by Frankie Rose
THANKSGIVING DAY is over in the blink of an eye, and Brandon has to leave pretty much immediately. The joys of being a business owner. I spend most of the next day tinkering with my new Super Eight in the living room of the apartment, the ceiling to floor windows displaying New York City’s dramatic skyline—a jigsaw puzzle of concrete teeth bared against a winter sky. Brandon showed me how to use the camera, or at least the bare bones of how it would point and shoot if I didn’t mess with any of the buttons. As soon as he leaves I do just that, trying to figure out all the settings. There are still two days before I have to return to college and I fully intend on keeping busy during that time, getting to grips with my new favorite toy. It isn’t like I’d forgotten Noah’s request to go see a movie, but I still get a nervous rush when I see his name flashing up on my cell on Friday night.
“Hey, Avery Patterson. How was your thanksgiving? You been living off turkey sandwiches or what?”
I laugh and nod even though he can’t see me—I have, indeed, been living off turkey sandwiches. “If I never see another slice of turkey, I will be one happy girl. What about you, Noah Richards? Have you over-eaten and drunk too much in keeping with our most cherished American holiday?”
“Absolutely. And did you just give me the full name treatment? I guess I deserve that after using yours, but I look like a Noah Richards. You don’t look like an Avery Patterson. I’m having to do one of those positive affirmation things by saying your name every time I speak to you. Maybe that way it’ll stick.”
My cheeks instantly flush. Does he know something? How could he, though? I mean, the only four people in the whole world who know about my name change are Morgan, Brandon, Luke and my mother. No way any of them are spilling the beans. “What…what do you mean?” I stammer.
There’s a short silence on the other end of the phone before Noah chuckles quietly. “Sorry. I should have thought about that before I opened my mouth. I’m not too smart sometimes. I didn’t mean that you weren’t…memorable. You’re exactly the opposite. It’s just that I think people suit different names occasionally. Like you, for instance. To me, you look like an Evie or a Charlotte. It’s all that blonde hair and your button nose. I dunno. You just don’t look like an Avery. Should I stop talking now?”
He doesn’t know anything. I let out a shaky laugh and tamp down the panic. “That’s okay. It’s just no one’s ever commented on it before.”
“See. I’m a fool. You’re going to have to let me make it up to you by taking you to the R rated movie I saw reviewed in Gore Fest Magazine.”
I chew on my lip and force down a bolt of panic. This really is starting to sound like a date. “I don’t know. That sounds rather bloody. I’m usually more of a comedy kind of girl. What score did the reviewer of Gore Fest Magazine give this film?”
Noah pulls in a long breath that makes it sound like he’s smoking. “Five out of five decapitated heads.” I can hear car horns blaring on the other end of the phone and then Noah starts swearing profusely. “Jeez, what is it with you bloody New Yorkers trying to kill everyone when they try and cross a road?”
“Did you use the crosswalk?”
“No.”
“That’s your problem, then. Jay walkers get smushed in America.”
“That’s just another thing that I love about the US, y’know. The citizens of the most powerful country in the world can’t cross a road safely without being designated a specific area to do so. Can’t you people be trusted to look both ways and just cross a bloody road like everyone else?”
The image of Noah standing on a street corner anywhere in New York and saying something like that out loud is hilarious; he’s probably going to get lynched if he breathes another word. I prop myself up by my elbows on the kitchen counter and consider my options: go out with the seemingly nice, hot guy from class, or stay in the apartment alone, reading an instruction manual. The age-worn Super Eight manual is actually really interesting, but still…
“I’m not sure about your choice of movie, but I’m not doing anything. I could be persuaded.”
“Great. Get your ass down to the Beekman Theatre on 2nd. I’ll grab our tickets and some popcorn. You like chocolate?”
I smile despite myself. “I like chocolate.” This might actually be fun, and listening to Noah speak really is quite something, even over the phone. “Hey Noah,” I say, reaching for my jacket. “What’s the movie called?”
“Way out of Wyoming. About some psycho killer who murdered a bunch of girls. Apparently it’s based on a true story. We can go and see something else if you like, though? The new Adam Sandler movie looks good if you’re into comedy. Do you have any preferences?”
My hand tightens around the phone. Sam O’Brady. Jefferson Kyle. Adam Bright. Sam O’Brady. Jefferson Kyle. Adam Bright.
“Avery? Avery Patterson?”
“Uh…sorry, Noah, I…” My throat is so dry I can’t swallow. “What did you say?”
“I asked if you had any preferences? Adam Sandler?”
I fix my eyes on the digital clock on the oven, forcing oxygen in and out of my body. “No, I don’t care really. Just pick whatever. But not that one. Not the Wyoming one.”
Noah completely misses the way my voice cracks. He chuckles and says, “Man, girls are such pussies” and then he hangs up the phone.
I make my way from the kitchen into the lounge where I’ve set up my laptop and sit down in front of it, activating the wifi on my cell phone. Once my laptop recognizes the wifi hotspot, I head straight to Youtube and type in ‘Way Out Of Wyoming Trailer’. The comments at the top of the page are bad. They all refer to how messed up the movie is, and how it made someone’s mom, sister, girlfriend puke. Loud rock music starts up and the trailer finally loads. For the next minute and thirty seconds I stare at the screen and watch without blinking once.
“When teenage girls started going missing across Wyoming, police officials never suspected they were dealing with a serial killer. There was no motive. No profile. No pattern. And for the killer’s victims, no hope of escape.”
Scenes of young girls being chased through woods strobe on the screen, accompanied by the breathless, frantic sounds of someone running for their life. At the end of the trailer, an image of a masked man brandishing a rusty machete flashes up, and a high-pitched scream rips over the brash guitar music, ending the clip on a dramatic note. I slam the laptop closed and slump back, chewing on my thumbnail, trying to figure out a way to stop my stomach from rolling. They’ve made a movie out of it. A movie. Everyone in the whole country is going to be talking about it, especially since it looks like one of the most gruesome things I’ve ever seen. That means that they’ll be talking about my dad, too, if anyone catches sight of Mayor Bright’s book. And they will. Because that’s just my luck.