Cold Calls

by Charles Benoit

  The math she could do on her own, and she could keep up with the reading for history. English was something different every day, but her teacher said that the reaction paper would go toward her first-quarter grade. They were going to be doing pottery in art class, and that was with Ms. Augustyn, so there’d be no making that up. In science they were dissecting mice. Missing that unit would be a good thing. French was just starting to make sense—a week out of class would leave her dans la merde.

  As for the discussions in religion class, Shelly was pretty sure that she was the discussion.

  So much for academics.

  Her school required three hours of volunteer work each week. She had until the first week of October to sign up somewhere, and she was running out of time. When they first told her about the policy, Shelly had been tempted to point out the logical fallacy of required volunteerism, but she didn’t think the people in the main office would share her appreciation of irony. Before the move, she had volunteered at a shelter that cared for rescued pit bulls, not because the school required it but because she wanted to. She was too young then to work with the dogs, so she had cleaned cages and filled food bins. It wasn’t glamorous, but it still felt good, and the dogs seemed to enjoy her company. The first Saturday in February was the last time she had been there. She never went back. Better to walk away than to be told you weren’t wanted.

  She made a mental note to Google the address of the local animal shelter.

  And, oh yeah, her mother’s birthday was Tuesday.

  She could buy a card on the way home, mail it first thing Monday morning. It’d get there on time. But why bother? She would never open it, Shelly was sure of that. Her mother didn’t want to hear from her. Why would she? So that she could be reminded of what happened? Like she’d ever forget. She’d be better off pretending she didn’t have a daughter. And as for the letters her mother had sent her? Straight to the trash. The phone messages? Deleted as soon as they came in. Shelly could guess what they said, the words her mother would use to describe her, the same words she had heard whispered in the corridors of her last school. And worse.

  So no stupid card.

  But there was one more thing she had to get done that week.

  At least, that’s what the caller had said.

  Well, there was no way it was going to happen, so . . .

  For one, she was suspended. If she went back to school early—for any reason—she’d get kicked out. Sister Teresa had made that clear. And it was no secret that she had to stay a hundred feet from Heather. If she so much as walked into the room where Heather was sitting, every teacher in the building would be on her.

  Then there was the caller’s ridiculous requirement that she video the whole thing and put it up on YouTube, which was impossible because her phone didn’t have video. Besides, if someone else filmed it for her—nobody would, but saying they did—the cafeteria at the school didn’t even serve macaroni and cheese. The closest they came was chili, and that was on Tuesdays. And this, for some reason, had to be on Thursday.

  She didn’t see any way to make it happen. Not by Thursday.

  And this time next weekend, they’d know. Miranda Eduardo, the hyperexcited senior behind every fundraising event at St. Anne’s. Deborah Knight and LJ Martin, the library geeks. Julie Redfern, future nun. They were the closest she had to friends since she’d arrived, and they liked her for who they thought she was.

  But that would all change once they learned her secret.

  The St. Valentine’s Day Massacre, all over again, thanks to a voice on the phone.

  Shelly spent the rest of the ride trying to think of some way out of it, but when the bus pulled up in front of the Jefferson County Community Center at exactly 12:32, she still had nothing.

  Eleven

  “QUESTION ONE. WHAT DID YOU THINK OF THE VIDEO clip you just saw?”

  There were only eight of them in the class.

  Impossible to hide.

  Ms. Owens had arranged the desks in a circle and made them tape sheets of paper with their names in block letters to the fronts of their desks. Eric had liked it better when they sat in rows. It was easier to ignore people, especially when you didn’t know who they were. Now when one of them spoke, everybody looked.

  Ms. Owens sighed. “Give me a break here, people. This is our last video clip, and then we’re done. But I gotta have some participation before I let you go.”

  Annalise and the scared kid—whose name was Cody—raised their hands.

  “I thought it was good,” Annalise said. “I liked how it worked out like that in the end.”

  Ms. Owens nodded slowly. “You too, son? Okay. How about the rest of you?”

  They all mumbled agreement.

  “Think it was realistic?”

  “Sure,” Greg said. “Chip apologized and Matt said it was cool and they moved on. Done.”

  “I think Chip’s girlfriend has a real attitude problem,” the girl apparently named Docelyn said. “I don’t know what he saw in her, anyway.”

  Eric and Greg exchanged knowing glances that made Cody giggle and Annalise and the goth girl roll their eyes.

  Ms. Owens made them wait, then said, “What did you think of what Chip said to the counselor?”

  The girl with the headscarf, Fatima, looked up from her scribbling and raised her hand. “I think it showed that he understood how Matt was feeling and how his actions were hurting other people. I think that that was his life-changing, empathetic, breakthrough moment,” she said, checking her notes and lifting a line from the film.

  “I see,” Ms. Owens said, still nodding. “Any other thoughts?”

  They all said no, that pretty much covered it, Fatima had said what they were thinking, each of them sneaking a glance up to the clock.

  “Well,” Ms. Owens said, really smiling for the first time. “Either you’re all a bunch of liars, or you’re dumb as posts. Which is it?”

  A girl named Sandra sat up. “I don’t like being called a liar.”

  “And I don’t like being lied to. And for the record, you could have picked being called dumb.” She rolled the TV cart out of the way and pulled up a chair. “Honestly, do any of you really think it’s going to be that easy for you to go back to your school? That all it’s going to take is one five-minute talk with a school counselor and everything is going to be fine? That the kids you bullied are going to forgive you? Ever? Their parents can still press charges—you know that, don’t you?”

  “I thought that this program—”

  “This? Girl, please. This is a waste of your time, my time, Rick’s time”—she nodded to the security guard—“taxpayer dollars, and the gas it took to drive you here.”

  Greg shook his head. “Then why are we here?”

  “Because you have to be here. Your principals identified you as bullies, and in this county that means you have to attend this workshop and watch these videos—which somebody bought two years ago, sight unseen, and now we’re stuck with them. And you were stuck watching them.”

  “If the program’s no good, then why don’t they do something better?”

  “You don’t deserve anything better, that’s why. At least from their point of view. Remember, you are the problem,” Ms. Owens said, making eye contact with each of them as she said it. “You are the bullies. You are the ones that ruin a school’s reputation and lead to bad rankings on statewide lists. All this program does is remind you of who is really in charge. And it ain’t you.”

  “Great,” Annalise said, laughing. “So when I go back to school next Monday—”

  “You’re still the problem. And nothing’s going to suddenly change, either. Your parents still won’t trust you, your teachers will still assume you’re a disciplinary issue, the good kids will still talk behind your back, the truly bad kids will laugh in your face. And the kids you picked on? Don’t go trying to apologize to them. They don’t want to hear it. In fact, they don’t want you anywhere near them. And it’s not just yo
u, Annalise. That goes for all of you. Times are different. In my day, you’d get a night’s detention maybe, and that’d be it. A week later, it was like it never happened, everybody movin’ on. Now? It’s going to stick to you like white on rice.”

  Eric tried not to smile. Yeah, there’d be some comments, but it wasn’t like he knifed the kid or anything. Already his parents were softening up and his teachers were so worried about the next round of test scores that they’d welcome his curve-shifting average back to class. A quick glance at the others told him that they weren’t buying it either. Well, except for Cody.

  “Now, there’s still hope for you,” Ms. Owens said, building up for her big finish. “That’s because you’re still here. Aren’t you curious what happened to the others? We started off with twenty, but you’re the only ones left. Eight of you. That’s all.”

  Cody raised his hand. “They didn’t want to come here on a Sunday?”

  “No one does. But that’s not why they aren’t here. Remember that essay you had to do yesterday? What you wrote told me whether or not you passed this course. That’s it. Somebody writes about how they were the victim, that the school was just out to get them or that what they did wasn’t so bad? I call my supervisor, tell her the kid was disruptive, she calls their parents, and that kid finds himself in a different program that’s not nearly as much fun. You’re here because you admitted the truth and took responsibility for what you did. And I think that’s a good first step.”

  Greg smiled. “How do you know it wasn’t just bullshit?”

  “I don’t. But I like to give people the benefit of the doubt. If you’d prefer, I can go back and reread what you wrote—”

  “No, it’s cool. I’m good.”

  “We’ll see.” She handed Fatima a stack of papers. “Now, these are what we send to your school to prove that you completed the program. Fill in your name—directory style, Miss Annalise—and the other information on all five sheets, then pass them back to me to sign off on and we’ll be done here.”

  It took a few minutes for everyone to find or borrow a pen, then it got quiet as they filled in the form. Off to the side of the room, Ms. Owens had the security guard laughing as she recounted what some of the missing students had written in their essays. It was impossible not to listen in.

  “. . . claimed it was his twin brother who, by the way, is two years older . . .”

  “. . . said she didn’t remember it, so it didn’t count anymore . . .”

  “. . . part of a community-service project to raise awareness about bullying . . .”

  “. . . said a strange voice had called her at night—”

  Eric’s head snapped up. Eyes wide, he held his breath, waiting for more, but Ms. Owens had moved on to other unbelievable excuses.

  That’s when he noticed the goth girl staring at him.

  He looked across the circle and stared right back.

  She didn’t look away.

  Her eyes stayed locked on his, her expression hardening with each heartbeat.

  He blinked, then rubbed his chin and returned to the blank spaces on the form.

  When he glanced up a minute later, she was still watching him.

  She nodded once—slowly—then flipped a page and went back to writing.

  Twelve

  ERIC WAS PUSHING OPEN THE DOOR AT THE END OF THE hall when he felt a tug on his sleeve. He looked down at the hand gripping his sweatshirt. Silver rings with skulls and stars and sharp points, stubby black fingernails. Then up the black sleeve of her hoodie, past the black-on-black band patches to that mass of purple-black hair. Then at her dark eyes, made darker by her makeup and the way she was glaring at him.

  “I said hello.”

  It wasn’t a friendly look. He was ready to say hello, and then goodbye and walk off, when she said, “We need to talk.”

  “I’m pretty much talked out today,” Eric said, easing his sweatshirt from her grip and starting down the stairs. But she stayed with him.

  “Listen to me. We know someone in common,” she said.

  He turned and looked at her again and got the same icy stare. He shook his head. “I seriously doubt it.”

  “Well, you’re wrong. We do. And that’s why we need to talk. Right now.” She grabbed for his sleeve, he stopped short, and she bumped into him. He matched her expression.

  “Look, I don’t know you—”

  “I’m Shelly Meyer, you’re Eric Hamilton. We’ve been sitting in the same room together for two days.”

  “Great. And now it’s over. Goodbye.”

  He jumped the last steps and headed toward the parking lot. She watched from the top of the stairs, waiting until he had crossed the bus lane, then she drew in a deep breath and cupped her hands around her mouth to target her shout.

  “It’s about your secret.”

  Eric stopped midstride, stumbling forward, then spun around, his body reacting to the words his mind was still processing.

  “The caller knows,” Shelly said, still way too loud, Eric sprinting back at her, “and if we don’t do something, so will—”

  He leaped up the stairs, teeth clenched. “What the hell are you doing?”

  She dropped her hands and lowered her voice. “Getting your attention.”

  He looked around—no one watching them—then stepped in close. “All right, let’s talk.”

  She gave a flat smile. “I thought you were all talked out.” He narrowed his eyes at that, so she continued. “I saw your reaction back in the room. Somebody called you, said they knew your secret and made you punk that kid.”

  “How’d you—”

  “Duh. Obviously I’m getting the same calls. That’s why I’m here too.” She watched his expression, waiting for the doubt to disappear. “The voice is altered, right? And the caller tells you exactly what to do and when to do it?”

  He raised an eyebrow.

  Shelly leaned forward. “Including the mac and cheese.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “You are not listening,” she said, her voice rising as she tapped the side of his head. “I got the same calls.”

  He ignored the tapping and looked into her eyes. “You got a call telling you to—”

  “To pick on a specific girl on specific days, and that I was supposed to dump a plate of macaroni and cheese on her head at noon next Thursday and post it on YouTube, yes.”

  “So you have some sort of secret.”

  “We all do. But the caller knows mine. And apparently yours, too.”

  Eric looked away. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Shelly laughed. “A little late for that, don’t you think? Listen, I don’t want to know your secret, and I’m certainly not going to tell you mine. But if we work together, we can figure out who’s behind this and stop it before it gets worse.”

  “Why don’t you figure it out yourself?”

  “I could,” she said, the sarcasm close to the surface. “But I’m running out of time. And so are you. That’s why you have to help.”

  He looked down at his sneakers, scuffing them against the concrete step, thinking, then looked back up at her dark, determined eyes.

  “No, thanks,” he said, and started back toward the parking lot.

  Shelly stood motionless, not breathing, as she watched him cut around an idling Escape, watched him wave as Greg rode by in a parent-driven SUV, watched him pull his car keys out of his jeans pocket and head toward a faded blue Toyota. Then she ran after him.

  “What do you mean, no?”

  “You don’t have to shout,” Eric said, pointing the key chain and unlocking the car door. “I’m right here.”

  “You have to help.”

  “I don’t have to do anything,” he said. “Besides, it’s over.”

  “Over?” Shelly made a noise that could have been a laugh. “It hasn’t even started yet.”

  “Stop shouting,” he said. Then he sighed and ran a hand over his face. “Look. I know you�
��re mad. I’m mad too. We got played, it sucks, life goes on.”

  She took a step closer and lowered her voice. “Really?”

  “We can’t do anything about it now anyway.”

  “Yes. We. Can.”

  Eric pulled the car door open. “First of all, we don’t even know who this guy is.”

  “First of all, it’s a girl.”

  Eric stopped and looked at her.

  “The voice is altered, right?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “But it’s real deep, like he thinks he’s Darth Vader or something.”

  “When she calls you. When she calls me, it’s high pitched, like she’s sucked helium.”

  “How does that prove it’s a girl?”

  “If it was a guy, he’d use a deep voice on both of us.”

  “And you know this because . . . ?”

  “Because a guy doesn’t think like a girl.”

  Eric smiled at that. “But a girl can think like a guy?”

  “In this case, yes,” Shelly said. “Pretend you got the same call, but this time it was from a girl. You wouldn’t take her seriously.”

  Eric shrugged.

  “For a guy, it’s got to be a deep male voice. But you try that with a girl, threatening her with a voice like that? No way. She’s going to be too scared to move or she’s going to call the cops. That’s why it’s a girl. She knows that she has to make it scary, but not too scary. A deep voice for you, a high-pitched one for me.”

  He let the door swing shut, then leaned against it, arms folded across his chest. “All right, fine, maybe it’s a girl. We still don’t know who it is.”

  “But we can figure it out. It’s gotta be somebody we both know or who knows both of us. All we have to do is figure out what we have in common and take it from there.”

  “Keep it down,” Eric said. “As for your plan, that could take forever.”

  “Impossible. I don’t know that many people.”

  “We wouldn’t even know where to start.”

  “Yes, we would,” she said, her voice rising again, her hands chopping the air. “We’d start with the obvious stuff. School, sports, church—”