Graveyard Slot, Michelle Schusterman [top novels to read txt] 📗

“No one’s going to see this. Ever.”

Once again, I found myself scrutinizing my appearance. My hair was pulled back in its usual super-short ponytail. I wondered what sort of “stylish” cut my mom envisioned. I wondered what she’d say about my Creature from the Black Lagoon shirt (probably “Do you have to wear that to the dinner table?”). I wondered what she’d say about my blotchy, bug-bite-covered skin and the sunburn that was the result of all the hiking and afternoons on the beach. I wondered . . .

. . . why there was someone in the mirror on the video.

I shot to my feet, turning to glance at the mirror before hitting replay. This time, I ignored myself and stared hard at the mirror behind me. For a few seconds, all I saw was the reflection of the Elapse on top of the TV. I squinted harder as the clip came to an end.

“Just. Freaking. Relax.”

There. Right when video-me said, “Relax,” there was movement—something, someone, passing between me and the TV in a lightning-fast blur. Goose bumps broke out all over my arms, and I spent at least a full minute staring at the real mirror before watching the video again. And again. And again.

My heart was pounding out of control, so I turned the camera off and set it down. I paced around the room, rubbing my arms and glancing at the mirror every few seconds.

I couldn’t prove it was Ana. But it was clearly something. I had proof I wasn’t seeing things.

The problem was, proving it meant showing people this video. This video of me giving myself a pep talk about my stupid stage fright. Which happened to be the exact reason my brain was tricking me into seeing Ana’s ghost, according to Roland. What if—a shiver passed through me at the thought—what if Jess wanted me to put this video on my blog? What if she wanted to use it in an episode?

“Nope,” I said loudly and decisively, grabbing the Elapse again. I pulled the memory card out and tucked it securely in my pocket just as the door flew open.

“Look at this!” Oscar hurried in carrying his laptop, which he shoved in my face. Startled, I dropped my camera onto the bed and took the laptop with both hands.

To: acciopancakes@mymail.net, oscarisnotagrouch@mymail.net

From: ShellyMathers@Rumorz.net

Subject: Interview on Rumorz!

Hi, Kat and Oscar!

I’m a writer on staff at Rumorz, a website that covers all the latest in entertainment news and reviews. I’ve been covering many of Fright TV’s shows for years, including Passport to Paranormal—you may have seen my article on the incident at Daems Penitentiary a few weeks ago.

Thomas Cooper, Fright TV’s Executive VP, mentioned that you two are about to become cast members yourselves. How exciting! I was wondering if you’d be interested in doing an interview for Rumorz? I’d love to hear more about your blog, Kat, and any other juicy “behind the scenes” tidbits you’d like to share! Let me know if we can set up a call, preferably sometime before your next episode airs.

Thanks a bunch!

Shelly Mathers

“Oh yes, please, I’d love to do an interview with a trashy gossip website,” I said sarcastically. “We’ll give them all the juicy stuff, like how Jess bleaches her hair or that Roland wears Batman pajamas.”

“Come on, Kat!” Oscar took his laptop back, scanning the e-mail again. “We should totally do this. No cameras or anything, and she said she’d call. It’d be great publicity for the show and your blog.”

“That’s the thing,” I said. “I already say all the behind-the-scenes stuff I want to say on my blog. I don’t have anything else to talk about. And my grandma always says Rumorz is really sleazy,” I added. “This reporter probably thinks she can trick us into giving her some real dirt.”

Oscar made a face. “Still . . . it’d be cool to do an interview. It’s like we’re actually celebrities.”

I fought the urge to roll my eyes. “Look, you can do it if you want. But you should probably at least ask Lidia first.”

“Mmm,” Oscar said noncommittally. By the look on his face, I could tell he was already giving an interview in his head. Probably on the red carpet.

Our seven-hour flight to Argentina turned into a twenty-seven-hour flight thanks to a monsoon. Well, not an official monsoon. But the sheets of rain slamming into the windows at the São Paulo airport all night during our extended layover was the loudest storm I’d ever heard—loud enough to keep us from sleeping. (The hard plastic seats didn’t help much, either.) By the time our plane touched down in Buenos Aires, the entire Passport to Paranormal cast looked more like Night of the Living Dead.

“It’s a few minutes after seven,” Lidia croaked, heaving her suitcase into the back of our rental van. “If we luck out with traffic, we might make it to the hotel before nine.”

“And so far, we’ve had tons of travel luck,” muttered Roland, unwrapping what had to be the hundredth sucker he’d had since we left Salvador.

No one spoke much in the van. I kept nodding off, my head dropping onto my chest before I jerked awake. The next thing I knew, the van pulled to an abrupt halt in front of the hotel. I sat up, startled, and realized I’d slept on Oscar’s shoulder the whole way there. Which maybe would’ve been embarrassing, but he was literally drooling on the window, so I figured he hadn’t noticed.

“We’re here,” I said, poking him in the arm.

“But I can’t play the piano,” he mumbled, and I giggled despite my exhaustion.

“Oscar. Wake up.”

He blinked blearily at me, then squinted out the window. “Hotel?”

“Yup.”

“Bed. Need bed.” Oscar staggered out of the van, yawning. Lidia tossed him his duffel bag, which he caught with a grunt.

“You can turn in if you want, but I kind of thought you’d like to watch yourself on TV first,” she said teasingly. At that,