Page 42 of Final Girls

“The Xanax,” Sam says. “Give me one.”

She plucks the pill from my hand. Instead of swallowing it, she crunches it between her teeth like a Flintstones vitamin. I take mine the usual way—chased down with grape soda.

“Interesting method,” Sam says as she runs her tongue along her teeth, catching stray granules.

I take another gulp of soda. “A spoonful of sugar. The song doesn’t lie.”

“Whatever gets the job done, I guess.” Sam holds out her hand. “Give me another.”

I tap a second pill into her palm. It stays there, cradled like a tiny robin’s egg, as she gives me a curious look.

“You’re not having seconds?”

It’s not a question.

It’s a dare.

All of a sudden, I feel like we’re replaying yesterday afternoon. Back in the kitchen, Sam watching, me inexplicably wanting to impress her.

“Sure,” I say.

I take another Xanax, followed by more grape soda. Instead of chewing hers, Sam gestures for the soda bottle. She takes two hearty swallows, finishing up with a quick belch.

“You’re right. That does make it go down easier.” Again, she holds out her hand. “Third time’s the charm.”

This time, we take the pills simultaneously, passing the soda quickly between us. All that Xanax has left a bitter spot on my tongue, which is made even more obvious by the sticky fuzz of grape soda spreading over my teeth. I laugh at the ridiculousness of the situation. We’re just two massacre survivors downing Xanax. Lisa would not have approved.

“Are we cool?” Sam says.

Soft morning light slants from the kitchen window onto her face. Although she’s made sure to put on makeup, the sunlight exposes tiny webs of wrinkles starting to form around her eyes and the corners of her mouth. They draw my gaze the same way I’m drawn to a Van Gogh, always looking for the glimpses of canvas hidden between the dollops of paint. That’s the real Sam I’m looking for. The woman behind the tough-girl mask.

The glimpse I get now is darkly alluring. I see someone who’s stilltrying to comprehend what’s become of her life. I see someone who’s lonely and sad and uncertain about everything.

I see myself, and the recognition makes my body hum with relief that there’s someone out there just like me.

“Yes,” I say. “We’re cool.”

•••

The Xanax kicks in fifteen minutes later while I’m in the shower. My body softens in increments, feeling as if the shower’s steam is seeping into my pores, swirling inside of me, filling me up. I get dressed as if on a cloud—floating and lightweight, drifting down the hall, where Sam waits by the door, also floating, her eyes smiling.

“Let’s go.” Her voice is muffled, soft. A long-distance call.

“Where?” I ask, sounding like someone else. Someone happier and carefree. Someone who’s never heard the name Pine Cottage.

“Let’s go,” Sam says again.

So I go, grabbing my purse before following her into the hallway, the elevator, the lobby, the street, where sunlight shimmers down on us, golden and warm and radiant. Sam is radiant too, with sun-orange highlights in her hair and face glowing pink. I try to pause at each door we pass, checking my reflection in the glass to see if I’m radiant too, but Sam pulls me away, into a cab that I never noticed her hail.

We float on. Into the steaming thickness of the city, then into Central Park, where a fall breeze trickles in through the cab window, cracked an inch or two. I close my eyes, feeling the air’s caress until the cab stops and Sam is tugging at me again, me barely feeling it.

“We’re here,” she says.

Hereis Fifth Avenue.Hereis the concrete fortress of Saks.Hereis us floating across the sidewalk, through the doors, into the gleaming pattern of perfume counters, passing scents so strong I can almost see them stretching in hues of pink and lavender. I trail Sam through the rainbowed air and up an escalator. Or maybe we’re not going up at all. Maybe it’s just me. Floating into the women’s department, where another rainbow appears, made real in rows of cotton, silk, and satin.

Other women mill about. Bored salesgirls and haughty matronsand listless teenagers who should be in school but instead are here, sighing into their cell phones. They give us judging looks, if they bother to look at us at all.

Jealousy.

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