Final Girls(27)

The guest room is small, tidy, stuffy. The red shade of the nightstand lamp throws a rosy glow over the walls. Because of the hour, everything feels shimmering and dreamlike. I know I should try to sleep, but I don’t want to. Not with Sam seemingly wide awake, pulsing with heat and energy and life. So we huddle on the twin bed, shoes discarded on the floor, our feet shoved beneath the comforter for warmth.

Sam retreats to the knapsack she dropped in the corner and removes a bottle of Wild Turkey.

“A little pick me up,” she says, climbing back into bed. “I think we need it.”

The Wild Turkey is passed back and forth, both of us swigging directly from the bottle. Each swallow is a burning lump sliding down my throat. They ignite faint traces of memory. Me and Janelle on the first night in our dorm room. The two of us shoulder to shoulder, her drinking wine coolers she had flirted from a junior across the hall, me sipping a Diet Coke. We became best friends that night. I still think of her as that. My best friend. It doesn’t matter that she’s ten years in the grave and that I know our friendship wouldn’t have survived even if she had.

“This is just for tonight, you know,” Sam says. “I’ll be gone in the morning.”

“You can stay as long as you need.”

“And I only need one night.”

“You should have told me you were struggling,” I say. “I’m happy to help. I can loan you money. Or whatever.”

“I’m sure that’ll go over real well with your boyfriend.”

I take a swig of Wild Turkey and cough. “Don’t worry about Jeff.”

“He doesn’t like me.”

“He doesn’t know you yet, Sam.” I pause. “Or should I call you Tina?”

“Sam,” she says. “The Tina thing is just a formality.”

“How long has it been since you did that?”

Sam takes a drink, talking while swallowing. “Years.”

“When you disappeared?”

“Yeah. I was sick of being Samantha Boyd, the Final Girl. I wanted to be someone else. At least on paper.”

“Does your family know?”

Sam shakes her head and passes me the bottle before scooting off the bed. Her first destination is her knapsack, out of which is pulled a pack of cigarettes. Then it’s on to the window, where she says, “Can I?”

I shrug my permission and Sam opens the window. Outside, thin clouds streak the bruise-black sky. The darkness hums with faint energy. Dawn is approaching.

“I need to quit,” Sam says as she lights up. “Smoking’s gotten too damn expensive.”

“Not to mention deadly,” I say.

She blows a stream of smoke through the window screen. “That part doesn’t worry me. I’ve already cheated death once, right?”

“So you started after The Nightlight Inn?”

“I needed something to calm me down, you know?”

Oh, yes, I know. Besides the Xanax, my go-to relief valve is wine. Red, white or in between, it doesn’t matter. I’m certain Janelle would have found that ironic.

“I’m surprised you and Lisa never started,” Sam says. “It seemed so natural to me.”

“I tried it once. Didn’t like it.” A question pings into my head. “How do you know Lisa didn’t smoke?”

“I assume she didn’t,” Sam says. “She didn’t mention it in her book or anything.”

The first half-inch of her cigarette has become a cylinder of ash, on the verge of dropping to the floor. She steps away from the window, the hand holding the cigarette remaining by the screen while her free arm reaches for the knapsack and pulls out a portable ashtray. Leather and baglike, it looks like a coin purse with a snap clasp. Displaying the dexterity of a longtime smoker, Sam flicks it open and, with a tap, deposits the ash dangling from the cigarette.

“So you did read her book?” I say.

Sam inhales, nods, exhales. “I thought it was okay. It sure as hell didn’t help me deal with what happened to me.”

I take another swallow of Wild Turkey, getting used to its warmth in the back of my throat. “Do you think about it a lot?”

Sam reaches out an arm, seeking the bottle. When I hand it to her, she takes two hard swallows, only a puff of her cigarette separating them.

“Constantly.”

She passes the bottle back to me. I raise it to my lips, my quiet words reverberating against the glass. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Sam finishes her cigarette with a single, grand exhalation. It’s then tapped out in the ashtray, which she promptly shuts. When the window is closed, smoke continues to sting the air of the room, lingering like a bad memory.

“You think it only happens in the movies,” she says. “That it couldn’t happen in real life. At least not like that. And certainly not to you. But it happened. First at a sorority house in Indiana. Then at a motel in Florida.”

She slides off her jacket, revealing more of the black dress underneath. Her arms and shoulders are exposed, the flesh tight and moon-pale. On her back, a tattoo of the Grim Reaper has been inked just below her right shoulder, its skeletal face momentarily bisected by a strap of her dress.

“Calvin Whitmer,” she says, climbing back into bed. “The Sack Man.”