Final Girls

by Riley Sager

  “Do you have enough to share with the whole class?”

  I stare at her dumbly, my mind elsewhere, neurons focused solely on getting that light-blue pill into my body.

  “The Xanax,” Sam says. “Give me one.”

  She plucks the pill from my hand. Instead of swallowing it, she crunches it between her teeth like a Flintstones vitamin. I take mine the usual way—chased down with grape soda.

  “Interesting method,” Sam says as she runs her tongue along her teeth, catching stray granules.

  I take another gulp of soda. “A spoonful of sugar. The song doesn’t lie.”

  “Whatever gets the job done, I guess.” Sam holds out her hand. “Give me another.”

  I tap a second pill into her palm. It stays there, cradled like a tiny robin’s egg, as she gives me a curious look.

  “You’re not having seconds?”

  It’s not a question.

  It’s a dare.

  All of a sudden, I feel like we’re replaying yesterday afternoon. Back in the kitchen, Sam watching, me inexplicably wanting to impress her.

  “Sure,” I say.

  I take another Xanax, followed by more grape soda. Instead of chewing hers, Sam gestures for the soda bottle. She takes two hearty swallows, finishing up with a quick belch.

  “You’re right. That does make it go down easier.” Again, she holds out her hand. “Third time’s the charm.”

  This time, we take the pills simultaneously, passing the soda quickly between us. All that Xanax has left a bitter spot on my tongue, which is made even more obvious by the sticky fuzz of grape soda spreading over my teeth. I laugh at the ridiculousness of the situation. We’re just two massacre survivors downing Xanax. Lisa would not have approved.

  “Are we cool?” Sam says.

  Soft morning light slants from the kitchen window onto her face. Although she’s made sure to put on makeup, the sunlight exposes tiny webs of wrinkles starting to form around her eyes and the corners of her mouth. They draw my gaze the same way I’m drawn to a Van Gogh, always looking for the glimpses of canvas hidden between the dollops of paint. That’s the real Sam I’m looking for. The woman behind the tough-girl mask.

  The glimpse I get now is darkly alluring. I see someone who’s still trying to comprehend what’s become of her life. I see someone who’s lonely and sad and uncertain about everything.

  I see myself, and the recognition makes my body hum with relief that there’s someone out there just like me.

  “Yes,” I say. “We’re cool.”

  • • •

  The Xanax kicks in fifteen minutes later while I’m in the shower. My body softens in increments, feeling as if the shower’s steam is seeping into my pores, swirling inside of me, filling me up. I get dressed as if on a cloud—floating and lightweight, drifting down the hall, where Sam waits by the door, also floating, her eyes smiling.

  “Let’s go.” Her voice is muffled, soft. A long-distance call.

  “Where?” I ask, sounding like someone else. Someone happier and carefree. Someone who’s never heard the name Pine Cottage.

  “Let’s go,” Sam says again.

  So I go, grabbing my purse before following her into the hallway, the elevator, the lobby, the street, where sunlight shimmers down on us, golden and warm and radiant. Sam is radiant too, with sun-orange highlights in her hair and face glowing pink. I try to pause at each door we pass, checking my reflection in the glass to see if I’m radiant too, but Sam pulls me away, into a cab that I never noticed her hail.

  We float on. Into the steaming thickness of the city, then into Central Park, where a fall breeze trickles in through the cab window, cracked an inch or two. I close my eyes, feeling the air’s caress until the cab stops and Sam is tugging at me again, me barely feeling it.

  “We’re here,” she says.

  Here is Fifth Avenue. Here is the concrete fortress of Saks. Here is us floating across the sidewalk, through the doors, into the gleaming pattern of perfume counters, passing scents so strong I can almost see them stretching in hues of pink and lavender. I trail Sam through the rainbowed air and up an escalator. Or maybe we’re not going up at all. Maybe it’s just me. Floating into the women’s department, where another rainbow appears, made real in rows of cotton, silk, and satin.

  Other women mill about. Bored salesgirls and haughty matrons and listless teenagers who should be in school but instead are here, sighing into their cell phones. They give us judging looks, if they bother to look at us at all.

  Jealousy.

  They know we’re special.

  “Hi,” I say to one of them, giggling.

  “Love that skirt,” Sam says to another.

  She leads me to a rack of blouses. White ones spattered with blooms of color. Grabbing one off the rack, she holds it up and says, “What do you think?”

  “That would look amazing on you,” I say.

  “Really?”

  “Yes, you have to try it on.”

  Sam grabs a blouse. “Give me your purse,” she says.

  My purse. I forgot I had brought it with me. Then a line of clarity cuts through the haze, its appearance so sudden that I grow dizzy.

  “You’re not going to steal it,” I say.

  Sam’s expression is blank. The golden glow on her skin fades to gray. “It’s not stealing if you’ve earned it. And after what we went through, babe, I’d say we earned this big-time. Purse, please.”

  With arms so numb I can barely feel them, I pass the purse to Sam. She tucks it under her arm and disappears into a dressing room.

  While she’s gone, a glint of gold catches my eye and lures me across the sales floor. It’s a small display of accessories—thin belts and chunky bracelets and loops of beaded necklaces. But what holds my attention is a pair of earrings. The two dangling ovals remind me of twin mirrors, drawing the light until they glow.

  Radiant.

  Like me.

  Like Sam.

  I finger one of them, the light glinting. My reflection leaps off its surface, face oblong and pale.

  “You want them, right?” It’s Sam, out of the dressing room and suddenly behind me, whispering in my ear. “Go on. You know what to do.”

  She pushes the purse back into my arms. Without even looking, I know the blouse is in there. It radiates a heat that makes the whole purse pulse. I unzip it just a crack. Inside is a slip of white silk, a splash of color.

  “It’s not hurting anyone,” Sam says. “You’re the one who got hurt, Quinn. You and me and Lisa.”

  She drifts to a nearby rack of sweaters. She grabs two handfuls and drops them onto the floor, plastic hangers clattering. The noise draws a salesgirl, who zips to Sam’s side.

  “I’m so clumsy,” Sam says.

  That’s my cue. As Sam and the salesgirl collect the downed sweaters, I snatch the earrings from their display and drop them into my purse. Then I speed-walk from the scene of my crime. I’m halfway out of the women’s department when Sam catches up to me. She grabs my wrist, yanking me to a slow walk while whispering, “Easy, babe. No need to look suspicious.”

  But we are suspicious. And I’m certain all those bored salesgirls and haughty matrons and listless teenagers who should be in school know what we’ve done. I expect them to stare as we pass, but none of them do. We’re so radiant we’ve become invisible.

  Only one man notices us. A twentysomething in distressed jeans, Brooks Brothers polo, and shiny black sneakers with red stripes down the sides. He spies us over one of the fragrance counters, pausing mid-spritz to watch us float to the door. I watch him too, noticing something click just behind his eyes. It worries me.

  “We’ve been spotted,” I tell Sam. “Security.”

  My heart starts doing jumping jacks in my chest, thumping faster and faster. I’m scared and excited and breathles
s and exhausted. I want to run but Sam keeps gripping my arm, even as the man drops his cologne, picks up a newspaper sitting on the counter, and starts to follow.

  He calls out to us. “Excuse me.”

  Sam curses under her breath. My heart beats even faster.

  “Excuse me,” the man says again, putting a more urgent spin on it, getting the attention of others, who look up, look at him, look at us. We’re visible again.

  Sam increases her pace, making me do the same. We reach the door and start to push through it, but the man is behind us, moving fast, reaching out to tap me on the shoulder.

  Out on the street, Sam prepares to run. Her body tenses next to mine, readying for the sprint. I tense up too, mostly because the man is right at my back now. His hand drops onto my shoulder, making me spin around and hold the purse out to him, as if in offering.

  The man looks not at the purse but at the two of us, a stupid grin on his face. “I knew it was you.”

  “We don’t know you, man,” Sam says.

  “I know you,” he says. “Quincy Carpenter and Samantha Boyd, right? The Final Girls.”

  The man fishes in the pocket of his jeans, pulling out a pen tangled in a ring of keys. He yanks it loose and hands it to me.

  “It’d be awesome if I could get your autographs.”

  He then offers the newspaper. It’s a tabloid, the cover stretched tight and facing us. When I look at it, I see my own face staring back at me.

  “See?” the man says, proud of himself.

  I teeter backward, dropping to Earth, the sidewalk under my feet suddenly hard and jarring. A second look at the newspaper confirms what I already know.

  Somehow, Sam and I have become front-page news.

  12.

  Our picture takes up most of the front page, filling it all the way to the masthead. The image shows Sam and me during our first meeting, standing outside my building, sizing each other up. It captures me at my very worst—with my weight shifted to my right leg, hip jutting, arms crossed in suspicion. Sam’s positioned slightly away from the camera, with just a slice of her pale profile visible. Her knapsack is still settling at my feet and her mouth yawns open as she speaks. I recall that moment with cutting exactitude. It was right before Sam started to say, You don’t need to be such a bitch.

  The headline sits below the photo in large, red letters: SOUL SURVIVORS.

  Beneath it is a photo of Lisa Milner, similar to the one on her book cover. Next to it is a headline smaller in size but no less alarming: FINAL GIRLS MEET AFTER SUICIDE OF KILL-SPREE VICTIM LISA MILNER.

  I look to the masthead again. It’s the same tabloid that reporter idling outside my building yesterday said he worked for. His name lurches into my head. Jonah Thompson. That devious prick. He must have still been there, spying on us while scrunched in the front seat of a parked car, camera poised on the dashboard.

  I snatch the newspaper from the autograph hound and start to walk away.

  “Hey!” he says.

  I keep walking, tripping down Fifth Avenue. Even though my legs are wobbly from Xanax, my muscles yearn for another. And then another. As many as it takes to plunge me into oblivion for a few days. Which still wouldn’t be enough to snuff out my anger.

  I flip through the newspaper as I walk. Inside it is a bigger photograph of Lisa and a series of shots detailing the first conversation between Sam and me, all taken from the same angle. I look gradually less angry in those pictures, my stance and expression softening. As for the actual article, I can barely make it through the first two paragraphs.

  “What does it say?” Sam asks as she hurries to keep up.

  “That we’re both in the city, united by Lisa’s sudden suicide.”

  “Well, it’s kind of the truth.”

  “And it’s no one’s goddamn business but ours. Which is exactly what I’m going to say to Jonah Thompson.”

  I toss through the newspaper until I find the address of its newsroom. West Forty-Seventh Street. Two blocks south and one block west. I surge forward, fueled only by rage. I go two steps before realizing that Sam hasn’t moved. She stands on the corner, nibbling at her cuticles while watching my retreat.

  “Let’s go,” I say.

  Sam shakes her head.

  “Why not?”

  “Because it’s not a good idea.”

  “Says the woman who just encouraged me to shoplift.” This turns the heads of several people passing by. I don’t care. “I’m still going.”

  “Whatever cranks your chain, babe.”

  “You’re really not pissed off about this?”

  “Sure, I’m pissed.”

  “Then we should do something about it.”

  “It won’t make any difference,” Sam says. “We’ll still be on the front page.”

  More heads turn. I scowl at those who meet my gaze. Then I scowl at Sam, frustrated by her lack of anger. I want the Sam from an hour ago, urging me to embrace my rage, but she’s been replaced by someone made mellow by the same Xanax that itches within me.

  “I’m still going,” I say.

  “Don’t,” Sam says.

  I start walking again, anger pushing me forward. I call to Sam over my shoulder, my words stretching into a taunt. “I’m go-ing.”

  “Quinn, wait.”

  But it’s too late for that. I’ve reached the other end of the block and am crossing the street against the light. I think I hear Sam still calling after me, her voice blending into the din of the city. I keep going, newspaper in my fist, refusing to stop until I’m face-to-face with Jonah Thompson.

  • • •

  There’s no getting past the security desk. It sits just inside the lobby, mere feet from the busy bank of elevators. I could make a run for the constantly opening and closing doors, but the guard on duty is a full foot taller than I. He’d be able to cross that lobby in a flash, blocking my path.

  So I march right up to him, rolled newspaper in hand, and announce, “I’m here to see Jonah Thompson.”

  “Name?”

  “Quincy Carpenter.”

  “Is he expecting you?”

  “No,” I say. “But I know he’ll want to see me.”

  The guard checks a directory, makes a call, and tells me to wait by the mural positioned opposite the elevators. It’s a massive Art Deco thing. A Manhattan skyline, painted in muted tones. I’m still looking at it when a voice sounds at my back.

  “Quincy,” Jonah Thompson says. “You change your mind about talking?”

  I whirl around, the sight of him boiling my blood. He’s wearing a checked shirt and skinny tie, trendy and smug. A bulging file folder is tucked under one arm. Probably dirt on his next victim.

  “I’m here to get an apology, you son of a bitch.”

  “You’ve seen the paper.”

  “And now the whole goddamn city can see where I live,” I say, waving said paper in his face.

  He blinks behind his thick-framed glasses, more amused than alarmed. “Neither the article nor the photo captions mention where you live. I made sure of that. I didn’t even name the street.”

  “No, but you showed us. You identified who we are. Now the whole world can Google our names and see what Samantha Boyd and I look like. Which means any psycho can show up and stalk us.”

  This he hasn’t thought of. The slight whitening of his face makes that abundantly clear.

  “I didn’t mean to—”

  “Of course you didn’t. You were just thinking about how many papers you’d sell. What kind of raise you’d get. How much the inevitable offer from TMZ would be.”

  “That’s not the reason—”

  “I could sue you,” I say, interrupting again. “Sam and I both could. So you better pray that nothing happens to us.”

  Jonah gives a hard swallow. “So you came here to t
ell me you’re going to sue the paper?”

  “I’m here to warn you that there’ll be hell to pay if I ever see another article about me or Samantha Boyd. What happened to us was years ago. Let it rest.”

  “There’s something you need to know about that article,” Jonah says.

  “You can shove that article up your ass.”

  I move to leave but he grabs my arm, tugging me backward.

  “Don’t touch me!”

  Jonah’s stronger than he looks, his grip alarmingly tight. I try to get free, arm twisting, elbow aching.

  “Just listen to me,” he says. “It’s about Samantha Boyd. She’s lying to you.”

  “Let me go!”

  I give him a shove. Harder than I intend. Hard enough to get the attention of the guard, who barks, “Miss, you need to leave.”

  As if I don’t know that. As if I’m not aware that the longer I stay in Jonah’s presence, the angrier I get. So angry that when Jonah moves toward me again, I give him another shove, this time intentionally harder than the first.

  He rocks backward and the folder drops from his arm. It flaps open on the way down, spitting out its contents. Dozens of newspaper clippings fan out across the floor, their headlines shouting variations of the same story.

  Pine Cottage. Massacre. Survivor. Killer.

  Low-quality photos accompany most of the articles. To someone else, they’d mean nothing. Copies of copies, all pixels and smudges and Rorschach blots. Only I can see them for what they really are. Exterior shots of Pine Cottage, taken both before and after the murders. Yearbook photos of Janelle, Craig, the others. A picture of me. The same one that graced the cover of People against my wishes.

  He’s there too. His image is in a separate box right next to mine. I haven’t seen that face in ten years. Not since that night. I shut my eyes, but it’s too late. That single glimpse breaks something loose inside me, not far from where His knife went in. A croak belches from my throat, followed by a sick rattling as that broken chunk of myself pushes upward, black and bilious and thick.

  “I’m going to throw up,” I warn.

  And so I do, spewing onto the floor until every single article there is covered.