Page 21 of Final Girls

If she believes it, then maybe it’s actually true.

Sam remains still, looking first at me and then at our surroundings. I think the kitchen is cozy, done up in soothing greens and blues. There’s a vase of daisies on the windowsill and kitschy potholders hanging from the walls. The appliances are state-of-the-art but with a retro design. Sam eyes it all with barely concealed terror. She has the look of a feral child dragged suddenly into civilization.

“Do you know how to bake?” I ask.

“No,” Sam says. “I microwave.”

Then she laughs. A raucous, throaty one that fills the kitchen. I like the sound. When it’s just me in the kitchen, all is silent.

“It’s easy,” I tell her. “Trust me.”

I position Sam before one row of bowls and take my place before the other. I then show her, step-by-step, how to fold the butter and sugar together; combine them with the flour, water, and eggs; layer in the flavors one at a time. Sam forms the batter the same way she talks—in short, haphazard bursts. Tufts of flour and blots of pumpkin rise from her bowl.

“Um, am I doing this right?”

“Almost,” I say. “You need to be more gentle.”

“You sound like all my ex-boyfriends,” Sam jokes, even though she’s starting to follow my advice and mix the ingredients with slightly less force. The results are immediate. “Hey, it’s working!”

“Slow and steady wins the race. That’s the Tenth Commandment on my blog.”

“You should write a cookbook,” Sam says.“Baking for Idiots.”

“I’ve thought about it. Just a regular cookbook, though.”

“What about a book about Pine Cottage?”

I stiffen at the sound of those two words pushed together. Individually, they have no power over me. Pine. Cottage. Nothing but harmless words. But when combined they obtain the sharpness of the knife He shoved into my shoulder and stomach. If I blink, I know I’ll see Janelle emerging from the trees, still technically alive but already dead. So I keep my eyes open, staring at the batter thickening in the bowl in front of me.

“It would be an awfully short book,” I say.

“Oh, yeah.” There’s a false ring to Sam’s voice, as if she’s trying to make it sound like she’s only just now considering my memory loss. “Right.”

She’s staring too, although at me and not at her bowl. I feel her gaze on my cheek, as warm as the afternoon sun coming through the kitchen window. I get the uneasy sense she’s testing me somehow. That I’ll fail if I turn to meet her stare. I continue to look at the bread batter, thick and glistening in the bottom of my bowl.

“Did you read Lisa’s book?” I ask.

“Nah,” Sam says. “You?”

“No.”

I don’t know why I lie. Which is itself a lie. Idoknow. It’s to keep Sam slightly off balance. I bet she assumes I’ve read Lisa’s book cover to cover, which I have. There’s nothing as boring as being predictable.

“And the two of you never met?” I say.

“Lisa never got the pleasure,” Sam says. “You?”

“We talked on the phone. About how to deal with trauma. What people expect of us. It wasn’t quite like meeting in person.”

“And sure as hell not like baking together.”

Sam nudges my hip with hers and gives another laugh. Whatever test she was giving me, I think I’ve passed.

“It’s time to put these in the oven,” I announce.

I slide my batter into a loaf pan using a spatula. Sam simply tips her bowl over the pan, but her aim is off, and batter spills onto the counter.

“Shit,” she says. “Where can I get one of those flat things?”

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