Dead Air - Michelle Schusterman (the read aloud family txt) 📗

had been nice having friends here while everyone else was working. They waved through the back window, and I waved back until the car disappeared around the corner.

For a few seconds, Oscar and I just stood there in silence. That was the other thing about the Coopers—Oscar and I almost got along with them here as buffers. We hadn’t technically had an argument in a few days. But things between us were still . . . prickly. It didn’t help that I felt a rush of guilt when I remembered the e-mail about his father. I had to tell him I knew.

Oscar shoved his hands in his pockets. “What time did Jess say we’re leaving?”

“Five, I think,” I replied. “Hey, Oscar?”

“Yeah?”

“Are you, um . . .?” I paused, wishing I’d thought this through better. “I was—”

“Oscar!”

We turned to see Lidia in the entrance, her frizzy hair pulled back into a bun. She gave Oscar a bemused sort of smile.

“I thought you were going to pack this morning, but apparently you decided to fling your belongings all over our room instead.” Her voice was even more hoarse than it had been yesterday.

Oscar rolled his eyes. “It’s not that messy.”

“Come on, you know it’s going to take you forever to get packed.” Shrugging, Oscar headed inside. Lidia gave me a pointed look. “Are you packed?”

“No,” I admitted, following Oscar.

Lidia sighed. “Two peas in a pod, I swear.”

Oscar and I glanced at each other briefly before looking away. I followed them to the elevator, saying a silent prayer of thanks that Mi Jin hadn’t been around to hear that.

At six thirty that evening, I was curled up in the back of an old prison van. Jess had bought it that morning, saying she could sell it once we were finished in Brussels, so it was cheaper than renting a regular van. The seats weren’t exactly comfortable, but at least it was roomy. A sliding door separated the front half from the back. Jess insisted on timing our drive so that we would drive into Brussels at sunset, which was right now. So while the rest of the crew was crammed into the front getting footage of the drive into the city and talking about the haunted prison, Oscar and I lounged in the back reading Mi Jin’s comic books. Dad’s voice was just audible through the door as he summarized the tragic Daems Penitentiary story. “Nearly one hundred men died during the escape attempt, most of them on the electric fence . . .”

Finally, I tossed my Avengers comic down. “Oscar, I should tell you that I know about your dad.”

His head jerked up, his eyes wide. “You what?”

“I know about your dad,” I repeated. “That he’s . . . you know, in prison. Lidia left her phone on the table the other day and her alarm went off to remind her to take her heart medicine. When I turned it off, I saw an e-mail about his parole getting denied. It was an accident, and I’m sorry. But I saw it.”

Slowly, Oscar lowered X-Men, blinking a few times. “Oh.”

“I’m really sorry,” I said again. “Not just that I saw it, but because . . . well. That really sucks.”

He shrugged. “It’s okay.”

“Do you, um . . . ?” I hesitated, and Oscar watched me warily. “Do you want to . . . to talk about it, or anything?”

After a second, the corner of his mouth lifted. “Talk about it? Why?”

I sighed in frustration. “I don’t know, I’m just trying to help.”

“How will talking about it help?”

“You know what? Never mind.” Grabbing the comic, I opened it up and furiously flipped through the pages to find my spot. “I was just trying to be nice.”

We were silent for nearly a minute, listening to Jess and Roland argue about the directions. Then Oscar said: “Do you want to talk about your mom getting married again?”

The van hit a bump, and I gasped as Avengers went flying out of my hands. “What?”

Oscar rubbed the back of his head where it had bumped into the side of the van. “If talking about stuff is so helpful, why don’t you talk about your mom getting engaged?”

“How do you know about that?” I demanded, sitting up straight.

Sighing, Oscar tossed his comic down. “When I first got here, I kept waking up really early,” he began. “I could never go back to sleep, so I’d go to the breakfast room to make some waffles, and—”

“They had waffles?” I interrupted, outraged.

Oscar looked like he was trying not to laugh. “Yeah, but they were always out of batter by the time you woke up,” he said, and I made a face. “Anyway, once I was full, I could usually go back to sleep. I think it was maybe the second day you were here—I went down right before six, and your dad was in the breakfast room video-chatting with someone. I guess he didn’t want to wake you up. And . . . well, I figured out it was your mom he was talking to, and she told him that she was engaged.”

I pictured Dad alone in the breakfast room, laptop open, Mom on the screen. I have some news. A rush of anger flooded through me.

“Sorry,” Oscar added, and I glanced at him. “I mean, it was an accident, just like you with Aunt Lidia’s phone. But still. I’m sorry.”

I nodded stiffly. “It’s fine.”

“Do you want your parents to get back together?”

I blinked, surprised at the bluntness of the question. “No.”

“Really?”

“Really,” I said honestly. “Neither of them was happy.” I pressed my lips together. There was more to it than that, of course.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Oscar asked, his tone slightly mocking.

For a moment, I just gaped at him. Because he was smirking. Like this was funny.

Then I realized . . . it was kind of funny.

“You know, I really, really don’t,” I said, shaking my head. “At all. Why do people always think talking about something that makes you miserable is going to help?”

“Exactly!” Oscar exclaimed. “Maybe it’ll just make you feel worse.”

“Let’s see.” I cleared my throat. “Last April, my mom