Cold Calls Read Free Page B

it a second time, then started down the stairwell to the first floor and the side exit.
    She knew how it would play out, how it
had
to go, and she could guess what would happen later.
    Maybe not tomorrow, but soon.
    There’d be the call to the principal’s office, a visit to the counselor, then a meeting with her father—good luck with that—then the psychiatrist, maybe a scared-straight talking-to by a priest or a cop or an attorney, a couple of days’ suspension, a week or two in detention, some mention about her Permanent Record, lots of strange looks and whispered comments from students and teachers, social isolation through June, and eventually, somewhere late in her senior year, a grudging acceptance back into the fold as her classmates focused on the phony nostalgia that was required near graduation.
    If it
didn’t
play out that way, if she didn’t do all the stupid things the caller told her to do, didn’t obey that mystery voice that knew her secret? She knew what that would be like too.
    She paused at the bottom of the stairs, breathing in slow, then out slower, finding her focus, her game face, her thumbnail biting into the side of her finger, an old habit that explained the thin, curved scars.
    That’s when she saw her.
    Locker open, books stacked on the floor, her back to the stairwell.
    Just get it over with, Shelly thought, then moved without thinking, slipping into the hallway, letting the door close slow and soft behind her. It was too late to run, too late to get help, too late for both of them.
    Shelly drew in one last deep breath, gritted her teeth, and smiled.
    â€œ
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.

Four
    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