Final Girl - Michelle Schusterman (e ink epub reader .TXT) 📗

be honest, I’ve noticed that ever since I gave you my script, you’ve been avoiding me.” I ducked my head, my cheeks warm again. “And it’s fine, Kat! Really. I actually thought maybe I was just imagining it. But . . .” She paused, waiting until I looked up. “Did you read it?”

“The night you gave it to me,” I said quickly. “And I absolutely loved it.”

Mi Jin smiled. “Thanks. But you had some criticism, too, right? Otherwise, you would’ve just told me the next day.”

“I was nervous,” I told her. “I—I did have some notes, but . . . I don’t know. You’re my teacher! Giving you notes is . . . weird. But that?” I pointed at the script. “Those aren’t my notes, I swear.”

“Mi Jin!” We both looked over by the water fountains where Lidia was waving, her smartphone cradled between her shoulder and her ear.

“Coming!” Mi Jin called, and we both stood up.

“Do you believe me?” I asked, hating how desperate I sounded. “I know what this looks like. Like I was too chicken to tell you all—all this.” I gestured at the script in her hands. “So I just hid it in your bag and then avoided you. But I didn’t write all of this, I promise.”

I waited for Mi Jin to say Yes, I know, of course I believe you, Kat. But she still had that funny smile on her face, and her eyes flickered down to the script. At the words Worst. Movie. Ever. in what I had to admit was my exact handwriting.

“Yeah, okay,” she said at last, putting a hand on my arm in what was probably supposed to be a reassuring way, but just made me feel sad and empty. “I’ll, um . . . just don’t worry about it, Kat.”

Then she picked up her backpack and headed over to Lidia, leaving me alone. Closing my eyes, I sank back down in my chair and didn’t budge until our flight started boarding twenty minutes later.

CHAPTER ELEVEN MOTHER DEAREST

Fright TV: Your Home for Horror

Press Release: January 9

EDIE MILLS ANNOUNCES LAUNCH OF FINAL GIRL PRODUCTIONS

Former teenage Scream Queen Edie Mills, producer of the upcoming Fright TV documentary MAGIC HOUR, today announced the launch of Final Girl Productions. This production company will focus on horror and dark comedies for film, television, and digital media, and is currently accepting submissions. “No remakes or retellings,” Mills states on the company’s website. “We’re looking for scripts with original concepts that break away from tired old horror tropes. Fewer vampire vixens, more mind-bending monsters, please.”

DAD, Jess, and Lidia all stayed behind at the airport in Seoul while the rest of us headed to our hotel. “So this guest star’s flight lands in two hours,” Oscar complained as he heaved his suitcase into the back of the van. “And you guys still won’t tell us who it is? Do you think Kat’s going to blab about it on her blog or something?”

“It’s not a matter of trust,” Roland replied, helping Mi Jin with her bags. “It’s . . . a surprise.”

Oscar and I exchanged a confused glance. “Well, obviously,” I said. “It’s got to be a celebrity, right?”

“Mi Jin, just tell us,” Oscar begged, and she grinned.

“Nope. But trust me, you’re both gonna freak out.”

“Like you did?” Roland asked. “When Lidia told us who it was, you just about busted my eardrums with that scream.”

Mi Jin snickered. “That’s nothing. Just wait till I actually meet her in person.”

“Aha! It’s a her,” Oscar said triumphantly. “Okay, who’s Mi Jin’s favorite female celebrity?”

“Beyoncé.” We all turned to Sam, who was holding open the cab’s passenger door. He gazed at us solemnly. “The guest star for the finale is Beyoncé.” No one responded, and after a moment, Sam’s brow wrinkled in confusion. “I was being sarcastic. Was that not clear?”

Roland let out a short, loud bark of laughter and walked around to the driver’s side. “Clear as mud, you weirdo.”

Still giggling, I climbed into the van after Oscar. We claimed the back seat, and Mi Jin slid into the seat in front of me. She squeezed her backpack between the two bucket seats, and I tried not to think about the marked-up script inside. Or the look on Mi Jin’s face when I’d told her I hadn’t written those notes. She wanted to believe me.

But I couldn’t help worrying maybe she didn’t.

Oscar and I pulled up maps on our phones, watching the blue dot that was our van leave the airport’s little island and enter Seoul. When I zoomed out, I could see the Han River, which cut the city in half. Lidia had given us all an itinerary that included our hotel’s address, so I mapped it. The red marker appeared on the north side of the river, right about the center of the city in a district called Itaewon. Our blue dot was way southwest of the hotel.

“Long drive,” I told Oscar. We spent the next hour alternating between staring out the windows and frantically trying to find the different buildings and temples whizzing by on our maps. It turned into a competition, both of us trying to name a museum or market or particularly cool-looking skyscraper first.

By the time Roland squeezed the van into the only open spot down the street from our hotel, my stomach was growling and I seriously had to pee. As soon as Sam handed me the key cards for my room with Dad, I practically sprinted to the elevator, dragging my suitcase behind me.

Fifteen minutes later, I returned to the lobby, which was mostly empty. I sat on a stiff white armchair and pulled out my phone again, hoping Oscar would hurry up. My stomach rumbled louder than ever, and I started searching the map for restaurants close to the hotel. But a few seconds later, Mi Jin and Oscar walked in through the entrance. Each was carrying three little paper cups with plastic forks sticking out of them.

“How’d you get your stuff upstairs so fast?” I asked.

“Sam and Roland took