Page 94 of Final Girls

“Honest. I thought it would help you.”

“Shut up!”

Sam flinches, her drawn-on brows rising into startled arches. “I need you to know why I did it.”

There’s a carton of eggs sitting just to my right, a half dozen remaining. I pick one up.

“Shut—”

The egg goes flying toward Sam’s head. She ducks out of its path, the egg exploding against the cupboard behind her.

“—the—”

I toss another. Like a grenade. A quick flick of the wrist. When it joins the bowl on the floor, I grab two more, flinging them in quick succession.

“—fuck—up!”

Both eggs hit Sam’s apron. Chaotic detonations of yellow slime that push her against the counter, more from surprise than velocity. I reach for the others, but Sam rushes forward, unsteady across the slick tile. She yanks the carton away, sending the remaining eggs smashing to the floor.

“Will you just let me explain?” she shouts.

“I already know why you did it!” I shout back. “You wanted me to get angry! And I almost killed a man! Is that angry enough for you? What else do you want me to do?”

Sam grabs me by the shoulders, shaking me. “I want you to wake up! You’ve been hiding all these years.”

“You should talk. I’m not the one who vanished. I’m not the one who hasn’t even told her mother she’s still alive.”

“I don’t mean it like that.”

“Then what do you mean, Sam? I wish that for once you’d make some sense. I’ve tried to understand you, but I can’t.”

“Stop pretending to be someone you’re not!” Sam also decides to throw things. There’s another bowl on the counter, which she slaps onto the floor. It rolls into a corner, spinning on its rim. “You act like this perfect girl with this perfect life making perfect cakes. But that’s not you, Quinn, and you know it.”

She pushes me against the dishwasher, its handle poking into the base of my spine. I shove back and send her sliding through the muck of eggs and flour.

“You don’t know anything about me,” I say.

Sam comes at me again, this time slamming me against the counter.

“I’m theonlyone who knows you. You’re a fighter. One who’ll do anything to survive. Just like me.”

I squirm against her, trapped. “I’m nothing like you.”

“You’re a fucking Final Girl,” Sam says. “That’swhy I went to Jonah Thompson. So you couldn’t hide anymore. So you could finally live up to the name you’ve earned.”

Her face is so close to mine that I stop breathing. Her presence is like a fire sucking all the oxygen from the room. I shove her away, clearing enough space to turn around in. Sam latches onto my hand, trying to drag me toward her. My other hand fumbles along the countertop, reaching for anything I can find. Measuring cups bump against my knuckles. A spoon slips from my grip and hits the floor. My fingers finally close around something and I whirl toward her, brandishing it, thrusting it outward.

Sam cries out, scrambling backward. She drops to the floor and presses herself against a cupboard door.

I stalk across the kitchen, vaguely aware that she’s saying my name on repeat. The sound watery and distant, as if shouted from the depths of a well.

“Quinn!”

That one is loud enough to rattle the cupboards. Loud enough to pierce the furious haze surrounding me.

“Quincy,” Sam says, now merely whispering.“Please.”

I look down.

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