Free Cold Calls by Charles Benoit

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 you, 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.
    â€œNow, 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?”
    â€œNo 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?”
    â€œI 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—”
    â€œNo, it’s cool. I’m good.”
    â€œWe’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.
    â€œ. . . claimed it was his twin brother who, by the way, is two years older . . .”
    â€œ. . . said she didn’t remember it, so it didn’t count anymore . . .”
    â€œ. . . part of a community-service project to raise awareness about bullying . . .”
    â€œ. . . 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
    E RIC 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