Final Girl

by Michelle Schusterman

  “GOTCHA!”

  My shock only lasted about half a second, because I recognized Mi Jin’s combat boots and purple hoodie. But Oscar screamed.

  Not a fake scream, like he usually did when he and Mi Jin pranked each other. The real kind, the kind that sounded like it was ripped out of someone’s gut through their throat against their will. The kind someone makes when they really think they’re about to die.

  Everyone in the lobby whirled around. Oscar dropped his bags and staggered away from Mi Jin, his face white. She pulled off the clown mask.

  “Whoa!” she exclaimed, eyes wide. “Hey, sorry! I was just goofing around . . . You okay?” She took a step forward and reached for him, stopping when he flinched. “Oscar, seriously. Are you okay?”

  We all stared at him, even the concierge behind the desk. Breathing heavily, Oscar looked around. Then, without a word, he snatched up his bags and pushed through the door so hard it slammed into the outside wall.

  Mi Jin’s mouth was open, and she looked from me to Lidia over by the front desk. “I—I’m really sorry!” she said. “We do this kind of stuff all the time; I don’t know why he . . .”

  “He’s just tired.” Lidia watched Oscar toss his bags into the trunk of the second car. “Hasn’t been sleeping well. Don’t worry about it, I’m sure he’s okay.” But I caught a glimpse of her expression as she turned back to the concierge, and she definitely looked worried. For a moment, I wondered why she wasn’t going after him. But Lidia knew Oscar even better than I did. And I knew enough not to push him to talk when he clearly wanted to be alone.

  I pulled my suitcase over to Mi Jin. “It sure doesn’t seem like he’s okay,” she whispered, running her hand over her shaved head. “God, I’ve never heard him scream like that. And he looked . . . he really looked mad at me.”

  I didn’t say anything, because she was right, but agreeing would probably only make her feel worse. And when I slid into the back seat of the second car next to Oscar, he was leaning against the window with his eyes closed, like he was asleep. But I could tell he wasn’t.

  No one said anything about the incident during the drive to the airport. Or during the long baggage check lines or security. It wasn’t until everyone had bagels and coffee and chocolate milk and we’d camped out at our gate that I sat down next to Oscar and said:

  “Tell me about these nightmares.”

  He blinked, picking a piece off his cheddar bagel and not meeting my eyes. “What?”

  “You said you’re having weird dreams. You’re not sleeping. You get startled easily—and not just with Mi Jin, I’ve noticed it before. It’s like you’re . . . you’re paranoid, or something. And . . .” I paused, waiting until he finally looked up at me. “And I know what that feels like. So tell me about it, and maybe I can help.”

  Oscar didn’t say anything for several seconds, and I waited for him to tell me to leave him alone. Then his left eye twitched, and he rubbed it, sighing.

  “Okay.” He glanced around, lowering his voice. “I’m not having nightmares, because I’m not sleeping at all. It happens when I’m awake.”

  “What does?”

  “It’s like . . .” Oscar paused. “Like a daydream, but I can’t control it, I’m not trying to think about it. It just plays over and over in my head on a loop. But sometimes there’s little differences. Sometimes she has the chair, but sometimes—”

  “She?” I interrupted. “Who’s she?”

  He blinked, his eyes flickering around nervously. “Emily.”

  Something cold and heavy settled in my stomach like a stone.

  “When she jumped out of that cell, I saw her coming, but not fast enough to—to react. Protect myself. She hit me with a chair, knocked me out . . . and I can’t stop picturing it. But sometimes she doesn’t attack with a chair. Sometimes it’s a knife, or a gun. Sometimes it’s nothing, and she just grabs me by the throat and—”

  Oscar stopped abruptly, closing his mouth. He lifted a shoulder as if to say, you get it.

  And I did. I’d had nightmares about Emily, too. About her attacking Oscar, about her pulling her knife out when we were in the guard tower, about her running toward Sam and me not being able to do anything to stop her.

  But the more that time passed, the less I thought about her. For Oscar, it sounded like it was getting worse.

  “Okay,” I said slowly. “And that’s why you can’t sleep? Because you can’t stop ob—thinking about it?” I stopped myself from saying obsessing, even though that’s what Oscar was describing.

  He nodded. “And that’s why I acted like an idiot when Mi Jin jumped out from behind that plant.”

  “You didn’t act like an idiot,” I said immediately. “You were scared. You have a reason to be.” He rolled his eyes, and I leaned closer. “No, seriously. We both do. We were attacked by a stalker. She literally knocked you unconscious. It was scary as hell, and maybe . . . maybe that’s something you don’t just get over really fast.”

  “Or get over at all,” Oscar said dryly. “It’s worse now than it was right after the whole thing happened. Especially when every time I get on the forums, everyone’s talking about Emily being the guest host for the finale.”

  “That’s obviously not going to happen.”

  “I know, but just seeing her name is like . . .” Oscar made a face, then sighed. “Maybe it’s a good thing we might not come back next season. How am I supposed to go on paranormal investigations when I freak out over someone mentioning Emily? Or scream at the sight of a stupid clown mask?”

  At his mention of next season, I felt a stab of guilt yet again, but ignored it. He did have a good point. Chewing my lip, I let my gaze wander over the other cast members. Dad and Jess were sitting close together, watching something on Dad’s iPad. Lidia was on her phone, finger pressed to her other ear, brow furrowed. Mi Jin had her laptop out and was typing furiously. Sam had dozed off with his head on Roland’s shoulder, and Roland was reading a paperback he’d bought in the airport’s bookstore. The title looked really long and dull; I could only make out the words Clinical and Human.

  “You should tell Roland.”

  Oscar frowned at me. “What? Why?”

  “Because he’s a therapist. No, seriously,” I said when Oscar wrinkled his nose. “That’s what he did before the show. He had patients, and a lot of people go see a therapist because something happened to them. You know, something traumatic. And I know Roland’s sarcastic and weird sometimes, but he’s really good at this kind of thing.”

  “Have you talked to him about stuff like this before?”

  “Yeah, I talked to him about my parents’ divorce a little.” I grinned. “And back when we first met, I told him I didn’t like you. And he told me it was because we were too alike . . . which was true.” Oscar rolled his eyes again, but his lips curved up a tiny bit. “But seriously, I think he’d have some good advice for you.”

  Oscar looked over at Roland, and so did I. He looked up from his book, eyebrows arched questioningly.

  “Can I help you?”

  I glanced at Oscar, then shrugged. “I was just saying that your book looks really boring.”

  Roland sniffed. “I’ll have you know that this chapter on third generation cognitive behavioral therapy techniques is a literal roller coaster.”

  Before I could reply, a voice came over the public address system.

  “Flight 3366, with nonstop service to Seattle, will begin boarding in a moment.”

  With a loud groan, Roland elbowed Sam. “Wake up, sunshine. You’ve got two flights and twenty hours of flying to get your beauty sleep.” Sam stared around blearily, his black hair sticking straight out of the left side of his head, and Roland pulled him to his feet. Oscar and I stood, too, picking up our bags, and I stared at him expectantly.

  “Well?” I asked in a low voice.

  �
�Okay,” Oscar said at last. “Yeah. I’ll talk to him when we get to Beijing.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  ALL WORK AND NO PLAY

  P2P FAN FORUMS

  Jack Sinclair confirmed for season 4!

  Maytrix [admin]

  Just saw this article on Rumorz by Shelly Mathers. She ran into Kat in NYC, who confirmed her dad’s definitely in for next season. Phew!

  The Real Kat Sinclair [new member]

  Shelley Mathers is a liar. My father and I are moving back to Ohio. I can’t wait to leave this stupid show and go home for good.

  YourCohortInCrime [member]

  ROFL what

  AFTER almost twenty-four hours of travel, I was pretty much delirious. I kept nodding off during our drive through Beijing, my head jerking forward every time the car lurched to a stop. By the time I woke up the next morning, I only remembered the trip in flashes: Green-and-yellow buses. Frost-covered rickshaws. Glass skyscrapers. An enormous hotel with signs in both Mandarin and English. Key card. Bed. Pillow. Face-plant.

  I sat up slowly, my head still thick and foggy with sleep. The blinds were closed, but I could tell it was light outside. Dad was sitting cross-legged on the bed next to mine, his laptop screen giving his face a bluish glow. He smiled at me as I grabbed the glass of water on the night table and gulped it down.

  “Morning. Well, afternoon, almost.”

  “Ugh.” I set down the empty glass. For a few minutes, we sat there quietly. Dad was reading what looked like the itinerary Lidia had e-mailed to all of us before we left. I just watched him, thinking. About his shredded contract. About his reluctance to sign it. About what Shelly Mathers had said. His other job offer. The one he hadn’t told me about.

  I couldn’t keep being angry at him for something I didn’t even know he’d done. So I took a deep breath and said:

  “Live with Wendy. Is it true?”

  Dad looked up, his mouth slightly open. “I’m sorry?”

  “Shelly Mathers said that show Live with Wendy asked you to be cohost. In Cincinnati. Did they?”

  His face tightened. “Yes. And I’d love to know how some Rumorz reporter found out about it. They’re keeping that search a secret until they fill the position.”

  “So I guess they’ve forbidden you to tell me, then.” I winced at how whiny that sounded. But I had a right to be hurt. Or at least, I thought I did.

  Apparently, Dad disagreed. Because instead of looking contrite or apologetic, he closed his laptop and turned to face me.

  “Kat, I didn’t tell you because I haven’t decided whether or not to accept the offer yet. And despite what you apparently think, this is my decision to make, not yours.”

  Stung, I just stared at him for a few seconds. “But . . . but if you take it, that means we’re moving back to Ohio.”

  “Yes, it does.”

  “But . . .” Anger was quickly replacing my hurt feelings. “But that’s my decision, too, isn’t it? I’m a cast member—shouldn’t I get a say in whether or not I leave?”

  Dad sighed. “Believe me, I know you want to stay. But I’m the parent. I need to do what’s best for you—best for both of us.”

  “And that’s moving back to Chelsea?” I threw the sheets aside and stood up, trembling. “You love this job, too! What’s this really about? You still don’t trust me? Or you think it’s too dangerous? Because—”

  Ping! I stopped, and Dad and I both glanced at his phone on the night table. It was a text from Jess that just said FYI, followed by a link.

  I crossed my arms, silently fuming as Dad tapped the link. But a second later, my righteous anger dissipated as I heard my own voice coming through the phone’s speaker.

  “Actually, my dad turned in his contract to Fright TV this morning. Did you hear that rumor? Or did you start it?”

  “She actually posted video of me?” I cried, hurrying over to look. “Can she even do that without permission?”

  “It wasn’t Shelly Mathers,” Dad said. His voice was way too calm and even. “It was a fan. He took this video on his phone while Shelly was talking to you, then tweeted it.”

  The video played again, and my stomach turned over. It wasn’t the whole conversation—just the clip where I snapped. I remembered how frustrated I’d been, but still, I was surprised at how furious I looked. Fists squeezed at my sides, arms straight, leaning forward slightly like I wanted to hit Shelly. Dad closed the browser abruptly and tossed his phone on the comforter.

  I swallowed. “You’re mad at me.”

  He took a deep breath. “No. I’m disappointed, and confused, as to why you said what you said. Especially after tearing up my contract.”

  “I didn’t—”

  “But I’m not mad at you.” Dad paused, squeezing the bridge of his nose, and I pressed my lips together. “I’m mad at Shelly for ambushing a bunch of kids. I’m mad at myself for not being there to do something about it. I’m mad that when my daughter’s not being attacked by psychopaths in an abandoned prison, she’s being harassed by trolls online and reporters in real life. It’s—”

  “Trolls?” I interrupted, my face suddenly hot. “How did—I mean, I haven’t been . . .”

  But I stopped, because I could tell from Dad’s expression that he knew. Somehow, he knew about the person who’d spent most of December leaving horrible comments on my blog. Comments I’d deleted as soon as they’d popped up—but only after screenshotting and saving each one to read over and over again later. Torturing myself. Making myself believe that all the awful things he said about me were true. Oscar was the only person I’d told, and he’d immediately deleted all of the screenshots from my phone.

  “Oscar told you?” My voice came out hoarse and scratchy.

  Dad’s face softened. “No, Mi Jin did. Don’t be angry at her—it was the right thing to do.”

  I didn’t respond. I wasn’t angry that Mi Jin had told him, because she didn’t know about most of the comments. Just the first few. Which, frankly, were the kindest ones. I couldn’t imagine how upset Dad would’ve been if he’d seen the ones that came later. They hadn’t been just insulting. They’d been . . . degrading.

  “Kat, why didn’t you tell me?” Dad waited, and when I stayed silent, he sighed. “You told Oscar, you told Mi Jin. I just don’t want you to think you can’t come to me, too.”

  “I . . . I thought you’d make me get rid of my blog,” I said at last. That was true, but it wasn’t the real reason. I’d been . . . ashamed. Mi Jin only knew about the troll because she saw his first comment before I deleted it. Jamie knew because the troll had left another comment about me on the forums. But I’d never told him or Mi Jin how bad things had gotten. It was too humiliating.

  The only reason I’d told Oscar was because I knew he’d been through the exact same thing.

  Dad sighed. “Kat, we’ve had this talk. A few times, actually. If there’s even the slightest chance you’re in danger—”

  “It was just a stupid troll!” I blurted out. “I wasn’t in danger; this wasn’t like with Emily.”

  “Not just the online harassment.” Dad tapped his phone. “It’s happening in real life now, too. Reporters, fans, videos of you circulating online . . .”

  I stood up again. “That wasn’t my fault!”

  “I know,” Dad replied grimly. “It was my fault. You’re my responsibility. I told you, I’m not angry with you. I’m angry with myself.” He was quiet for a moment. “That’s why I’m seriously considering Wendy’s offer.”

  “What?”

  “It’s a great job,” he said. “Great pay. An established show that’s not under constant threat of cancellation. And less work, to be honest—I do love this show, especially working with Jess again, but it’s a twenty-four–seven job. How often do you and I get to spend time together doing anything that isn’t Passport related? Maybe . . . m
aybe that’s why you’re acting out.”

  “But—no, I’m not—”

  “And it’s home,” he went on, as if I hadn’t interrupted. “We could buy the house. You could go back to Riverview—Trish and Mark would be thrilled, right?” Dad cleared his throat. “And you’d be able to visit your mother and her new family more often. I really . . . I really think this might be what’s best for you. And that’s my first priority.”

  My face was burning, my hands were shaking. But I forced myself to keep my voice as calm as his. “And I don’t get a say in this at all?”

  “I already know you’d choose to stay with the show.” Dad paused, shaking his head. “Although, maybe I don’t know that, since you still haven’t explained why you ripped up my contract.”

  A weird, harsh laugh escaped me. “I didn’t.”

  “Then who did?” Dad watched me carefully, and I opened and closed my mouth a few times. “Kat, I can tell when you’re keeping something from me. And it seems to be happening more and more lately. What aren’t you telling me? If you’re really telling me you didn’t do it, I—I want to believe you. So just tell me, whatever it is.”

  I closed my eyes and imagined saying it. Dad, last month I thought I was possessed and I tried to exorcise myself. But what I ended up doing was exorcising the Thing. The other daughter, the one Mom wants me to be. I created an artificial ghost that’s an alternate version of myself, and now it’s terrorizing me. It tore up your contract, and I don’t know what it will do next.

  That would be the end. Dad would think I’d lost it, really lost it. He’d take me back to Ohio tomorrow. Put me in therapy. Hell, maybe even put me in a mental institution.

  I couldn’t tell him.

  “Nothing,” I whispered. “I don’t know what happened to your contract.”