Page 78 of Pick Me Up On Tuesdays

"Clark, don’t move," Shun whispered, eyes widening as she looked at my shoulder.

I froze. "Why?"

"You have a little something on you," she said carefully.

"Define little."

Before she could answer, Mia gasped. "Oh my gods, don’t freak out—"

"THAT ONLY MAKES ME FREAK OUT!"

I glanced down.

There, sitting comfortably on my shoulder, was the biggest, ugliest, most disgustingly detailed bug I had ever seen. Its iridescent shell shimmered under the neon glow, its long legs shifting slightly as if getting too comfortable.

Why did it always have to be me?

"GET IT OFF. GET IT OFF. GET IT OFF!" I shrieked, flailing.

The beetle, clearly offended, launched itself into my hair.

Absolute mayhem erupted.

Joy screamed. Max, for some stupid reason, laughed. Shun, ever the problem solver, tried to smack it away, but that only made it burrow deeper.

"STOP HELPING!" I yelled, spinning in circles like a malfunctioning wind-up toy.

"Ghost boy, stand still!" Ethan barked, grabbing my arm.

"I CAN'T, I'M IN A LIFE-OR-DEATH SITUATION!"

And then—because life hated me—the bug decided that flying was its next course of action. It shot off my head and directly toward Fred.

"NOPE—" Fred threw his bag at Joy and ran.

"THIS IS YOUR FAULT!" Joy yelled, barely catching it.

In the end, after an exhausting five minutes of running, screaming, and Mia somehow managing to capture every embarrassing moment on film, the beetle finally left us alone.

Did we get good footage? No.

Did Mia at least salvage something from the mess? Somehow, yes.

Would I ever recover from the trauma? Absolutely not.

Day Five:

The day had gone by in a blur. More filming, more research, more stupid near-death experiences courtesy of my so-called alliances.

Joy almost fell into a ditch trying to record a "dramatic zoom-in." Max threw a rock at what he swore was a ghost but turned out to be a plastic bag. And Ethan? He nearly triggered an avalanche by yelling “YOLO” into a canyon. If we survived this trip, I was writing a memoir and selling it to a trauma therapist.

By the time we got to the motel, I could barely keep my eyes open. I collapsed onto the thin mattress, still half-dressed, my backpack doubling as a pillow. Conversations faded. Laughter dulled. Eventually, even Ethan’s humming from across the room went silent.

But as soon as I closed my eyes, I felt it creeping in.

The darkness. The familiar cold grip of fear, slithering over my skin like frostbite in mid-July.

I was back in that cellar.

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