Dead Air

luggage from gate to gate, chewing insanely dry turkey sandwiches, and kneeing the backs of inconsiderate people who insisted on reclining their seats into my lap before the plane even took off.
When Dad and I finally checked in to our motel in Rotterdam, I passed out face-first on one of the twin beds and slept so hard not even Dad’s chainsaw-snores woke me.
RING-RING. RING-RING.
I groped around without opening my eyes, wondering why my alarm sounded so weird. Then I heard Dad’s groggy voice.
“’Lo? This is Jack . . .” He cleared his voice, suddenly sounding much more awake. “Lidia, hello! Yes, we’re up. Half an hour? Sounds good, see you soon!”
“Why’d they call in the middle of the night?” I mumbled. Dad pulled open the curtains and I yelped, ducking under the blanket to shield my eyes from the evil sunshine.
“It’s almost eleven,” Dad said. “That was the producer—I’m going to check out the entrance to Crimptown, where we’re filming.” He yanked the blanket from my face. “Haunted tunnels, pirate ghosts . . . you coming?”
My response was a grunt. I flipped over, piling two pillows on top of my head.
But I couldn’t go back to sleep, despite my grainy, tired eyes. By the time Dad got out of the shower, I’d dug some clean jeans and a Tales from the Crypt T-shirt from my megabackpack.
“Two minutes,” I promised, ducking around him and into the bathroom.
Fifteen minutes later, we were out the door, the tangy smell of saltwater slapping me in the face. A man in a suit whizzed past us on a bicycle, jacket slung over his shoulder. I watched him head off the boardwalk toward the skyscrapers to our left. Farther down the harbor, I saw a massive bridge arched over the river, dozens of cables sweeping up from one end and connecting to a white, geometric sort of tower. It was oddly graceful-looking.
“The Erasmus Bridge,” Dad told me. “Beautiful, isn’t it? They call it the Swan.”
I nodded without responding. My head felt like someone had stuffed it with cotton balls, but through the fuzz, realization was starting to dawn.
I was in another country.
I followed Dad mutely down the wide boardwalk, eavesdropping on conversations and not recognizing a single word. Dad and I had listened to a Learn Conversational Dutch app he’d downloaded on one of our flights. Apparently nothing had sunk in through my jet-lagged stupor.
Suddenly, I was very aware of how far from Chelsea I was, like someone had just swooped me from Ohio to this spot in two seconds flat. It was exciting and terrifying, like one of those elevator-drop rides at an amusement park. The breeze ruffled my newly cropped hair, and I felt a rush of giddiness. Maybe I really had escaped the Thing.
“Do you see Jess?” I asked.
“Lidia’s meeting us, actually,” Dad replied, his eyes scanning the crowd. “Jess is with the rest of the crew.”
My stomach rumbled loudly. “Are we going to have breakfast with them? Do you think they have pancakes in the Netherl—”
“Jack?”
Dad and I both turned to face a woman barely taller than me. The frames of her glasses were huge and bright blue, the lenses magnifying her amber eyes. Strands of frizzy dark hair that had come loose from her ponytail whipped around her face in the wind. She looked kind of frazzled, but her smile was warm and friendly.
“Lidia!” Dad turned on the talk-show charm full force. “Great to finally meet you.”
They shook hands, and then Lidia held her hand out to me. “You must be Kat. Lidia Bettencourt.”
“Nice to meet you, Ms. Bettencourt,” I said, taking her hand gingerly. It felt frail, like I might snap a bone if I squeezed a little too hard.
“Oh, just Lidia, please!” Rummaging in her purse, Lidia frowned. “Now, let’s see, I thought I . . . here!” She pulled out an odd-looking gadget I recognized from watching the show—an EMF meter, which was supposed to . . . well, I wasn’t entirely sure how they worked. Grandma called them spook sensors. “Nope, that’s not it . . .” After another few seconds of groping around her bag, Lidia pulled out a few granola bars with a triumphant “Aha!” and held one out to me.
“Thanks!” I said eagerly, ripping the wrapper off and devouring half in one bite.
Dad took the other bar, watching me in amusement. “We haven’t had a chance to eat breakfast yet,” he told Lidia.
“I figured,” Lidia said. “Jet lag is brutal, but don’t worry—you’ll get used to it. So, the theater’s just a few blocks . . . You don’t mind walking?”
“Not a bit!” Dad replied cheerfully. I trailed behind them most of the way along the waterfront, staring out at the boats and wishing I had about eight more granola bars.
Ten minutes later, we were looking up at a ramshackle theater. The bulbs around the marquee had all been removed, and only three letters were still hanging on—an I, an O, and a crooked U. The box office was boarded up and covered in faded graffiti.
“Very creepy.” Dad said it like a compliment.
“What’s with the ‘IOU’?” I asked, pointing at the marquee.
Lidia tilted her head.
“Ooh, I hadn’t noticed that,” she replied. “Good eye! Remind me to point it out to Jess—we should get a shot of it for the opening sequence.”
I stared at the marquee again and found myself mentally framing it, adjusting the focus . . . Then I shook my head. I’d left the Elapse in my suitcase intentionally.
“Do you believe in ghosts, Kat?”
Startled, I looked at Lidia. She was smiling at me. “Oh, um . . . I don’t know.”
“Good answer,” Lidia said with a grin. “I’ll ask you again in a week or so. Maybe your answer will be different.”
“Maybe.” I couldn’t keep the doubt out of my voice.
“We’ll fill you in on the Crimptown story during the meeting,” Lidia said to Dad. “I’ve got a few people lined up tomorrow for you to interview. There are a couple of entrances to Crimptown, but the theater’s got the entrance where the official tour starts, so that’s where we’ve set up camp for now.” She