Cold Calls (10 page)

He paused to catch his breath, the static roaring between them.

“I'm not doing it again,” he said.

“Yes, you will. You'll do it again. You have to. Because if you don't, I'll send that picture to everyone you know,” the caller said. “Starting with April.”

The static faded in and out, then dropped off to nothing as the line went dead.

S
HELLY WAS SITTING AT THE TABLE, MOVING SOGGY
Cheerios around in the bowl, when Jeff came down the stairs and into the kitchen. He didn't jump when he finally noticed her, but for a flash of a second he had that look again, as if he was trying to place where he had seen this girl before. He turned on the water and let it run as he got a bag of Starbucks Blue Java out of the fridge. Shelly watched him scoop the grounds into a paper filter, watched his lips twitch as he worked out what to say, settling, as always, on the predictable.

“No school today?”

Shelly was tempted to say yes and leave it at that. It would be the answer he'd want to hear, because that would mean the conversation would be over and he could wait in silence for the coffee to brew. It would also mean that she wouldn't have to say anything to him, either, and that was always the right answer. But she was going to be home for the whole week—they would probably bump into each other a few more times, and that would mean more questions. Better to get a good multimorning reason out there first thing.

“I was suspended, remember?”

He tapped the top of the machine, prodding it to brew faster. “Oh, yeah,” he said, either to himself or to Mr. Coffee.

Jeff had moved out right after Shelly was born.

Her parents had never divorced, but that was because they had never bothered to get married. She had vague memories of him stopping by over the years, but they were so random and disconnected that she could've imagined them, putting his face and grunted words on some other scrawny white guy's body. Real or not, the visits stopped years before her mother started seeing Aaron, a guy she worked with at Home Depot. When Aaron was offered an assistant manager's position at a new store, the three of them moved east, two hundred and twenty miles down the highway.

Aaron was okay. He was crazy about her mother and never looked at Shelly in that creepy way new stepfathers always did in the books she read. And he wasn't obsessed with being a “dad.” If she wanted to talk to him, great—if not, oh well, he was cool with that, too. Without ever saying it, they had agreed to not make each other's lives difficult. No drama, no power plays, getting along because it was easier than not getting along.

For almost two years it was good, through the wedding and everything. It didn't even change when Luke came along, a whole month early.

Four months after that, though, everything was different.

“I suppose you're going to be hanging around the house all day,” Jeff said, not bothering to disguise his disappointment.

Shelly was about to say yes, she'd be home, and that she'd try to stay in her room, when they both heard the upstairs toilet flush.

Company.

Who would it be this time?

Julie, the mall security guard who liked vodka with her morning coffee?

Lily-Ann, the one with the impossibly sweet southern drawl and the husband in Kuwait?

Iris, who didn't say anything at all?

The Thai woman, who had probably been very pretty many, many years ago?

Or a new friend who only needed a place to crash for the night?

What they saw in him she had no clue. Maybe there was something irresistible about short, skinny, thirty-five-year-old white guys with entry-level jobs and limited vocabularies that she wasn't old enough yet to understand and prayed to God she never would be.

What he saw in them—other than their low standards—was a good question too, but not one that she was ever going to ask.

Shelly decided that it would be best if the mystery guest remained a mystery. She knew Jeff felt the same way.

“I was going to spend the day at the library,” Shelly said, and when she saw the way Jeff's eyes lit up she added, “but I need money to get there and back. And to get something to eat.”

Jeff reached for his wallet. “Twenty bucks enough?”

Upstairs, someone sang an Adele song, off-key but with heart.

Shelly smiled. “Make it forty.”

 

As soon as Shelly flopped down in her usual seat at the back of the bus, a ringtone went off. She knew it had to be hers—there were no other passengers—but it was such a rare occurrence that she looked around, just to be sure. She took her phone out of her backpack, flipped it open, and saw the caller's number displayed on the screen. She didn't recognize the number, but since there
was
a number, she knew it wasn't going to be
that
caller. Then Shelly remembered Eric, the jock from the seminar, hit the button, and said hello.

But it wasn't him, either.

“Hi, Shelly? This is Fatima. I was in that class with you at the Community Center?”

“Yeah, I remember,” Shelly said. “You were the one in the hijab.”

“Wow, most people call it a headscarf.”

“I guess I paid attention in social studies.”

“Look, you're probably wondering why I'm calling you—”

“Actually, I'm wondering how you got my number.”

“I got it from Ms. Owens after the session. I hope you don't mind.”

“Well, to be honest—”

“It's just that I saw how you reacted, and I was kinda hoping we could talk.”

Shelly sat up. “Reacted to what?”

“Remember when Ms. Owens was talking to the security guard about what some of the others—the ones who got dropped—wrote in their essays? She said something about this girl who got these phone calls?”

“Go on,” Shelly said.

“When I was getting your number, I asked her about it, and Ms. Owens said that the girl was on these meds and was always hearing phones ringing.”

“Fascinating. Why are you telling me this?”

“It's just that when Ms. Owens mentioned that girl to the guard, I don't know, you got all . . .”

“What are you trying to say?”

Fatima paused, and Shelly could hear her draw in a shaky breath. “I don't know why you're picking on people, but it's wrong and I—”

Shelly laughed. “You think
I'm
picking on people?”

“Yeah, I guess,” Fatima said. “I mean, the way you acted was really weird, and it got me thinking that maybe—”

“I'm not picking on anybody. I swear,” Shelly said, holding her hand up as if Fatima could see it.

“And the way you were staring down that guy in our group—”

“Eric?”

“Plus, in the parking lot? The way you were yelling at him?”

“We were talking.”

“It sorta sounded like the voice on the phone, only not all changed and stuff—”

Shelly stopped. “What did you say?”

“—and the words were different, and you were shouting—”

“Okay, hold on.”

“—so, not
exactly
like it, but with all the computer enhancements it could have—”

“Fatima, shut up for a second, will ya?”

“See? The way you're yelling? That's what made me think it was you.”

Shelly held the phone away from her face, took a moment to breathe, pressed her thumbnail in deep, and tried again.

“Look, I'm sorry. It's just that you said you heard a voice—”

“The computerized one? Yeah, when I got the phone calls. That's why when I heard Ms. Owens talking about somebody getting a strange call, I looked up. And that's when I saw you acting all, you know . . .”

“Weird,” Shelly said, finishing the thought. “When you got these phone calls, what did the caller say?” There was a long silence that served as an answer, then Shelly said, “I got those phone calls too.”

“I doubt it,” Fatima said. “I'm sure it wasn't
anything
like the calls I got.”

“Macaroni and cheese?”

“Oh my god.”

Shelly smiled. “What are you doing today?”

E
RIC WAS BACK FROM THE GYM AND ABOUT TO SHOWER
when the texts sent to his still-confiscated phone started coming in on his iPad.

The first one was from Yousef.

WTF?

Ten seconds later, there was one from Emma.

???????????

Then one from Tabitha.

C
UTE
!

Maya sent a stupid yellow smiley-face emoticon with an I-don't-get-it expression.

It was the fifth text, the one from Duane, that made his heart stop.

R
ULE
#1: D
ON'T TAKE PICTURES WHEN YOU'RE STONED
.

No.

His hand shook as he tried to get his fingers to obey, hitting the wrong keys, tapping on useless apps.

No, no, no, no, no—

He held his breath, waiting the two years it took for his stupid damn email account to open.

Please, no.

The same EarthLink account email, sent to him and to all 184 contacts on his phone.

The subject line read,
ERIC HAMILTON, PHOTOGRAPHER
.

Inside, no text, just a photo.

Oh, shit.

A black rectangle at the top, a rough white area in the middle, a dark brown bar along the bottom—and that was all.

His knees buckled, and he dropped to his bed, his stomach bunching up, a dull roar in his ears. He sat there, staring at the screen. Then his phone rang, and for a moment he wasn't sure what to do. On the sixth ring he answered, knowing already the voice he would hear.

“You have until Thursday. Then I send out the other photo.”

 

For ten minutes, Eric sat on the edge of his bed, his heart pounding, his body numb, a little voice in his head droning on.

What the hell were you thinking?

It wasn't enough simply doing it. No, you had to go and document it.

For what?

To prove to yourself it really happened?

A souvenir?

As if you wouldn't remember it for the rest of your life.

Except you'd give anything now to forget it.

Damn.

There are probably laws about having a picture like that, even on your phone.

Swear you deleted it,
she had said.

So you swore that you did.

It was gone now—deleted, dumped, erased, wiped clean.

Your copy, anyway.

The caller? She still has hers.

And if you don't do what she says, everybody you know will have a copy of their own.

Eric found the balled-up paper in the bottom of his backpack and punched in the number.

S
HELLY LED THE WAY THROUGH THE GLASS DOOR
. “I'
VE
got us booked in here for two hours, every day for a full week.”

“We only need it till Thursday,” Eric said, following her into the small room.

Fatima nodded, looping a shoulder strap of her backpack on the arm of one of the chairs, sliding the Jumbo Fun Time Sketch Pad! on the table. “After Thursday, it won't matter.”

“Well, we'll keep the room reserved anyway,” Shelly said. “In case we need a place to hide.”

The six Theodore J. Marello Memorial Study Labs that split the reference area of the main library all had the same spartan features: floor-to-ceiling glass on both sides—which, the librarian reminded Shelly, allowed
everyone
to see
anything
that was going on—and regular walls between the study labs, lined with bulletin-board material to help with the soundproofing. The rooms were seldom used—the metal chairs were cold and hard, the lighting weak, and there were no outlets to plug into. But they were free, and there was a big-enough table, and even with all the glass it was still more private than meeting at Starbucks.

Fatima tore out a sheet of newsprint from the sketch pad and tacked it to the wall. “I guess we should start by telling each other all about ourselves.”

“Guess again,” Eric said.

“Yeah, let's not do that,” Shelly said. “I'm not big on sharing.”

“Fine. What do we do, then?”

Fatima and Eric both looked at Shelly, their eyebrows arched.

Shelly sighed and shook her head, suddenly in charge. “We all got the same call, right? Let's start there. Fatima, when did you get the
first
call?”

“Last Monday. Right after
Family Guy
. A rerun, obviously.”

“Which one?” Eric asked.

“The one where Brian owes Stewie money.”

“Best episode ever.”

“Oh my god,” Fatima said. “I was laughing
so
hard—”

“Fine, two thumbs up,” Shelly said. “Can we stay focused here? What time was this masterpiece over?” She popped the cap off an orange marker and wrote
WHEN
on the paper. Under that, she put three bullet points.

Fatima glanced up at the ceiling. “Maybe nine?”

Shelly put
F 9
after the first bullet and
S 9:30
after the second.

“Looks like she started with me,” Eric said. “I got my first call two weeks ago. Wednesday night, around ten. It sounded like a prank, so I hung up. Then he—sorry,
she
—called again a few minutes later. That's when she said, ‘I know your secret.' But that time she hung up on me.”

“Smart,” Shelly said, adding Eric's details to the list. “Hanging up like that, she got in your head.”

“I don't think so.”

“Really? I bet you couldn't wait till that last call came. And don't worry, she got in all of our heads.”

“I can't believe you hung up,” Fatima said. “Weren't you even
curious?
”