Dead Air

explained, setting her water bottle down. “Seizures, fainting, the works. I had a pacemaker put in when I was eight.”
“Oh.” I watched Lidia toy with the locket on her necklace. “I’m sorry.”
“Oh, it’s fine,” Lidia said. “Kind of a bummer when I was younger, though. Strobe lights can trigger my seizures, so that meant no concerts or haunted houses. Not that that stopped me,” she added with a wink. I grinned as she tucked the pill bottle back inside the purple bag. “Are you coming down for lunch?”
“Um . . .” My eyes strayed to the laptop, where the Internet beckoned. Lidia laughed, heading to the door.
“I’ll make sure to save you some food. Take your time.”
“Thanks.”
Flopping down onto the desk chair, I logged into my e-mail account. As much as I was trying not to let it bother me, I couldn’t help thinking about the host curse. To my relief, Grandma had already responded to the e-mail I’d sent her before breakfast.
From: EdieM@mymail.net
To: acciopancakes@mymail.net
Re: This whole curse thing
Hi, KitKat,
So now you’re lurking in the P2P forums, hmm? I suppose I’ll have to watch what I say in there from now on.
I groaned. So Grandma was one of the fans in the forum. What a surprise. I wondered what her screen name was, then immediately decided I didn’t want to know. Ever. Ever.
I agree, it’s pretty weird to watch them all argue about my son-in-law. Try not to take what you read on the boards too seriously. Lidia isn’t just firing hosts for publicity. This is a show that struggles with low ratings—people are going to come and go, that’s just how it is. And it’s true that ratings go up when a host leaves, but that lasts only an episode or two. Not exactly a smart long-term publicity plan, right?
The other hosts . . . Bernice was really knowledgeable about the local history and folklore, but she was skittish—afraid of her own shadow. Why she ever took the job is beyond me. Carlos did indeed publish a piece accusing the crew of faking things, and he was promptly canned—although he always said he didn’t actually write it. And Emily couldn’t have cared less about ghosts. She spent every episode doing nothing but fawning all over Sam. I guess after a while he must have rejected her, and she flounced. (And good riddance! She was a poor representative of us Sumner Stalkers.) Funny that you talked to Roland about that. It was always obvious that the way Emily acted around Sam bothered him. Between you and me, I think he was a bit jealous.
I smiled, but something nagged at me. Sumner Stalkers. I knew Grandma probably thought that name was funny, but I couldn’t help remembering what Roland had said. Our first host was a Sumner Stalker. Total nutjob.
Would he consider Grandma a nutjob, too? She really wasn’t. No one knew the difference between a fan and a real stalker better than Grandma. She got threatening letters for almost two years after Mutant Cheerleaders Attack came out, before the police finally caught the guy. That was way before I was born, but she’d told me all about it. It sounded really scary.
I wondered, too, if Grandma was right about Roland being jealous. He definitely looked irritated when he talked about Emily. If he’d been in love with her and had to watch her flirt with Sam all the time, well, I guess that would be pretty annoying.
Yawning, I opened a chat window and checked for Trish and Mark—both gray, both off-line. Which made sense, seeing as it was, like, six in the morning there. A wave of homesickness hit, and I had the sudden urge to call one of them, or Grandma, or . . .
One of my contacts abruptly flipped from gray to green, and my heart leaped. Then I saw the name.
MonicaMills [Mom]
I froze, my hand on the mouse. And sure enough, after a few seconds:
Kat? Are you there?
A lump rose in my throat. Numbly, I clicked the chat window closed and logged out. Then I shoved my unfinished math worksheet in Mi Jin’s folder and went to go get some lunch.

CHAPTER SEVEN
IF LOOKS COULD KILL
MonicaMills [Mom]
This contact has been blocked. To unblock, go to your privacy settings.
My after-lunch nap turned out to be a total bust. I lay on my bed staring at the ugly hotel curtains for almost forty-five minutes before giving up and heading to the waterfront to join the crew.
After stopping to buy a soda, I peered up and down the boardwalk until I spotted them huddled together. A cool breeze ruffled my hair as I walked, and I shivered—I still hadn’t gotten used to my short cut. The back of my neck felt weirdly exposed.
Still, the crisp air woke me up from my post-almost-nap trance. And I wasn’t the only one out enjoying the perfect fall weather. I squinted down at the crew, wondering if the crowds of families and couples strolling along the boardwalk were making it difficult to get the shots they needed.
Ring, ring! Glancing over my shoulder, I jumped out of the way just as a cyclist went zipping past. When I turned back around, I slammed into someone and dropped my soda bottle.
“Oh, great.” Kneeling down, the dark-haired woman scooped her binoculars and camera up and away from a trickle of soda. I winced, picking up the bottle.
“Sorry, I didn’t . . .” Pausing, I tried frantically to remember how to say sorry in Dutch. Then I realized she’d spoken English. It was hard to tell thanks to her oversize sunglasses, but I was pretty sure she was looking at me like I’d just kicked a kitten.
“Just look where you’re going, kid,” she snapped in a high, nasal voice, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. She was young, and her face was really angular—she looked almost gaunt.
“Sorry,” I said again, not bothering to hide my irritation as she made a show of inspecting her camera. “Is it broken?”
Rather than answering,