Page 53 of Final Girls

“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 wings 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.

“I don’t know,” I say. “Maybe.”

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

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.

“I think we’ve gone far enough.”

My voice gets lost in the chilly breeze. Not that Sam would have turned back had she heard me. She’s all determination as she crosses the street and makes a right, heading toward the park entrance one block south. I break into a run, following the route of my morning jogs, until I’ve caught up to her.

“What are we going to do out here?” I say.

“You’ll see.”

Sam ditches her cigarette and veers into the park. I pause at the threshold, the headlights cruising up Central Park West catching mein their glare and bending my shadow over the sidewalk. I want to turn back. I almost do. My body’s prepared to sprint to the apartment and dive into bed, clinging to Jeff. But I can no longer see Sam. She’s been swallowed by the park’s dark mouth.

“Sam?” I say. “Come back.”

There’s no response.

I wait, hoping she’ll reappear, grinning, saying this is just another one of her tests. One that I have failed. But when she doesn’t come back, my nervousness ticks up another notch. Sam’s alone in the park. In the dead of night. And even though I know she can take care of herself, I worry. So I curl my fingers around the slim canister of pepper spray in my pocket. I curse myself for not taking a Xanax. Then I inhale a deep, jittery breath and step into the park.

Sam stands just beyond the entrance. Not lost. Just blending with the shadows as she waits for me to catch up. She looks impatient. Or annoyed. I can’t quite tell.

“Come on,” she says, grabbing my arm and pulling me along.

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