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.
Five
ERIC 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.
Eric picked up a tray from the stack, shook the water off by habit, and started down the line.
Pizza bagels, chili hots, two types of salad, two types of vegetables—the usuals. It didn’t matter what was on the Today’s Specials menu. He’d been told what to get.
The lunch lady smiled up at him. She was short and round and spent her days serving processed food to ungrateful teens and condescending adults. And still she smiled. “What would you like, hon?”
Eric stared into the fogged-up glass as if he was trying to make up his mind.
“Did you see we have pizza bagels? Those are popular. And there’s a few turkey sandwiches left in—”
“Three mac and cheese, please.”
There, he said it.
She laughed at him. “Three? You don’t want three. That’s too much, hon, even for you.”
“I guess I’m really hungry,” he said, not bothering to sound convincing.
“Why don’t you start with one,” she said, digging an ice cream scoop into the pan of neon-yellow macaroni. “If you want more, there’s plenty here.”
“No, I want all three at once. On the same plate.”
She gave him a look.
“Please.”
She shook her head, and the smile was gone. “You’re just going to end up throwing it away,” she said as she piled it on, slipping an extra paper plate underneath before she set it on the counter. She said something else, something about wasting money and proper nutrition and making sure this kid was charged for three entrees, but he had already moved on, punching his student ID number into the keypad by the register, then heading for an open table without stopping to get a plastic fork.
There were still thirty minutes left in the period, time to let the mac and cheese cool down a bit. He owed the kid at least that much. He used the time to look around the room, see who’d be coming to the rescue. It’d be a teacher or one of the aides. He didn’t worry about the kid’s friends—they weren’t the type to do a thing, even if it happened to them. It made it easy. And that made it worse.
The first time, the kid had been alone, walking down a back hallway near the shop classes. A simple shoulder check into the lockers, books and papers everywhere. Eric had hoped that would be enough, but apparently it didn’t count. Three days later he did it again, same move, close to the same spot, same results. Only this time Eric made sure the kid had a couple of friends with him, friends who backed off fast, waiting down the hall for it to be over. Now there was just this last thing to do and it would be over.
Well, the caller part, anyway.
He sat there looking around the room, his leg bouncing, the dirty-sock smell rising up from the tray in front of him. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Ian tightening the strap on his backpack. Ian wouldn’t get busted. He never did, not for anything. That’s why he could charge so much. He’d slip out during the commotion, the teachers running past him to get to Eric.
The cheese started to harden. Eric stuck his finger in the middle of the yellow mound. It was warm but not hot. He rubbed the goo off on a napkin, took a deep breath, then stood up and headed across the cafeteria.
The kid was sitting with some other freshman. They were
all alike—scrawny necks, big eyes, Old Navy tees, none of them needing to shave, uncoordinated, a bit goofy-looking, like baby birds. Just like he looked back then.
The instructions were to walk straight at the kid, let him see who was coming, see if that would make him freak or scream or, better yet, cry. But Eric wanted to get it over with, so he came in from the side, and he was standing over the kid before anyone realized what was happening.
Connor Stark: 127 Facebook friends, 0 in common. Likes Friendly Fires, Two Door Cinema Club, Foster the People, Avenue Q, RoboCop, World War Z, and Piranha Sushi Bar & Grill.
That was everything Eric knew about him.
So the kid looked up.
Looked right at him.
Eye to eye.
Just for an instant.
In that instant, Eric knew how it would all turn out.
And he did it anyway.
Six
“IS THERE ANYTHING YOU WANT TO ADD BEFORE WE finish up here?”
Shelly kept her eyes on the brass-and-wood nameplate on the desk—SISTER TERESA KEYES, SSJ, PRINCIPAL—and kept her thumbnail pressed hard against her index finger. It hurt enough to keep her from saying something stupid.
“Shelly?”
“No, Sister.”
Sister Teresa held her pose—head tilted forward, glasses balanced, one hand propping open a file folder, the other gripping a red pen—waiting for Shelly to look up. When Shelly didn’t, she let the folder close, took off her glasses, and leaned back in her chair. She was the only nun at St. Anne’s, but she didn’t wear a habit. Other than the small gold cross that all but disappeared against her harvest-yellow sweater, she blended in with the other dowdy women at the school—she could have passed as somebody’s mom. Shelly didn’t know her well enough to have an opinion one way or the other, but she was sure Sister Teresa had made up her mind about her.
“Starting at a new school is always difficult,” Sister Teresa said. “There are a thousand emotions going through your head, and at times it can all feel so overwhelming. But that does not excuse your behavior. Would you agree?”
“Yes, Sister.”
“Now, you seem like a nice young lady—”
Face blank, Shelly laughed to herself.
“—and your records from your last school don’t indicate anything to the contrary.”
Check the other records, Shelly thought.
“I think this recent behavior is simply a reaction to the stress of moving and changing schools—”
If only it were that simple.
“—and frankly, I don’t think it’s the kind of thing you’d normally do.”
You have no idea what I’ve done.
“Now, I could recommend that you be expelled, but I don’t think that would be in anyone’s best interest.”
Ask Heather what she thinks about that.
“When you’ve completed the program I discussed—and your suspension is over—you’ll be welcomed back.”
Unless you learn the rest.
“But I think we both know that there’s something bigger going on here.”
Shelly looked up at the nun, careful not to give anything away.
“This . . . incident? It’s a symptom of something else, something deeper, something that won’t go away on its own. You need to figure out what’s really behind all of this. And once you know what that is, you need to find a way to deal with it for good.”
Shelly thought a moment, then nodded. “You’re right, Sister. That’s exactly what I have to do.”
His phone buzzed and Duane’s picture came up, flipping him off.
There was a chance Eric wasn’t supposed to have his phone. His parents had mentioned something about taking it away when they were picking him up from the principal’s office, but technically they never came out and asked for it. He was holding out, hoping their hard-line approach was only for show. Just to be on the safe side, he went into the garage before answering.
“That was stupid,” Duane said, that smart-ass smirk in his voice.
Eric sighed. “Yeah, that’s what they keep telling me.”
“Nobody saw it. You should have waited until third lunch.”
“I think a lot of people saw it.”
“Freshmen and band geeks? They don’t count. I mean, if you’re going to do something epic like that, you could at least have the courtesy to do it when I can see it.”
“Sorry. I’ll check your schedule next time.”
“Three things I like to see: the Yankees win, the Red Sox lose, and some funny-assed shit in the middle of my day. And that, my friend, would have been classic funny-assed shit.”
“Trust me, it wasn’t that funny.”
“Coach is gonna be pissed,” Duane said, turning the word into two, overinflected syllables. “You might get your ass kicked off the team there, pal.”
“Yeah, maybe. We’ll see.”
“Hope it was worth it.”
Eric didn’t say anything.
“The kid step on your toe or something?”
“No, nothing like that,” Eric said. “I guess I just felt like doing it.”
“I can relate. I feel like that about every freshman. What’s his name?”
“Connor Stark.”
“No idea. Is he on JV?”
“I doubt it. I think he’s a drama nerd.”
“Even better,” Duane said. “So, what’s going to happen to you?”
“I find out tomorrow.”
“I bet it’s two days’ suspension and a shitload of community service. Plus an extra two miles a day from coach and a couple hundred bleachers. That is, if he doesn’t kick your ass off, right there. Your parents gonna come in to school to hear the verdict?”
“Oh yeah.”
“They’ll pile it on, just to show what good parents they are. My guess is you lose the car till Christmas or until they forget, whichever comes first.”
“They won’t forget,” Eric said, then it got quiet for a second and he was tempted to ask Duane if he’d seen April that day, but he knew what he’d hear: Duane saying “Get over it” or “Move on” or his new one, “That ship has sailed.” So he said nothing.
“Right. I’m gone. If by some miracle they let you out this weekend, a bunch of us are going to Frederico’s. Play some FIFA, probably order pizza. Wings.”
“Sounds boring.”
“Agreed. But his sister Sophia will be there, and that’s all I need to know.”
Any other time, Eric would have laughed and told him she was out of his league, but he wasn’t in the mood, and besides, it would no doubt end up with Duane saying something about April, and he didn’t want to hear it.
“I’d wish you luck tomorrow, my friend,” Duane said, the smirk back in his voice, “but I don’t think it’s gonna help.”
Eric sighed again. As bad as the punishment would be, it would be nothing compared with what would happen if the caller decided to share his secret. “Yeah, one way or the other, I’m pretty much screwed.”
“And not in a good way.”
Seven
MS. OWENS POINTED THE REMOTE AT THE SCREEN, PAUSING the video when the words PAUSE HERE appeared, then read the folded paper in her hand. “Question one. What did you think of the video clip you just saw?”
It was 8:45 in the morning. Eric was sure that the people in the class—Ms. Owens, nineteen students, and a security guard—weren’t thinking a thing. They all had that glazed-over, just-got-up-and-already-exhausted look that went with any first-period class, only this was Saturday, so it was worse.
His father had gotten him out of bed at six, using that rare voice that told Eric he’d better move it. His parents had let him drive himself, but it was more out of convenience for them than trust in him.
He’d arrived at the Jefferson County Community Center at seven, twenty minutes before the first staff member pulled in. There were a handful of cars in the parking lot, most with a kid in the passenger seat and a stern-faced parent beh
ind the wheel. He recognized the look—part anger, part shame, big part disappointment. It was the look he’d been getting since “the incident,” his mother’s new favorite phrase.
It was 8:20 before Ms. Owens started collecting paperwork and putting X’s next to names on her list. The letter from the district said that mandatory check-in time for HABIT—Helping Accused Bullies by Inspiring Tolerance—was 7:30 sharp, and that under no circumstances would anyone be admitted late.
They were all late, and yet here they were, the tone of the day set before it started.
When she put the DVD in, there were only twelve students in the classroom, the others trickling in, taking open seats that were as far apart as possible. They didn’t know each other, didn’t want to know each other, didn’t want to be there, and didn’t care if it showed.
Some had a hard time playing it cool. One of the younger boys, maybe seventh grade, was too nervous to fake it, his head on a swivel as he scoped out the room. The girl with the Muslim headscarf was in her own world, scribbling tiny notes along the margins of the registration form they never collected. The Korean-looking kid kept his eyes on his hands, folded in front of him on his desk. The girl with the impossibly black hair, the one in the hoodie with the huge black patch that said KOMOR KOMMANDO—whatever that meant—looked pale enough to pass out, but it could have been some goth thing.
Everyone else, including him, went for bored indifference, the default setting of the guilty.
Ms. Owens unfolded the paper and tried again. “Was the film you saw realistic?” She waited, but no one wanted to be the first to speak. It was the opening session of a two-day program that would ruin the whole weekend. Say something cheesy now and that was it, you were the class suck-up, say something clever and you were the smart-ass, say something stupid and you were forever stupid.
“Did the film feel real to you?” She nodded at the screen, just in case they had forgotten what she was talking about. “Or did it seem a bit”—quick check of the paper—“exaggerated?”
Cold Calls Page 3