Final Girls(40)

“It’s cool.” Sam sits on one side of the bed, patting the mattress until I settle onto the other. “I took a walk around the neighborhood. Had that nice talk with Jeff.”

“I’ll make it up to you tomorrow,” I tell her. “Which reminds me, we’re meeting someone tomorrow. His name is Franklin Cooper.”

“The cop that saved your life?”

I’m surprised she knows who he is. She really has been keeping tabs on me.

“Right,” I say. “He wants to meet you. Say hi.”

“And see if I’m a psycho,” Sam says. “Don’t worry. I get it. He needs to see if I can be trusted.”

I clear my throat. “Which means you can’t mention the Xanax.”

“Sure,” Sam says.

“Or the—”

“Five-fingered discount you sometimes take advantage of?”

“Yes,” I reply, grateful I don’t have to say it out loud. “That, too.”

“I’ll be on my best behavior,” Sam says. “I won’t even swear.”

“After that, we’ll play tourist. The Empire State Building. Rockefeller Center. Wherever you want to go.”

“Central Park?”

I can’t tell if she’s attempting a joke about what happened the night before. “If you’d like.”

“Why wait? Why not go right now?”

Now I know she’s joking. Maybe.

“That’s so not a good idea,” I say.

“And was puking on that reporter a good idea?”

“That wasn’t intentional.”

“Did he say anything?”

Once more, Jonah Thompson’s insistent voice tiptoes into my skull. Again, I ignore it. The only thing Sam lied about was her name change, and I know all about that now. Jonah’s the one who was lying, trying to get me to spill my guts about being called a Final Girl. I spilled my guts, just not in the way he was expecting.

“Nothing important,” I say. “I wasn’t there to listen. I went there to yell.”

“Good for you.”

Another thought occurs to me, making my voice go soft. “Why didn’t you go with me? Why didn’t you even want me to go?”

“Because you need to pick your battles,” Sam says. “I learned a long time ago that fighting with the press is useless. They’ll win every time. And with guys like that Jonah Thompson punk, it only eggs him on. We’ll probably be in the paper again tomorrow.”

The thought makes my body go rigid with fear. “I’m sorry if that happens.”

“It’s no big deal,” Sam says. “I’m just happy you finally got mad about something.”

“Yes. I got very mad.”

This pleases Sam, as I knew it would. A spark ignites just behind her eyes. “How did it feel to confront him?”

I think about it for a moment, parsing through my hazy memory, trying to sort how I really felt and what the Xanax made me feel. I think I liked it. Scratch that. I know I liked it. I felt righteous and energized and strong, right up until the nausea took over.

“It felt good,” I say.

“Getting angry always does. And are you still mad?”

“No,” I say.

Sam gives me a playful shove from across the bed. “Liar.”

“Fine. Yes. I’m still mad.”

“The question then becomes, what are you going to do about it?”

“Nothing,” I say. “You just said it’s useless to fight with the press.”

“I’m not talking about the press now. I’m talking about life. The world. It’s full of misfortune and unfairness and women like us getting hurt by men who should know better. And very few people actually give a shit. Even fewer of us actually get angry and take action.”

“But you’re one of them,” I say.

“Damn right. You want to join me?”

I stare across the bed at Sam and the fiery glint crackling in her eyes. My heartbeat increases a tick or two as something stirs in my chest, as light as a butterfly’s wing’s scraping the inside of its chrysalis. It’s longing, I realize. A longing to feel the same way I felt with Sam that morning. A longing to be radiant again.

“I don’t know,” I say. “Maybe.”

Sam grabs her jacket, shoves it on, closes it with a forceful zip. “Then let’s go.”





CHAPTER 14


I can handle this.

That’s what I tell myself.

We’re only going to Central Park, for God’s sake. Not a forest in the middle of nowhere. I have my pepper spray. I have Sam. We’ll be fine.

But doubt takes over as soon as we step outside. The night air is shockingly cold. I rub my arms for warmth as Sam lights a cigarette beneath the building’s awning. Then we’re off, my heartbeat racing as we cross Columbus Avenue, Sam ahead of me, trailing smoke.

When we reach Central Park West, my anxiety only increases. The wrongness of the situation is obvious. I feel it in my gut, as if my conscience is an internal organ, crimson and fleshy, flaring with unexplained distress. We shouldn’t be out here. Not at this hour.

I had wanted to feel radiant again. Instead, I feel dim and hollow and small.