CHAPTER 11
It’s past ten when I wake up. Jeff’s side of the bed has long been empty, the sheets there cool under my palm. In the hallway, I pause by the guest room. Although the door is open, I know Sam is still around. Her knapsack remains in the corner and the Wild Turkey still sits on the nightstand, only an inch of amber liquid remaining.
Noise bursts from the kitchen—drawers closing, pans banging. I find Sam there, a white apron tossed over a Sex Pistols T-shirt and a pair of black jeans.
My head hurts, less the product of Wild Turkey than the surreal circumstances in which it was consumed. Although the events of last night are hazy, I have no trouble recalling Sam’s repeated attempts to get me to say His name. I’m annoyed at both her and the memory.
Sam knows this. I can tell from the apologetic way she smiles when she sees me. From the mug filled with coffee she all but shoves into my hands. From the blueberry-scented warmth that drifts from the oven.
“You’re baking?”
Sam nods with pride. “Lemon-blueberry muffins. I found the recipe on your blog. I thought you might like some.”
“Should I be impressed?”
“Probably not,” Sam says. “Although I was hoping you’d be.”
Secretly, I am. No one has baked anything for me since my father died. Not even Jeff. Yet here’s Sam, eyeing the oven timer as it counts down to zero. I’m reluctantly touched.
Sam removes the muffins from the oven, not giving them nearly enough time to cool before flipping the pan. Muffins drop onto the counter in a spray of crumbs and blueberry sludge.
“How’d I do, Coach?” Sam asks, giving me a hopeful look.
I take a judgmental nibble. They’re slightly dry, which tells me she skimped on the butter. There’s also a severe lack of sugar, which suppresses the fruit. Rather than either lemon or blueberry, the muffin is the flavor of paste. I take a sip of coffee. It’s too strong. The bitter taste on my tongue bleeds into my words.
“We need to talk about last night—”
“I was a bitch,” Sam says. “You’re being all nice and I—”
“I don’t talk about Pine Cottage, Sam. It’s off limits, okay? I’m focused on the future. You should be, too.”
“Got it,” Sam says. “And I’d like to make it up to you somehow. If you let me stay longer, of course.”
She takes a deep breath, waiting for me to give her an answer. It might be an act. Part of me thinks she’s certain I’ll tell her she can stay. Just like she was certain I wouldn’t let her trudge away with her knapsack last night. Only I’m not certain about anything.
“It’ll only be for another day or two,” she says after I say nothing.
I take another sip of coffee, more for the caffeine than the taste. “Why are you really here?”
“Isn’t wanting to meet you enough?”
“It should be,” I say. “But it’s not your only reason. All these questions. All this prodding. And you so unwilling to talk about yourself.”
Sam picks up a crumbling muffin, puts it down, checks her fingernails for crumbs. “You really want to know?”
“If you’re going to continue to stay here, I need to know.”
“Right. Truth-telling time. No bullshit.” Sam takes a deep breath, sucking in air like a kid about to slip underwater. “I came because I wanted to see if you’re as angry as I am.”
“Angry about what Lisa did?”
“No,” Sam says. “Angry about being a Final Girl.”
“I’m not.”
“Angry or a Final Girl?”
“Both,” I say.
“Maybe you should be.”
“I’ve moved past it.”
“That’s not what you told Jeff last night.”
So she had heard the two of us arguing in our bedroom. Maybe some of it. Probably all of it. Definitely enough to send her fleeing into the night.
“I know you’re not past it,” she says. “Just like I’m not. And we’ll never get past it unless we pull a Lisa Milner. We got stuck with a raw deal, babe. Life swallowed us whole and shit us out and everyone else just wants us to get over it and act like it didn’t happen.”
“At least we survived.”
Sam lifts her wrist, flashing the tattoo there. “Sure. And your life has been perfect ever since, right?”
“I’m fine,” I say, cringing because I sound just like my mother. She uses the word like a dagger, fending off all emotion. I’m fine, she told everyone at my father’s funeral. Quincy and I are both fine. As if our lives hadn’t been completely shattered in the span of a year.
“Obviously,” Sam says.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
She digs into the front pocket of her jeans, pulling out an iPhone that’s slapped on the counter in front of me. The motion startles its screen to life, revealing the unmistakable image of a man’s penis.
“I’m going to go out on a limb here and assume that’s not Jeff,” Sam says. “Just like this isn’t your phone.”
I look to the other side of the kitchen, the coffee and muffin suddenly sour in my stomach. The locked drawer—my drawer—is open. Dark scratches form a starburst pattern around the keyhole.
“You picked the lock?”
Sam lifts her chin in a pleased-with-herself nod. “One of my few skills.”
I rush to the open drawer, making sure my secret stash is still there. I grab the silver compact and check my reflection in its mirror. I’m startled by how tired I look.
“I told you to leave it alone,” I say, more embarrassed than angry.
“Relax. I’m not going to tell anyone,” Sam says. “Honestly, it’s a relief knowing there’s something dark underneath all that happy homemaker bullshit.”
Shame heats my cheeks. I turn away and lean against the counter, my palms flat against it, sliding through muffin crumbs. “It’s not what you think.”
“I’m not judging you. You think I haven’t stolen anything? You name it, I’ve probably taken it. Food. Clothes. Cigarettes. When you’re as poor as I’ve been, you get over the guilt real fast.” Sam dips a hand into the drawer, pulling out a stolen tube of lipstick. She gives it a twist and, mouth forming a perfect circle, swipes the cherry red tip over her lips. “What do you think? Is this a good color on me?”
“That has nothing to do with what happened at Pine Cottage,” I say.
“Right,” Sam replies, lip smacking. “You’re completely normal.”
“Fuck you.”
She smiles. A ruby-lipped grin that flashes like neon.
“Now that’s what I’m talking about! Show some emotion, Quinn. That’s why I wanted you to say his name. That’s why I broke into your secret goodie drawer. I want to see you get angry. You’ve earned that rage. Don’t try to hide it behind your website with your cakes and muffins and bread. You’re messed up. So am I. It’s okay to admit it. We’re damaged goods, babe.”
I peer into the drawer again, looking at each item as if for the first time, and realize Sam is right. Only a seriously damaged woman would steal spoons and iPhones and gold-plated compacts.
Humiliation grips my body, squeezing ever so slightly. I push past Sam and move woodenly to the cupboard where my Xanax is stored. I shake a pill into my palm, prompting Sam to say, “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 Flinstones 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 like 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. None of them are radiant. 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 two blouses, holding them tightly together. “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 it to Sam. She tucks it under her arm and disappears into a dressing room.
While she’s gone, something catches my eye. A glint of gold luring 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, don’t you?”
It’s Sam, suddenly behind me, whispering in my ear.
I nod.
“Then go for it. 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. We’re the damaged ones.”
“Damaged goods,” I say.
“You’re damn right.”
Silently, Sam 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 breathless 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 we look at it, our own faces stare back.
I teeter backwards, 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.