Page 22 of Final Girls

“You mean a spatula? In there.”

I point to one of the counter drawers behind her. She tugs the handle of the one beneath it. The locked drawer.Mydrawer. Inside, something rattles.

“What’s in here?”

“Don’t touch that!”

I sound more panicked than I intend to, my voice lightly dusted with anger. My hand flutters to my neck, feeling for the key, as if ithad somehow magically found its way into the drawer’s lock. It’s still there, of course, flat against my chest.

“It’s recipes,” I say, calming. “My top secret stash.”

“Sorry,” Sam says as she lets go of the drawer handle.

“No one can see them,” I add.

“Sure. I get it.”

Sam raises both hands. Her jacket sleeve rides down her wrist, fully revealing the tattoo there. It’s a single word, etched in black.

SURVIVOR

The letters are capitalized. The font is bold. It’s both declaration and dare.Go on, it says.Just try to fuck with me.

•••

An hour later, all the cupcakes from yesterday are decorated and two orange pumpkin loaves sit cooling atop the oven. Sam surveys the results with weary pride, a smudge of flour across her cheek like war paint.

“So now what?” she says.

I begin to arrange the cupcakes on chunky Fiestaware, their black icing popping against the pale green of the plates.

“Now we design a table setting for both desserts and photograph it for the website.”

“I meant about us,” Sam says. “We met. We talked. We baked. It was magical. So now what?”

“That depends on why you came here,” I say. “Is it really just because of what happened to Lisa?”

“Isn’t that enough?”

“You could have called. Or emailed.”

“I wanted to see you in person,” Sam says. “After learning what Lisa had done, I wanted to see how you were doing.”

“And how am I doing?”

“I can’t tell. Care to give me a hint?”

I busy myself with the cupcakes, trying out different arrangements as Sam stands behind me.

“Quincy?”

“I’m sad, okay?” I say, whirling around to face her. “Lisa’s suicide makes me sad.”

“I’m not.” Sam examines her hands as she says it, digging batter out from under her fingernails. “I’m pissed off. After all she survived, that’s how she died? It makes me mad.”

Although it’s exactly the same thing I had said to Jeff last night, irritation ripples over me. I turn back to the display. “Don’t be mad at Lisa.”

“I’m not,” Sam says. “I’m pissed off at myself. For never reaching out to her. Or to you. Maybe if I had, I—”

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