Cold Calls (3 page)

Shelly drew in one last deep breath, gritted her teeth, and smiled.

“
There
you are, Heather.”

The girl jumped and spun around, her purse spilling open, the plastic case of her phone shattering as it hit the tile floor.

It didn't take long.

Less than a minute.

The girl standing still, eyes wide, too scared to move.

Like the last time.

Shelly trying to get it all out in one go, knowing she couldn't start it back up if she stopped, knowing that there was worse to come.

They were just words, she had told herself. No one gets hurt from words these days. She knew the truth but held on to the lie, the only way to get through it.

And then it was over, the girl's sobs fading in the distance, Shelly pushing the crash bar on the exit, stepping out into the blinding afternoon sun.

T
HE HOUSE WAS EMPTY, BUT THEN, IT USUALLY WAS
.

Shelly locked the door behind her, dropping her backpack on the floor by the kitchen table. There was a note from her father on the counter. She didn't have to read it, since she knew it would only be a variation of the same note he left every day. He'd start with an obligatory reminder about doing homework, then instructions on heating up whatever was in the fridge, the standard permission to order a pizza if that's what she wanted, a line about doing the dishes or the laundry or running the vacuum, and a final bit about not bothering to wait up for him, signing it “Jeff,” or “J,” or not signing it at all.

It was the same note he had left her every day since she had moved in.

Her father was at work by the time school let out, and got home an hour after she had gone to bed. The B shift paid more, and the overtime was too good to pass up. At least, that's what he told her.

In the bathroom, she washed off what was left of her makeup and brushed her teeth for the tenth time that day, the sour milk taste refusing to go away. She undressed and stepped into the shower, adjusting the temperature up as hot as she could take it. She stood there under the spray for twenty minutes, the hot water turning warm, then cool, then cold. Her teeth chattered between blue lips as she dried off. She put on a pair of sweats and wrapped her hair in a towel.

A week ago, she would have blasted some music—something scary, pounding, fast and loud—poured a glass of sweet tea, lit a few candles, and gotten her homework out of the way before crashing on the couch for a few sitcoms, then gone up to her room, where she would have read until she fell asleep. Now she sat curled up on the floor by the couch, backpack unopened, TV off, all the lights on, waiting for the phone to ring.

Her old friends—the few she had—had disappeared before she moved, and frankly, she couldn't blame them.

They knew.

Even if they had her new phone number—and no one from that life did—they wouldn't use it.

So no calls from them.

The friends she was
this close
to making—the ones who only saw her as the new girl in school, the ones who liked to sit with her in French class or hang out in the cafeteria or talk about music, the ones who made her laugh and forget—they would have texted, since that's how she got in touch with them. That, and nobody called anybody anymore.

So when the first call came almost a week ago, she had assumed it was a wrong number. Why else would her phone ring?

It had been hard to hear through the pops and hiss of static, and after she had heard her name, she had to concentrate to make out what the shrill, high-pitched voice had said.

She knew as she heard them what the words had meant. And what they meant for the new life she was starting.

Was the call really only five days ago? It felt like forever.

After an hour of sitting motionless on the floor, thinking, planning, she went back into the kitchen. Her head was pounding. The Tylenols she had dry-swallowed on the walk home had done nothing. Her stomach growled, and while the thought of food made her sick, she hoped eating something would help. She made a slice of dry toast, then a second, this one with butter and strawberry preserves, then she scrambled an egg and poured a glass of skim milk, adding in a squeeze of chocolate syrup. It wasn't a lot, but it was more than she'd eaten at one time in days.

Back on the floor, plate balanced on her knees, she tried to think about anything but school or Heather or the caller and the stupid tasks, and when she sensed her mind drifting back to her old life and
that night,
and the nights and days that had come after, she turned on the television, jacked the volume, and forced herself into a
Two and a Half Men
marathon.

The credits were rolling at the end of show number eight when her phone rang.

She let it ring a few times, then answered, knowing who'd be there.

“Three tasks down,” the caller said. “One to go. Then the big finish next week.”

Shelly stuck to her plan, not saying anything at first, letting the static-filled silence build. “How do I know you'll keep your end of it?”

“I guess you don't,” the caller said, and even through all the audio effects Shelly could hear the laugh in the voice.

“So why should I bother?”

“Because if you don't, you know what I'll do.”

There was another long pause, then Shelly said, “I'll do it one more time, but I can't do the last thing.”

“That's the best part. And you don't have a choice.”

“I don't have a video camera.”

“Use your phone, stupid.”

“It's an old phone. It doesn't have video.”

“That's your problem.”

“Even if it did, I can't hold a phone and do it at the same time.”

“Then ask a friend to help.”

“I don't
have
any friends. But you probably knew that already.”

“All I know,” the caller said, “is that if you don't do the video next Thursday, everyone finds out your secret.”

Shelly took a deep breath, pushing down the rising panic. “I told you I'd do what you wanted, and I'm doing it, okay? But I don't know how I'm supposed to get the video. And even if I get it, I don't know how to do the rest. I'm not good with computers. If I could, if I had a decent phone and I knew how, believe me, I'd do it. But I can't, so you'll just have to come up with something else.”

The static was gone and so was the caller.

Shelly hit last-call return and got the same recording as last time, telling her that the phone feature she wanted was not available with her cheap-ass plan. She clicked the phone shut and waited for the stomach cramps to start, but after ten minutes she still felt fine, and after another fifteen she noticed she was hungry again.

Hungry and pissed.

She'd come too far, endured too much.

And she wasn't going back.

Shelly nuked a bowl of ramen noodles and thought about Heather Herman. She was probably an okay person, friendly, fun to be around in her own mousy way. She liked
The
Walking Dead,
so she couldn't be that bad. Maybe if things had been different, they could have been friends. A lot different, yeah, and maybe not
friends,
but not this. Heather was in the Drama Club, and Shelly always got along with the artsy types, mostly stoners, but still. The soccer thing she didn't get, and they definitely had different music tastes, but Heather was right about the double-chocolate fudge at Moonlight Creamery. Crack on a waffle cone.

It was the way she just
stood
there and took it, looking up at Shelly with those baby blue eyes and that trembling lower lip, the tears and the snot, letting some unknown transfer tenth-grader tear into her like that. It would be so much easier if Heather took a swing at her or kicked her or something. Especially since it was all bullshit anyway. Come on, a girl like Heather a slut? Yeah, right.

The microwave beeped, and Shelly ripped the rest of the lid off the plastic bowl. She stirred the steaming noodles with the chopsticks she had saved from the sushi place and mixed in a long splash of soy sauce. She knew she wouldn't finish it all, but it was what she wanted, and besides, there wasn't much these days that she wanted that she was likely to get.

Why just stand there? Why not
do
something?
Anything.
If this girl wasn't going to hit her, she could at least scream. That would get noticed. The more Shelly thought about it, the more she realized how easy Heather had it. She got to see the person who was talking shit about her, got to hear it, face to face, not whispered behind her back or finding it written on her locker. And she didn't have to wonder who it was who called her names from across the crowded lunchroom or who left her notes inside her backpack. Shelly could only guess what it would be like to be on the receiving end of what she was doing to Heather, but she knew whatever it was like, it had to be easier than the way the world had treated her when they found out what she had done.

She also knew it would only be a matter of time before Heather broke down and told A Concerned Adult like the posters said to do, and she'd be busted and that would be the end of it.

But the caller wouldn't care.

Something about the voice—the attitude behind the special effects—told Shelly that there would be no negotiating, no options, no mercy. No other way to keep everybody from finding out her secret.

So she'd stay with it, keep doing what the caller said.

Until she got busted, anyway.

And she'd listen to every whispered threat, waiting for the caller to make a mistake.

E
RIC OPENED THE STAIRWAY DOOR AND STARTED DOWN
the hallway to the cafeteria, where he would share lunch with a stranger.

He was supposed to be in physics, but it was the only time the stranger—a freshman—was available. Eric hadn't skipped a class since he was in ninth grade, but nobody was going to stop him to check for a hall pass. And getting busted for missing class? That was the least of his worries.

He passed two girls on their way to the library, Red Bulled up, trying to be quiet, their racing whispered words blending into high-pitched static. They kept a death grip on their pink hall passes, clearly not wanting to find out what would happen if they were caught without them. What would happen would be nothing, just a couple nights' detention and a phone call home. But at that school, in that part of town, where every student went on to college and no teenagers ever got pregnant and every kid was above average, it could be trouble.

Not as much trouble as he was about to get in, but there was nothing he could do about that.

Anyway, it wasn't like he was about to totally ruin his life forever.

A year or two tops. But hardly forever.

It was all ninth-grade English classes this side of the building, and a late September heat wave kept the doors open. He recognized the teachers' voices, recognized the short stories the students were supposed to have read, the assignments they were supposed to turn in, the tests they were being prepped to pass. It was the same stuff they had said when he was sitting in there. He'd aced it all, and he didn't think he'd have any problems this year. But who knew what would happen after today.

Halfway there.

He could turn around, head back down the hall, or cut through the library, up the main stairs to the science department. Mr. Harkness wasn't the kind of teacher you could bullshit, so there'd be that detention and that phone call and blah, blah, blah, and if that was all there was to it, great, he'd take it. But he knew that if he turned around now, he'd never go through with it, and he had to go through with it. Besides, this was it, the last task and it'd be over.

He kept walking.

A kid came out of the boys' room, wiping his hands on the front of his jeans. He was a scrub on the JV team, and Eric had played against him in scrimmages, but that's about all he remembered.

“Hey, Eric,” the kid said, smiling as he walked past.

“Hey,” Eric said, no idea what the kid's name was.

Now, if it was some kid like that—smaller and younger, sure, but strong enough to take care of himself, tough enough to fight back—it wouldn't be so bad. It'd still be bad, no getting around that, but at least that way people might think it was some stupid jock thing that should've been left on the field.

But it wasn't some kid like that, and there was no way anybody would buy that story.

Eric made the turn at the end of the hall and walked into the cafeteria. There was that unmistakable smell, the sweaty air thick with pasta, steamed carrots, milk, grease, and plastic. Some days the smell was overwhelming, not enough to make you gag but enough to make you stick to the shrink-wrapped sandwiches. It was also first lunch, mostly ninth-graders, and that meant clouds of candy-sweet perfumes and musky body sprays that were more nauseating than anything the cooks could create. Another reason to get this over with.

There were a couple of tables of sophomores and juniors off in the far corner, their complex schedules requiring them to eat lunch two hours after they woke up. Eric wasn't in band and he didn't have a job and he did his community service on the weekends, so he had a normal eleventh-grade schedule with a normal, close-to-noon lunch. It was still too early in the year for the cafeteria monitors to know who belonged in which period, though, so no one stopped him when he walked in, and no one asked him why he wasn't in class. He would have lied, anyway.

Eric scanned the room, spotting Ian right where he'd said he would be, sitting alone as always, his backpack hiding the video camera. Ian gave a slow nod, and Eric nodded back. The guy was a freak—part hacker with a mercenary attitude, part scary loner with a juvie record and a reputation for packing a knife. When Eric had told him what he needed done, Ian didn't ask why, didn't ask any of the questions Eric knew his friends would have asked. He just stated a price, take it or leave it. Eric took it.