Page 43 of Final Girls

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 lookamazingon 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 wearesuspicious. 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.

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