“Wha? ’Mokay,” she murmured. Roland’s shoulders slumped in relief, and Sam sank back down in his chair, looking shell-shocked. Emily stared at Lidia with a mixture of fear and irritation.
“What’s wrong with her?” she snapped. “And what was that? Did you use one of those trick lightbulbs Jess bought?”
Roland didn’t look up. “She fainted,” he said, jaw clenched. “Turn the camera off.”
Glancing around the room, Emily headed over to the camera on the tripod and flipped it off. A few seconds later, the video clip ended abruptly.
Hailey exhaled loudly. “Oh boy,” she said, clasping her hands over her head. “Trick lightbulbs?”
I grimaced, clicking back over to Anonymous’s post.
Whoops! Looks like they let a little secret slip there. Fake bulbs. For shame. Lidia puts on quite a performance, too. No wonder they ditched this footage and went for the dead air scam instead.
It’s all just a hoax, folks . . . more soon . . .
YourCohortInCrime [member]
Well, there you go. Thanks for the proof, Anon. Disappointing, but not surprising.
spicychai [member]
i am devastated
AntiSimon [member]
Hang on—Anon, how’d you get this video?
YourCohortInCrime [member]
Does it matter? The show’s a fake.
skEllen [member]
OMGOMGOMGOMGADFIOAWENG NOOOOOOOOO!!!! ROLAND WOULD NEVER SCREW UP SAM’S SEANCE LIKE THAT!!!!! EMILY IS EVILLLLLLLLL!!!!!!!!111!!!!!!!11!!!!!!!1
Anonymous
Emily Rosinski was the best thing about this sorry show. She can do a lot better than Sam, believe me.
AntiSimon [member]
EMILY was the best thing about this show? Uh . . . do you even WATCH this show, Anon?
Maytrix [admin]
Okay, everybody calm down. All that video proves is that the exploding bulb *might* be fake. (Yes, MIGHT. Roland doesn’t confirm it.) And even if they’ve used fake bulbs, that doesn’t mean *everything* is faked. Also, I’m not convinced Lidia was acting. Remember Kat Sinclair’s recent blog post? Lidia passed out in Crimptown, and Kat’s right about her heart problems. Lidia’s mentioned that on the show before. She looked like she had some sort of seizure in this video, too.
Simon’s question is a good one. Anon, we welcome everyone on this forum, skeptics and believers alike, so long as the conversation stays respectful. Please register to be a member— you don’t have to publicly reveal any information about yourself. You and I can chat privately about your sources.
beautifulgollum [moderator]
Maytrix has a great point. The lightbulb thing is a bummer, but it doesn’t mean the whole show’s a fake.
YourCohortInCrime [member]
Your problem is you want to believe.
AntiSimon [member]
Your problem is you don’t.
skEllen [member]
THIS IS THE WORST DAY OF MY LIFE
“It’s Roland,” I said grimly. “I knew it was Roland.”
Hailey chewed her lip. “Yeah, it has to be someone from the show. Nobody else would have that video. It looked like that camera was hidden.”
“And Roland was on the forums the other day, right when Anonymous first posted,” I added, pointing to the screen. “And look at what he said here. Emily Rosinski was the best thing about this sorry show. She can do a lot better than Sam.” I snorted. “Grandma was right—Roland’s jealous. And delusional. I bet he thinks if he gets her back on the show, she’ll fall in love with him instead.”
“So what do we do?” Hailey asked. “Tell Lidia? Or my dad?”
I was already heading for the door. “We can’t tell anyone yet. Not without proof.”
I put all my anger and frustration about Roland into three solid hours of laser tag, scoring ten hits in the first fifteen minutes. I’d never played before, but it was pretty similar to paintball, which I loved. Despite my mother’s protests, my thirteenth birthday party had been at this huge outdoor paintball field just outside of Chelsea. I came home with a medal, but all she cared about was my new tennis shoes, all spattered with mud and paint.
Oscar’s mood seemed slightly improved, so I filled him in on Roland’s latest anonymous post in the forums as we crouched behind a short wall to catch our breath.
“So you want to spy on Roland again?” Oscar said.
“Not spy,” I said impatiently, leaning around the side of the wall and aiming my laser gun at a teenage girl with dark blond hair. “Just . . . keep an eye on him. Find some way to prove he’s going to do something to get rid of my dad so he can bring back Emily.” I took my shot, and a second later the top right shoulder of her vest glowed red.
“And that’s not spying?”
I rolled my eyes. “Look, you don’t have to help. It’s my dad who’s about to get fired, not . . .” I trailed off, mortified at what I’d almost said. Not yours.
I was saved from having to think of something else to say when Oscar’s vest lit up blue.
We glanced up just as Jamie threw himself behind a glowing green column. We took off after him, weaving between columns and around other players. Finally, Jamie spun around to face us, his back pressed against the side of a fluorescent-pink staircase—but before any of us could fire, the center of Oscar’s vest lit up red.
“What the . . . Who did that?”
“Gotcha.”
The three of us looked up to see Hailey, lying on her stomach on the top step with her laser gun aimed right at Oscar, smiling smugly. With an exaggerated wail, Oscar staggered around in circles, clutching his chest. He fell to the floor, limbs twitching. Between his melodramatic howls of pain and Hailey’s contagious laughter, for a few minutes I managed to forget the Thing had been breathing down my neck all afternoon.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
TALK IT TO DEATH
Post: The Eternal Prison
Comments: (1)
Anonymous: Nice post. Enjoy your last episode.
Saying good-bye to the Coopers was painful.
“We’ll e-mail lots,” Hailey promised. “And we can video chat!”
“Promise?” I asked, and she nodded vigorously.
We were sitting on the couch in the lobby, waiting while their dad checked out of their room. Jamie pulled his laptop out of his backpack and flipped it open. “Almost forgot to show you this!” A second later, he turned so the rest of us could see the screen, and Oscar started laughing.
THE DOCTOR PAIN FILES
A behind-the-scenes look at the most haunted show on television.
“How did you do that?” I cried in amazement. It was my blog, but way cooler-looking. Jamie hadn’t just changed the title—the whole look was different. The background was a world map, the countries a shade of gray barely lighter than the charcoal water. The header stretched across the top looked like a blurred image of a tunnel filled with a bluish light surrounding the warped black outline of a person in the center. A wispy, animated fog drifted around the title.
“It’s only a template,” Jamie said quickly. “And I just used Doctor Pain as a joke—I made another version with your real name. You’d have to log into your blog to upload it. If you want it, I mean.”
“Um, yes, please.” I leaned closer, watching the fog twist around each letter. “This is amazing. You’re really talented.”
Jamie’s cheeks reddened. “Thanks. You have to keep posting, okay? See if you can get more photos, especially.”
My fingers twitched at the thought of the Elapse. “I will, but I doubt it’ll do any good,” I said. “Roland’s going to do something to get my dad fired, I know it. I showed you that anonymous comment he left on my last post. Enjoy your last episode.” I tried to sound dismissive, although in truth that comment had creeped me out a
little. I’d deleted it before Dad or anyone else on the crew could see.
“That’s why you have to keep posting.” Jamie lowered his voice, glancing at his dad. “The fans love the curse. But they love your blog, too. And if your dad leaves, then you leave, and the blog’s finished. Don’t you think they’d rather have all this cool behind-the-scenes stuff than just seeing another host get canned?”
He had a point. My post about Crimptown had gotten almost seven hundred hits, mostly thanks to that photo of Lidia. Maybe my blog actually could be the “something new” Fright TV thought the show needed to bring in more fans.
Hailey groaned, pointing at the doors. Through the glass, I saw a taxi pull up to the curb.
“Ready, kids?” Mr. Cooper called. Jamie closed his laptop and zipped his bag closed.
“Coming!” We all stood, Hailey and Jamie gathering up their bags. Hailey hugged me, then Oscar.
“Promise to tell us all about the prison!” she insisted as we walked to the doors. “Oh, and try the Ouija board again there! Oh, oh, and tell us if your stalker ghost gives you any more messages!”
“I will,” I said, smiling. But a heavy sadness filled me as I watched her and Jamie pile into the taxi. It had been nice having friends here while everyone else was working. They waved through the back window, and I waved back until the car disappeared around the corner.
For a few seconds, Oscar and I just stood there in silence. That was the other thing about the Coopers—Oscar and I almost got along with them here as buffers. We hadn’t technically had an argument in a few days. But things between us were still . . . prickly. It didn’t help that I felt a rush of guilt when I remembered the e-mail about his father. I had to tell him I knew.
Oscar shoved his hands in his pockets. “What time did Jess say we’re leaving?”
“Five, I think,” I replied. “Hey, Oscar?”
“Yeah?”
“Are you, um . . .?” I paused, wishing I’d thought this through better. “I was—”
“Oscar!”
We turned to see Lidia in the entrance, her frizzy hair pulled back into a bun. She gave Oscar a bemused sort of smile.
“I thought you were going to pack this morning, but apparently you decided to fling your belongings all over our room instead.” Her voice was even more hoarse than it had been yesterday.
Oscar rolled his eyes. “It’s not that messy.”
“Come on, you know it’s going to take you forever to get packed.” Shrugging, Oscar headed inside. Lidia gave me a pointed look. “Are you packed?”
“No,” I admitted, following Oscar.
Lidia sighed. “Two peas in a pod, I swear.”
Oscar and I glanced at each other briefly before looking away. I followed them to the elevator, saying a silent prayer of thanks that Mi Jin hadn’t been around to hear that.
At six thirty that evening, I was curled up in the back of an old prison van. Jess had bought it that morning, saying she could sell it once we were finished in Brussels, so it was cheaper than renting a regular van. The seats weren’t exactly comfortable, but at least it was roomy. A sliding door separated the front half from the back. Jess insisted on timing our drive so that we would drive into Brussels at sunset, which was right now. So while the rest of the crew was crammed into the front getting footage of the drive into the city and talking about the haunted prison, Oscar and I lounged in the back reading Mi Jin’s comic books. Dad’s voice was just audible through the door as he summarized the tragic Daems Penitentiary story. “Nearly one hundred men died during the escape attempt, most of them on the electric fence . . .”
Finally, I tossed my Avengers comic down. “Oscar, I should tell you that I know about your dad.”
His head jerked up, his eyes wide. “You what?”
“I know about your dad,” I repeated. “That he’s . . . you know, in prison. Lidia left her phone on the table the other day and her alarm went off to remind her to take her heart medicine. When I turned it off, I saw an e-mail about his parole getting denied. It was an accident, and I’m sorry. But I saw it.”
Slowly, Oscar lowered X-Men, blinking a few times. “Oh.”
“I’m really sorry,” I said again. “Not just that I saw it, but because . . . well. That really sucks.”
He shrugged. “It’s okay.”
“Do you, um . . . ?” I hesitated, and Oscar watched me warily. “Do you want to . . . to talk about it, or anything?”
After a second, the corner of his mouth lifted. “Talk about it? Why?”
I sighed in frustration. “I don’t know, I’m just trying to help.”
“How will talking about it help?”
“You know what? Never mind.” Grabbing the comic, I opened it up and furiously flipped through the pages to find my spot. “I was just trying to be nice.”
We were silent for nearly a minute, listening to Jess and Roland argue about the directions. Then Oscar said: “Do you want to talk about your mom getting married again?”
The van hit a bump, and I gasped as Avengers went flying out of my hands. “What?”
Oscar rubbed the back of his head where it had bumped into the side of the van. “If talking about stuff is so helpful, why don’t you talk about your mom getting engaged?”
“How do you know about that?” I demanded, sitting up straight.
Sighing, Oscar tossed his comic down. “When I first got here, I kept waking up really early,” he began. “I could never go back to sleep, so I’d go to the breakfast room to make some waffles, and—”
“They had waffles?” I interrupted, outraged.
Oscar looked like he was trying not to laugh. “Yeah, but they were always out of batter by the time you woke up,” he said, and I made a face. “Anyway, once I was full, I could usually go back to sleep. I think it was maybe the second day you were here—I went down right before six, and your dad was in the breakfast room video-chatting with someone. I guess he didn’t want to wake you up. And . . . well, I figured out it was your mom he was talking to, and she told him that she was engaged.”
I pictured Dad alone in the breakfast room, laptop open, Mom on the screen. I have some news. A rush of anger flooded through me.
“Sorry,” Oscar added, and I glanced at him. “I mean, it was an accident, just like you with Aunt Lidia’s phone. But still. I’m sorry.”
I nodded stiffly. “It’s fine.”
“Do you want your parents to get back together?”
I blinked, surprised at the bluntness of the question. “No.”
“Really?”
“Really,” I said honestly. “Neither of them was happy.” I pressed my lips together. There was more to it than that, of course.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Oscar asked, his tone slightly mocking.
For a moment, I just gaped at him. Because he was smirking. Like this was funny.
Then I realized . . . it was kind of funny.
“You know, I really, really don’t,” I said, shaking my head. “At all. Why do people always think talking about something that makes you miserable is going to help?”
“Exactly!” Oscar exclaimed. “Maybe it’ll just make you feel worse.”
“Let’s see.” I cleared my throat. “Last April, my mom suddenly decided she wanted to go be a famous photographer, and she had to do it alone. So she ditched us and moved to Cincinnati. She’s taken off twice before, by the way, but she always came home after a few weeks. This time she came back to town in June without even telling me, and now all of a sudden she’s marrying some guy who has a daughter. Gee, saying that out loud helped a ton. I feel so much better now.”
Oscar leaned forward in his seat, his expression earnest. “My dad used to own a chain of cafés. When I was nine, he got audited and they found out he had some sort of embezzlement thing going on. He basically stole a
ton of money from his own employees. During the trial, his name was all over the headlines of the local newspapers every day, and they made him sound like a supervillain with all these stupid nicknames. And we have the same name. He was sentenced to ten years in prison, and I got called ‘Bettencrook’ for most of fifth grade.” Oscar threw his hands up in the air, eyes wide in mock surprise. “Magic! Talking about it fixed everything.”
We both started laughing. It was that uncontrollable kind of laughter, where your chest starts to really ache but you can’t stop. A minute later, the door slid open.
“Everything okay back here?” Mi Jin asked.
I nodded, wiping my eyes. “Great.”
“We just solved all our problems,” Oscar added.
Mi Jin looked amused. “Glad to hear it, but could you guys keep it down a little? We’re going to start filming again—we’re just a few minutes from the city. And be careful with the preciouses,” she added sternly, gesturing to the comics strewn on the floor before sliding the door shut again.
I reached down to pick up Avengers. “Do you at least get to visit your dad?”
“Yeah.” Oscar grabbed his comic, too. “But I haven’t since I got expelled. Don’t really want to have that conversation.”
“I don’t blame you,” I said, flipping back to my spot. “All of that happened when you were nine, and kids at your school were still giving you a hard time about it in eighth grade? Lame.”
“What?”
“That’s why you got expelled, right?” I glanced at him. “Lidia said you were bullied—wasn’t it because of what happened with your dad?”
Oscar’s smile vanished. “No, it wasn’t about that. I, um . . . got in a fight with Mark.”
Frowning, I remembered my first conversation with Oscar.
I had a friend named Mark, too.
Had? What, is he dead or something?
“Oh. What, um . . .” I trailed off as Oscar buried his head in his comic. Whatever had happened, obviously he didn’t want to talk about it. So I closed my mouth and went back to reading. I was curious, but we’d already talked enough. And after all, I hadn’t told him about the Thing.
Dead Air Page 14
