Final Girl Michelle Schusterman (the gingerbread man read aloud TXT) 📖

reached the doors when a clown with blood dripping from its mouth leaped out and grabbed Oscar by the shoulders.

“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