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

out of the corner of my eye. He finished untying the knot, then tied it again, then double knotted it. Then, very quietly, he started talking again.

“I was in fifth grade during his trial. It was for embezzlement . . . I didn’t even know what that meant. I still kind of don’t. Anyway, since it was just me and my dad when I was little, he’d bring me to his café after school when he had to work late. I’d do my homework in his office, play games on his iPad . . . just hang out.” Oscar paused, blinking several times. “He used to have meetings with this one guy after the café was closed. Mr. Boyle. He had this really ugly wig that he pretended wasn’t a wig, it was kind of . . .” He shook his head. “Creepy-looking. Anyway. During the trial, my dad’s lawyer told me the people trying to put my dad in prison were going to ask me questions, since I spent so much time with him at work. He told me to just be honest. So when I went up there, they asked if I’d ever seen Mr. Boyle before, and I said yes, and they asked where, and . . . and my dad was just sitting there, staring at me with this totally panicked look, it really freaked me out, right? But his lawyer had told me to be honest, so . . . so I told the truth. That my dad and Mr. Boyle had some meetings after the café closed. And as soon as I said that, my dad just . . .” Oscar pressed his lips together, then looked up at Roland. “I could tell I’d messed up. I wasn’t supposed to tell them about Mr. Boyle.”

“It proved your dad was guilty?” I couldn’t help asking.

Oscar nodded. “Basically. I mean, there was other evidence. But I guess once the other lawyers knew about those meetings with Mr. Boyle, they found a whole bunch of other evidence, and . . . yeah.”

“You blamed yourself for your dad going to prison,” I said in disbelief. “When you were in fifth grade? Oscar, that’s . . .” I trailed off, because I’d almost said crazy. But I couldn’t think of a better word. “You know it’s not your fault.”

“Yeah, well.” Oscar shrugged. “Knowing it and believing it aren’t the same thing.”

Roland cleared his throat. “Sounds like we found the beginning of your pattern.”

I gazed down at my hands, thinking hard. When I’d first met Roland, he’d said Oscar and I were a lot alike—and he’d been right. I’d punished myself by reading that troll’s comments about me, just like Oscar had punished himself by reading Mark’s notes. And even though I thought it was totally ridiculous that Oscar blamed himself for his father going to prison, I also understood why he felt that way.

After all, hadn’t I always blamed myself for my mother leaving?

The first few times she’d bailed, I’d sworn to myself that if she came back, I’d be the perfect daughter. Well, her idea of a perfect daughter. Each time, my vow had only lasted a few weeks before I’d give up and just go back to being me. And each time, my vision of the Thing had grown stronger, clearer. The mother-approved version of myself I honestly believed could get her to stay. Then last spring, when Mom took off again, I hadn’t been sad. I’d been angry. I thought I’d been angry at her. I mean, I had been angry at her.

But mostly, I’d been angry at myself.

I blamed myself for her leaving. I hated myself for it. I couldn’t even stand seeing myself on camera, the ugly version of me that wasn’t good enough, that drove Mom away.

It was just like Oscar said. I knew, logically, that my mother leaving wasn’t actually my fault. But I just didn’t believe it.

“Hey, Kat, got a minute?”

Startled, I looked up to see Mi Jin standing over us. She smiled at me kind of uncertainly, and my stomach dropped.

“Sure!” I left Oscar with Roland and followed her over a few rows to where she’d left her backpack on a chair. She sat next to it, and after a moment’s hesitation, I sat on the other side so that the backpack was between us.

“Okay.” Mi Jin took a deep breath, then unzipped her bag. “So . . . I found this in my camera bag last night.”

A wave of foreboding washed over me, and I knew what it was a split second before Mi Jin pulled it out of her backpack. Her screenplay.

She held it up, and I relaxed a tiny bit. The Thing hadn’t shredded it, then. That was something. Then I saw the words scrawled in red ink over the title page.

Worst. Movie. Ever.

“Oh no,” I whispered. My hands suddenly felt cold and clammy, but my face was burning hot. “Mi Jin, I . . .” But I stopped, because she had started flipping through the pages. And every single one was covered in comments. Rude, awful comments. Comments like Terrible! and Ugh, seriously? and “My Little Pony” is scarier than this.

Several seconds passed where I just sat there, mortified. Then I realized Mi Jin was laughing.

“Wait, is this . . . a joke?” I asked in disbelief. “Did you write that?”

“What? No!” she exclaimed. “No, it’s just . . . well, I asked you for feedback and boy, you gave it to me.”

“I didn’t!” It came out so loud, I saw Dad and Jess glance up from across the gate. “I—it was . . .” I squeezed my eyes closed, trying not to cry.

“Your doppelganger?” Mi Jin said, and my eyes flew open.

“What?”

Mi Jin glanced down at the script, then back at me. “I know you, Kat. These comments . . . they’re not you. I mean, they don’t sound like you.” My shoulders sagged in relief, but then she continued: “But thanks to all the time I’ve spent grading your homework, I also know your handwriting. And”—she tapped the script—“this is a match.”

“Because it has my handwriting,” I said desperately. “The Th . . . my doppelganger.”

“Yeah, that would make sense.” Mi Jin chewed her lip. “It’s just . . . well, to