“It’s just a first draft,” she said quickly. “I know it needs a lot of work. But it’s basically about a woman who’s being stalked by what she thinks is her doppelganger, and I just thought, hey, now I actually know someone who’s seen her own doppelganger, plus she’s a horror movie expert and a generally awesome human, so maybe she could give me some notes?”
Mi Jin clasped her hands together like she was begging, her eyes comically wide. I just stood there, floored. Mi Jin was one of the coolest and smartest people I’d ever met, and she was asking me for help? The idea made me feel extremely proud and terribly anxious at the same time.
“You . . . I . . . what . . .” I sputtered, then blushed. “But you’re my teacher. How can I give you notes?”
“Um, besides all the reasons I just said?” Mi Jin said with a little laugh. “Hey, if it helps, think of this as a critical reading assignment. If you want to read it, of course.”
“I do!” I said quickly. “I want to! I just . . . I don’t know if I’ll be much help.”
“I know you will,” Mi Jin said, beaming. “Thanks!” She gave me a quick hug, then headed back inside Lidia’s room. I walked slowly down the hall to my room, hugging the screenplay to my chest and feeling all warm inside.
I was just sliding my key card through the lock when I heard the ping of the elevator on the other end of the hall. I glanced over to see Dad and Jess stepping off.
“Hey!” I said, pushing the door open but waiting in the hall. “Done with the interviews?”
“Yup!” Jess said cheerfully. “Got some great stuff.” She headed into Lidia’s room, but Dad said, “I’ll be right there,” and continued down the hall toward me. At the sight of his expression, my good mood vanished.
“Is something wrong?”
Dad didn’t answer, just gestured for me to enter our room. Once we were inside, he exhaled slowly, then pulled out his phone.
“Your mother e-mailed me,” he said. “She’s pretty upset about this.” He held his phone out, and I saw some Facebook status update my mom had written about her wedding. Then I noticed the first comment below it. A comment from me.
Your real daughter will be home soon. And I’ll never leave you again.
My jaw dropped. “I didn’t write that.”
Dad tilted his head. “Do you think your account was hacked?” He said it like he was ready to believe me if I said yes, which made me feel even worse. Because it had been hacked, of course. But by the Thing, so once again, I couldn’t tell the complete truth.
“It must have been, yeah,” I croaked. “Or something. Because I didn’t say that. I would never say that.”
“It’s just that . . .” Dad glanced at the screen and sighed. “Okay, I’ll be honest. Your mother and I are both concerned that this is your way of trying to tell us something that you’re too afraid to just . . . say.”
I blinked, then blinked again. “What?”
“Your real daughter,” Dad read aloud, and I flinched. “Does this mean . . . as opposed to Elena?”
“What?” My mind was so full of the Thing, it took me a minute to register what Dad was implying. “Dad, I don’t care that Mom’s about to have a stepdaughter. I don’t.”
Another lie. Mom doted on Elena like she never had with me, and yes, it bugged me. But I’d never say anything so rude about her; especially not online, where my whole family could see it.
Maybe that showed on my face, because Dad looked disappointed. “And then this part, about never leaving again.” He lowered his phone, and the sadness in his eyes made my throat clench up. “Between this and my contract, I just . . . Kat, do you want to go back to Chelsea for good? To be closer to your mom? Because, sweetie, that’s okay. It won’t hurt my feelings if that’s what you want.”
And he really didn’t look hurt. He just looked so sad. The idea that he thought I’d rather be with Mom than with him hit me so hard, I couldn’t even get out a no. I just burst into tears, burying my face in my hands. Dad immediately wrapped his arms around me, which just made me cry harder. After several minutes of sobbing (and eventually, hiccuping) into his sweater, I pulled away and wiped my nose.
“I don’t,” I said as firmly as I could, but my voice wobbled and cracked. “I swear, I don’t. I want to be here with you.” I walked over to my bed and lay down face-first, unable to look him in the eyes anymore. Exhaustion settled over me like a heavy blanket. Dad was silent for a few seconds.
“Kat?”
“I’m tired,” I croaked into my pillow. “Can we talk about this later?”
Another pause. “Okay. I’ll be down the hall if you need me.”
A few seconds later, I heard the door click closed. I rolled over on my back and stared at the ceiling.
Your real daughter. When I’d first read that, before Dad mentioned Elena, I’d felt like I was on the brink of a realization. I lay still, hoping my brain would finish making the connection. Your real daughter . . . I closed my eyes and saw Laurie in the lobby of the Montgomery, asking for my autograph.
“What did you mean about meeting the real you?”
I sat up in bed, then lunged for my laptop. The Real Kat Sinclair—someone had left a few comments under that name on a Rumorz post and in the forums. It didn’t take me long to find them. The first was on Shelly Mather’s poll about the guest star. You won’t care about any of these idiots once you meet me. And the second was on the forum thread when I’d “confirmed” that my dad was staying on the show next season. I can’t wait to leave this stupid show and go home for good.
I wiped my eyes furiously. Now I knew what the Thing was doing. It was making sure I moved back to Ohio permanently. And it was doing a killer job of it, too. Judging by the heartbroken look on Dad’s face, I wouldn’t be surprised if he wasn’t telling Jess and the others right now that the next episode would be his last.
Slamming the laptop closed, I sat there and fumed for nearly a minute. The only way to stop the Thing would be to tell Dad about the Thing. Except that wouldn’t work at all, because whether Dad believed me or not—whether he thought I was being tormented by a ghost or just “crazy”—he’d definitely want to leave the show. And if I didn’t tell him about the Thing, he’d just go on believing I was doing and saying all this horrible stuff because I was afraid to tell him I really wanted to be with Mom. Solution: again, Ohio.
No matter what I did, the Thing would win.
I was moving back to Chelsea.
CHAPTER NINE
THE GIRL WHO CRIED DOPPELGANGER
INTERIOR: ATTIC—NIGHT
LEE climbs the ladder into her grandmother’s attic. She pulls a chain and the single overhead bulb flickers on, casting dim light onto dusty boxes, trunks, and old furniture. Lee looks around somberly. She wanders over to a box and opens it. A flurry of dust makes her cough.
LEE (amused)
So you weren’t a total clean freak then, Gran?
She turns around and gasps at the sight of her own reflection. Then she laughs when she realizes it’s just a tarnished old mirror. As she steps away, we see in the reflection a dark figure moving swiftly but silently in the shadows. Lee moves toward an old dresser against the wall.
LEE (softly)
What the . . .
Lee picks up a small figurine. It’s identical to the princess figurine on her dresser at home, but this one is blackened, as if it has been burned. Clearly puzzled, Lee turns around, still gazing at the figurine, and finds herself face to face with her doppelganger. It’s identical to her except for its eyes, which are solid black. Lee drops the figurine and screams at the top of her lungs, stumbling back against the dresser and knocking off the mirror. It shatters on the floor, and Lee runs to the ladder and hurriedly climbs down. The doppelganger picks up a shard of mirror and studies its reflection for a moment. Then, gripping the shard like a knife, it slowly follow
s after Lee.
THE business center was deserted, and I yawned hugely as I pulled out the rolling chair in front of the nearest computer. It was five to eight in the morning, which was absurdly early for me, but the twelve-hour time difference between Beijing and Ohio made it necessary. After plugging in my headphones, I signed into my e-mail and made sure the available option was checked in my video chat window.
Once Dad had gone to bed, I’d huddled under the covers and read Mi Jin’s screenplay by the light of my phone. Weirdly, reading a story about someone’s horrifying struggle with their evil doppelganger was the perfect distraction from my actual real-life experience with one.
I hadn’t made any notes, though. Not yet. I was nervous about that part. Mi Jin had asked for feedback, and I was torn between fear of criticizing her work and offending her, and fear of not criticizing her work and letting her down.
I did have some ideas of how to make it better, though. Overall, it was an awesome story, and I could totally picture it in my head as a movie. But as I’d read, I’d found myself mentally rewriting some parts, changing a little bit here and there. Which, I knew, was what Mi Jin wanted me to do. It was just that actually telling her what to do with her screenplay seemed really . . . arrogant.
A soft boop-beep interrupted my thoughts.
trishhhhbequiet is calling you. Accept?
I clicked Yes, and a moment later, Trish and Mark appeared on the screen. The sight of the two of them in Trish’s room, where the three of us had spent so much time together in sixth and seventh grade, gave me the strangest feeling every time we video chatted. It was equal parts happiness, wistfulness, and a third emotion I never let myself think about too hard.
“Hey!” Trish exclaimed, adjusting her laptop screen. “Whoa, you look tired.”
“Thanks,” I said dryly. “It’s eight in the morning for me, you know. Hi, Fang!”
Grinning, Trish glanced over her shoulder at the tank on her dresser, where her pet snake was coiled up. “He says hi.”
“What was the bridge like?” Mark pushed his glasses up his nose and leaned forward eagerly. “We already read your blog post. See anything creepy?”
I hesitated. I hadn’t told Trish and Mark about the Thing, because . . . well, for a lot of reasons. Mostly because I knew how ridiculous it would sound to anyone who lived in the suburbs and went to school like normal kids, instead of spending every hour of every day with a bunch of ghost hunters. But in a few days, the next episode of P2P would air. And everyone would see the Thing on television.
“Yeah,” I said finally. “We did, actually.”
I launched into a description of our trip out to the Yongheng Bridge. But I left out the part about me trying to project the Thing on my camera, about the weird, roller-coaster loop feeling it had left me with. And when I got to the part about the ghost having my face, I found myself telling them Mi Jin’s doppelganger theory. As if this ghost version of myself had just appeared, and I had no idea why.
I was lying to my best friends. Just like I was lying to my dad. I didn’t want to, not at all . . . but the longer I kept these secrets about the Thing, the more secrets there were to keep, the bigger the lie became. Like a cartoon snowball, rolling down a mountain and getting bigger and more out of control every second.
“And it’s on video?” Trish said, her eyes huge. “Like we’re actually going to see this thing during the episode?”
I tried not to flinch at thing. “Yeah. It’s pretty wild.”
Mark squinted at me. “Are you scared? I mean, that’s pretty . . . I don’t know. I’d be really freaked out.”
“Eh, but she’s not going back to the bridge,” Trish said. “I doubt it’s just going to show up in her hotel, you know? Like, it’s not going to be just lying out by the pool or something.”
I forced a laugh. “Especially considering it’s forty degrees outside.”
“Hang on . . .” Mark was tapping on his phone screen, brow furrowed. “Maybe you haven’t seen it, but what about this?” He held up his phone, and I saw he’d pulled up my last blog post. The one where I’d mentioned The Real Kat Sinclair commenter. “I figured it was just, you know, some random person using your name. But what if it’s . . .”
“My doppelganger?” I grinned at him. “I thought you didn’t believe in paranormal stuff, even after all the stories I’ve told you.”
Mark’s face reddened a bit. “I don’t . . . mostly. But this is a weird coincidence. And we saw . . .”
He exchanged a glance with Trish, and my stomach tightened.
“You saw what?”
“We saw that comment you left on your mom’s Facebook,” Trish said, tugging at a few of her braids nervously. “It, um . . . well, it didn’t sound like you.”
I swallowed. “It wasn’t me. Someone must’ve gotten into my account.”
“Like your doppelganger?” Mark joked half-heartedly.
“Maybe. Or just . . . I don’t know, trolls or something.” I shrugged. “Anyway. What’s new with—”
“What’s the deal with your house?” Trish blurted it out, and I realized she’d probably been holding back that question since the moment our chat had started. “Is your dad gonna buy it?”
I took a deep breath. Here, at least, was something I could be perfectly honest about.
“I think so. And I think we might be moving back for good.”
Trish let out a happy little squeal, then clamped her hands over her mouth. Mark blinked several times.
“Really? Why?”
So I told them the whole story: the job offer from Live with Wendy, Dad saying hosting P2P was too much work even though I knew he loved it, the way he was acting all moody, how he’d said he was mad at himself, 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 . . . And finally, that he thought I’d shredded his P2P contract, that I’d left that comment on my mom’s Facebook wall . . . that I actually wanted to move back to Chelsea.
When I finished, Trish and Mark both stayed silent for a few seconds. Finally, Mark cleared his throat and said:
“And you . . . you don’t?”
“What, want to move back?” I asked, surprised. “No! I didn’t say any of that stuff. It’s not how I feel at all.”
Trish was staring at a spot somewhere to the left of her laptop. “Obviously,” she mumbled. It took me a moment to realize what I’d said.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean . . .” I felt a blush creep up my neck. “Dad thinks I want to live closer to my mom, and I don’t. That’s all I meant.”
“But otherwise, you’d be okay moving back here?” Mark asked tentatively.
I opened my mouth to say of course, because that’s what you say when your best friends ask if you want to move back to be with them again, because that’s what you actually want. Except that feeling was nagging at me again, the one I got every time we video chatted, every time I was reminded of the life I’d left behind in Chelsea. The feeling I ignored.
I was glad. I was glad I didn’t live there anymore. I missed Trish and Mark and Grandma constantly, but come on—I was traveling all over the world, visiting haunted places with a TV show. I had new friends, I had a weirdly successful blog that was super fun to write . . . in just a few months, being a part of Passport to Paranormal had become . . . well, normal. The thought of losing all of this, of going back to the same old school, same old house, same old movie theater on weekends and no ghosts whatsoever . . .
It was kind of devastating, to be honest. But there was no way to tell my best friends that without hurting their feelings.
Unfortunately, my silence pretty much told them, anyway.
Trish smiled tightly. “I get it,” she said. “Probably seems really boring around here compared to what you’re doing.” She sounded like she was genu
inely trying to be understanding, which just made me feel worse.
“No it doesn’t!” I said way too quickly. Lie. “I mean, this is . . . I miss you guys, I really do, and . . .” I sighed, closing my eyes and wishing I’d never brought up any of this. “I guess I’m just upset Dad thinks I’d rather be with Mom than with him.”
Mark frowned. “He doesn’t think you want to live with her, right?”
Until this moment, the thought hadn’t occurred to me. But then, very clearly, I imagined seeing that comment on my mom’s wall from Dad’s perspective. Your real daughter will be home soon. And I’ll never leave you again.
“I don’t know,” I said, my voice breaking a little. “Maybe he does think that.”
“Mark!” I heard Trish’s mom calling from down the hall. “Your brother’s parked outside!”
“Coming!” Mark called back.
“Nathan’s driving now?” I asked, surprised.
Mark nodded. “Got his license right after New Year’s. I’m surprised he passed the test . . . half the time he tries to park in front of the house, he runs up on the curb.”
“And oh my God, last weekend,” Trish said, her eyes brightening. “Kat, he took us to the mall, and he accidentally drove the wrong way down the little street that goes around the parking lot. He got pulled over.”
“By a mall cop,” Mark added. “In one of those little golf carts.”
We all started giggling uncontrollably. “Trish, Mark!” Trish’s mom yelled again. “It’s almost nine o’clock!”
“All right!” Trish yelled back. She grinned at me, and I grinned back, relieved she didn’t look all hurt and awkward anymore. “Maybe we can do this again when you get to . . . where exactly are you going next?”
“Seoul. And yes, definitely.”
“Cool. Bye, Kat!”
I waved at them until the screen went black. Then I took off the headphones, logged out of my account, and rubbed my eyes. Breakfast sounded good, but bed sounded better.
I compromised by grabbing a napkin with as many steamed buns as I could carry and eating them on my way back up to my room. Talking to Trish and Mark had left me feeling unsettled. I hated lying to them, I hated that I’d hurt their feelings, I hated knowing that they would probably talk to each other about why I didn’t want to move back to Chelsea, and say all the things they wouldn’t say to my face . . .
Final Girl Page 8
