Dead Air, Michelle Schusterman [mobile ebook reader .TXT] 📗

was quiet. In the background, I heard the theme music to some cartoon I’d forgotten the name of. “Well,” she said at last. “Your dad and I are . . . taking care of that.”

The cartoon sound effects got louder. Slowly, I began to realize what she meant. Married. Again. Second marriage. First marriage? Taking care of that. So:

Divorce.

Even though a small part of me had known this was probably going to happen, it was still sort of a shock. Not because I didn’t think they’d ever really go through with it. But because I’d always figured when they did, Dad would be the one who told me. But he knew, about Mom’s engagement—and Grandma, she probably knew, too—and neither of them had said anything. The list of people I trusted was shrinking even more.

“Kat? Are you still there?”

Releasing the cord, I flexed my numb finger until it started tingling. “Yeah, I’m here.”

Mom sighed. Not in a sad way. In an irritated way. I’d heard that sigh a million times: when I wore my Bride of Frankenstein T-shirt for school photos, when I polished off a pint of ice cream in one sitting, when I begged her to let me cut my hair short again and again and again . . .

“So. Congratulations.” I gave each and every syllable equal, deliberate weight.

“Thank you,” Mom replied. “We’re thinking May for the wedding. I know it’s sudden, but . . . well, that’s how it happens sometimes. Anthony can’t wait to meet you. I think you’ll really like him, Kat. And I’d really love for you to be a bridesm—”

“You’re staying in Cincinnati permanently, then?” I cut in. My face and neck suddenly felt hot, like I’d been sunburned by the hideous yellow wallpaper. It was peeling a little near the edge of the desk.

Mom cleared her throat. “No, Cincinnati . . . It didn’t work out. I’m back in Chelsea.”

I knew it. I knew it. “When did you get back?”

“June.”

I froze in the act of picking at the frayed patch of wallpaper. “June?”

“Kat . . .”

“June.” I sat up, my pulse suddenly racing. “You left in April.”

“Kat—”

“You said you needed to move to the city for your career,” I said loudly. “You said you weren’t happy in Chelsea. You said you wanted to be in galleries or open your own studio. The next step. That’s what you said.”

“Kat, I—”

“And you were only there for two months?” I laughed, a weird, high laugh that didn’t sound like me. “And you—you didn’t even bother telling us when you moved back. Are you seriously telling me you were in Chelsea all summer, and when I started school?”

“Kat.”

“What?” I yelled, squeezing the phone. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

“You weren’t taking my calls,” Mom snapped. I felt a grim satisfaction at hearing her lose her patience. Not that it ever took much. “I told your grandmother, I told your father. They both thought I should be the one to tell you. But you didn’t want to talk to me.”

“I’m sorry, you’re right,” I said, interjecting as much sarcasm as possible into every syllable. “This is totally my fault.”

“I didn’t say that.” Mom took a deep breath. “Look, I just . . . I wasn’t happy in Cincinnati. I thought it’s what I wanted, but it wasn’t.”

“So what did you want?”

Silence. I squeezed the cord again, listening to the cartoon in the background. Suddenly, I heard a child shriek in delight.

Wait, what was a kid doing with . . .

Oh.

I closed my eyes. “Who’s that?”

Mom waited a beat too long to answer. “I’m sorry?”

“Who is that?” I repeated. “There’s a kid there. Does your, um . . .” Fiancé. The word caught in my throat. “Whatever his name is, does he have a . . .”

“His name is Anthony.” Mom paused. “And yes, he has a daughter.”

For a split second, the room went blurry. It was like a physical shock—like seeing Sonja Hillebrandt gliding toward me down a dark tunnel. Then everything came into sharp, dizzying focus.

“She’s five,” Mom went on, her voice higher, nervous. “Elena. She’s a sweetheart, you’d really like—”

“I’ve got to go,” I said shortly. “Congratulations again.”

And without waiting for a response, I slammed the phone down.

Forget ghosts. Now I had proof that the Thing was real.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

THE DAWN OF DOCTOR PAIN

From: acciopancakes@mymail.net

To: EdieM@mymail.net

Subject: Re: Phone call?

Hi, Grandma,

Everything’s great. Really busy, though. Maybe we can talk next week.

Kat

I slept for five solid hours.

It was one of those dead-to-the-world sleeps, too. Facedown, arms tucked under the pillows, left leg hanging off the side of the bed. When I woke up, the comforter’s stitch pattern was imprinted on my cheek.

I felt about as awesome as I looked.

After a scalding hot shower, I pulled on jeans and the Attack of the Killer Tomatoes T-shirt Grandma had given me for my last birthday. I rummaged through my bathroom- supplies travel bag and found a pack of rubber bands before giving my reflection a critical once-over. My hair was settling into the new cut, but it was still a little uneven—slightly shorter in the back than in the front. I gathered what I could up into a supershort ponytail that stuck out like a bristly makeup brush, then used a few barrettes to keep the stray pieces in place.

“Nice,” I told my reflection. The Thing hovered in my peripheral vision, shaking its head disapprovingly. I turned my back on it and walked out of the bathroom.

When I stepped off the elevator and into the lobby, Hailey waved from the doorway as if she’d been waiting for hours.

“Kat!” she hollered. “We’ve been looking for you all day! Want to come get some dinner?”

“Sounds great!” My spirits lifted when I stepped outside and found Jamie standing near the entrance, studying his cell phone. He looked up and his face broke into a smile.

“Hey! I was wondering what happened to you,” he said. “Everything okay with your dad?”

“Yup!” I said, maybe a little too cheerfully. “I ended up taking a nap.”

“Your dad and Jess went to do a follow-up interview with the tour guide, and everyone else is editing and stuff. We