoken for so many years before this one,” Freya once argued when one of the parents, a newcomer to Rotherwell, tried to speed up the process.
 
Just as Freya was directing the parents to make their final choice and press that one button on the app, Elijah Baronswaite came hurriedly along the path to the playground, his jacket in hand because he had under-estimated the heat that still warmed these early fall mornings.
 
“I’m sorry,” he muttered to Athena Aegean, who happened to be standing nearby. They had never been friends, but Elijah needed someone to apologize to, and if he had addressed Freya, he would have had to shout. “I overslept.” His breath was a whisper of tannin and dental decay, and some said that, at nearly fifty, he was too old to be the parent of an elementary school aged child.
 
Elijah continued to chatter to Athena, and he assumed that, as Athena worked, he belonged in a conversation with her. He was new to the suburbs, so he didn’t appreciate that men, working or not, did not form any kind of connection with a woman if he didn’t want to create a scandal. So she smiled and turned her shoulder. He was much shorter than she was, so it was quite easy to block him out.
 
“No Mrs Baronswaite?” Freya asked, having raced over to stand right in front of him. “I thought Natasha was going to join us.”
“Not when the little one is sick,” Elijah replied, a little too self-assuredly. It might have been his upbringing in the city, or at least that’s what some of the kinder parents said. The unkind parents thought that he was a narcissist not to care about this tradition.
“Both parents must be present,” Freya hissed. “You know that, and Natasha knows that.”
 
A hush fell on the crowd as Freya cleared her throat. “I will have to make a note of this,” she said. “The school will be informed. You realize that.”
“Yes,” Elijah replied.
“Very well, then. So it is.”
Freya turned away from Elijah, and everyone followed her lead.
“All ready?” she called. “Now, I’ll ask you to make your selection, and you need to make it quickly. No going back and trying to undo the decision once it’s made, and no trying to look at the selection other people make. Is that clear?”
Everyone nodded, although they didn’t really listen to Freya’s actual words. As parents, and as children themselves, they had known about the elections. It was as natural as the air they breathed, it was a necessary part of life, and they just wanted to get on with it.
 
“Seems like the kids only just started school,” someone muttered.
“Time flies, that’s for sure,” Roberta said.
“Soon they’ll be making their own choices, and I guess they’ll have to get used to this app thing.”
No one seemed to like this last sentiment, including the parent who had spoken it. Many objected to the introduction of an app to facilitate the process. They said it was unnatural. They claimed that it severed a spiritual connection to the ceremony, but it seems the app was here to stay.
 
“You get ready,” Roberta said to one of the other working parents. “You get ready to join in.”
Reverent, each head bowed over their cell phone. They were here for the sacrament; they were here to make the sacrifice.
 
“I’m done,” Elijah said. He shouldn’t have spoken at such an early stage, not when others were still making a decision. He would be punished in some way, or his children would.
“Are we free to go?” the nameless parent asked. Others sighed and tutted. If she had been to the meetings, if she had read the e-newsletters, she would have known the answer to this. “Who is it?” she added. “Can we now find out who it is?”
 
Faces turned upwards, eyes burning with the morning sun. If this nameless parent had cared just a little bit about her child’s education, she would have known that this wasn’t the way to behave at an election. She had confused matters, and it was such a violent error that it almost seemed intentional. Some of the parents had heard about campaigns that had been waged in neighboring towns and villages; jealousy and greed had driven neighbors to do strange things, simply because a town or village had become too successful.
 
“Who is it?” the nameless parent kept asking. “We wasted time coming here, so surely we can now find out? Is it Roberta? Or is it Elijah? Surely it isn’t Freya nor Athena. Surely it isn’t June. Not again. Surely they can’t allow that. Those moms. They always take all the positions. They always push their children to the front of the line. Can’t someone else have a turn?”
 
“She doesn’t understand,” someone said. “She thinks this is a privilege that she is going to miss out on. She thinks her children will suffer if she is not chosen. Can you believe that? She really thinks in that way, about this ceremony.” And then this parent, a stout father with cheeks of sepia and sweat, gasped a wet guffaw.
 
“Be quiet,” Elijah snapped. The nameless woman thought that the sweaty man of sepia was the one who was being chastised, but then she saw that Elijah was pointing at her. “Just shut your mouth, won’t you?” he added as his voice deepened. “We’ve all just about had enough of the sound of your voice.”
“You have to be reasonable,” Athena added. “This isn’t about you, this is about the group. Think of how the children will learn from this.” She turned from the nameless woman and face the remaining parents. “Now, then, shouldn’t we get on with it. The children will soon be awake.”


“I’m sure mine have already got up,” Elijah replied. “Probably raiding the cookie jar as we speak. Imagine that. Sugar for breakfast, and all because this woman decides that she is going to change a tradition that has been set since before time began.”
 
“Come on then,” Freya added.
 
“No, wait,” the nameless woman cried. “You have to stop. Why can’t we do it again? Maybe if we do it twice, we’ll know it’s legitimate.”
 
“This is the way it has always been done,” someone said.
 
The other parents were gathering round the pile of Stanley cups. They each took one, and only one each, because they knew the rules of engagement. They had been taught this by their parents, for as long as they can remember, and even before they wanted to have children of their own. “When that day comes,” their parents had told them, “you will do the right thing for the sake of your children. Don’t think of it as barbaric or scary, think of it as the ultimate act of love for your child. There must always been an elected one, for good and bad. That is the natural order of things, that is just how it is done, and it is what gives balance and natural order.”
 
As each parent stood back, Stanley cup in hand, they formed one continuous circle. Working and non-working parents alike, they were united by their common task. All except the nameless woman.
 
“You have to listen to me,” the nameless mother continued as the circle closed around her.
 
Freya held her hand up to demand silence, and everyone complied.
 
Freya scrolled through her cell phone, eyes narrowed in concentration, and then she nodded.
 
“It’s Teresa,” Freya declared.
 
No one knew a person called Teresa, but the nameless mother let out a screech of pain.
 
“Teresa,” Freya repeated. “She is the one.”
 
“Show me that phone” moaned the nameless woman who wasn’t nameless after all. Before the circle of people could keep her from Freya, Teresa threw herself forward and she snatched the cell phone. What she saw not many saw, but it was far from an opportunity to covet. What she saw was a black dot that sat next to her name. It was a black dot that did not appear next to the name of any other parent of a child currently at Atwoodian School. It was a black dot that Freya had marked last night, when she shared a bottle of wine with her neighbors, Athena and June.
 
“All right, people,” Freya said. “Let’s get this over and done with.”
 
Elijah snatched from Teresa her own Stanley cup, and the remaining parents picked up their own.
 
“This isn’t fair,” Teresa screeched. “This can’t be right. Say it isn’t right.” A Stanley cup hit her on the side of the head. Athena was saying, “Come on, come on, everyone.” Elijah was in the front of the crowd of parents, with Freya beside her.
 
“It isn’t right,” Teresa screamed, and then they were upon her.