“No one’s forcing you, Kat,” Dad added quickly, and I snorted.
“Really? Because it sure feels like I don’t have a choice.”
“You do,” Jess assured me. “Let’s just take this one step at a time, okay? Lidia did a little scouting and found a cemetery not too far from our hotel. We have a few days before our first real investigation—how about I take the two of you to the cemetery to shoot a short video for your blog? No TV, no pressure. Okay?”
Not okay. But I couldn’t say that, because it really was a pretty reasonable request, and I was too embarrassed to admit that even the thought of posting a video of myself online made me queasy. Especially because I wasn’t sure why it bothered me so much. I mean, it wasn’t like I’d be wearing one of those stupid bridesmaid dresses on camera. I’d be dressed like me, and no matter how much my mom sighed at my clothes and fretted over my hair, I liked how I looked just fine. So I just shrugged and said, “Yeah, okay.”
Dad studied me. “Are you sure?”
“Yeah.”
“Awesome.” Oscar grinned at me, and I tried to smile back. I was relieved when the line finally started to move. As we shuffled forward, I wondered if Oscar was right. Maybe I should be more excited about this. Trish and Mark would freak out if I told them I was going to be on TV. Besides, my grandmother had starred in horror movies. My father hosted a ghost-hunting show. This was in my blood.
That’s what I kept telling myself, anyway.
I crammed my bag into the overhead compartment and found my seat: 27F, next to the window. Glancing around the cabin, I noticed we were all scattered. Dad waved at me from a few rows ahead. Roland and Jess were near the front, while Lidia, Sam, and Mi Jin were several rows back. I saw Oscar kneeling on his seat, watching my row intently. When a guy in a Nirvana shirt started to shove his backpack into the bin over my head, Oscar made his way toward us, squeezing around a woman trying to fit a cat crate under her seat.
“Are you in 27E?” Oscar asked, and the Nirvana guy blinked at him.
“Yeah . . .”
“Would you switch with me so I can sit next to my friend?” Oscar pointed back at his row. “30D. Aisle seat.”
The guy shrugged. “Sure, whatever.”
Oscar slid into the seat next to me, holding out the plastic bag stuffed with snacks. I took a bag of M&Ms and ripped it open. “Thanks.”
“Sure.” He helped himself to a few, eyeing me. “Sorry you got stuck doing this mini-episode thing.”
I smirked. “No, you’re not. If I don’t do it, you can’t, either.”
“True,” Oscar admitted. “But I really thought you’d want to be on the show.”
“And I really thought you wouldn’t.” I popped a handful M&Ms in my mouth. “So . . . how’d things go with your dad?”
Oscar’s expression tightened. “All right, I guess,” he said, tearing open a bag of pretzels. “I did it. I mean, I told him about . . . you know.”
I nodded. Last year, Oscar had gotten expelled for getting in a fight with his best friend, Mark. But he’d never told his dad the reason he’d gotten in the fight in the first place. Oscar had a crush on Mark and told him so. And he’d ended up being bullied—not just by Mark, but by a bunch of other kids, too.
It was something I’d thought about a lot over the last two weeks, when I was hanging out with my own best friends back in Ohio. Every time I tried to imagine one of them turning on me for confiding something that personal, I felt sick and sad.
“What did your dad say?” I asked.
“Not much. I don’t know. Actually, he . . .” Pausing, Oscar stared down at his pretzels. Then he shook his head. “Whatever. The point is, I got it over with. How’d things go with your mom?”
“Oh, fantastic,” I said in a falsely bright voice. “I got to try on bridesmaid dresses with her and her fiancé’s five-year-old daughter. Who, by the way, can scream even louder than Mi Jin.”
Oscar looked up. “Aw, I’m sorry I missed that.”
“What, a screaming kindergartner?”
“No, you wearing a dress,” he said, grinning. “Was it pink? Please tell me it was pink.”
“Nope. She picked purple and green for the wedding theme,” I told him. “No, sorry—‘lavender and mint.’ Every dress I tried on made me look like an Easter egg.”
Oscar laughed. “I’m sure it wasn’t that bad.”
“Trust me, it was worse.” I glanced out the window as our plane slowly backed away from the gate. My reflection stared at me, and I touched the back of my head self-consciously. To the surprise of no one, my mother had not been pleased to see my new haircut. Especially when she found out I’d chopped off my braid myself. Now my hair was barely long enough to pull into a ponytail, which was how I’d been wearing it. Mom had tried to take me to her salon to “at least get something a little more stylish.” But I preferred it exactly like this: short and simple.
It was an argument we’d been having ever since I could remember. She’d make some attempt to, in her words, “girlify” me. I’d hate it. She’d say she was only trying to help. I’d feel guilty. Repeat, repeat, repeat. I’d grown up with a really clear mental image of the girl my mother wanted me to be. Eventually it had turned into a thing—the Thing—that I kind of obsessed over. I was
