How to survive your murd.., p.5
How to Survive Your Murder, page 5
I shiver, forcing the thought out of my head, and stuff my AirPods into my pocket. I hurry up the crumbling stone staircase that leads to Omaha East, the school itself looming over me in all of its Greek Revival, stone-columned glory.
I’m halfway to the front doors when a girl flies past me, nearly knocking me off my feet. I stumble back a step, swearing. The girl stops and turns.
I’m momentarily stunned into speechlessness.
It’s Sidney Prescott, from Scream. Like, actually Sidney Prescott. Same pouty Neve Campbell mouth and shoulder-length brown hair; same overcurled ’90s-style bangs. Same face.
I blink a few times, trying to get my eyes to catch up with my brain. I must just think she looks so much like Sidney because of how she’s dressed in the exact same oversize gray sweatshirt that Sidney wears when she runs into Ghostface for the first time.
“Sorry,” Sidney mutters, and then she’s running again, racing through the school’s front doors so fast that I actually turn and look down the school’s steps, expecting to see Ghostface appear from behind a bush, holding a butcher knife.
“Asshole,” I mutter. But I can’t help being a little impressed with the girl’s costume. You’d think I’d be over scary movies after what happened to Claire, but it’s the opposite, actually. Horror movies are the only things I can stomach anymore. Movies that end happily, with people falling in love and achieving their dreams and starting families and shit, they make me want to hurl.
Give me a good slasher any day of the week. I want to see lives ruined. People destroyed. I want to listen to other people screaming. It’s the only time I can drown out the screams still echoing through my head.
School hasn’t started yet, so the Omaha East halls are only slightly crowded: overachievers wearing elaborate costumes made out of cardboard boxes and papier-mâché heading to their zero-hour classes; drama nerds decked out in stuff they pilfered from the costume closet, here for before-school rehearsal; kids with cars who drive in early so they can find a parking space napping in front of their lockers, rubber masks hiding their faces. Our school has always been big on dressing up.
I don’t like walking down the halls at this time of day. Claire’s most alive here. I can practically see her racing up from the auditorium, still in stage makeup and her Juliet costume, stealing my last sip of coffee, the rest of my doughnut.
I push the memory away and keep my head ducked as I make my way to my locker, hoping to get in and out without anyone stopping to offer condolences or ask me what I think of the trial. After Claire died, all anyone wanted to talk to me about was the cornfield and Owen and what I saw. I went from being the quiet, bookish girl that no one really noticed to the only witness in the most horrific crime this city had seen in decades. It was like being famous, if being famous totally sucked. I couldn’t walk into school without getting swarmed. People mostly moved on over the summer, though. Unfortunately, all of that’s going to change today.
Today’s the day they never show in horror movies. It’s what happens after the credits roll, after the Final Girl foils the bad guy.
Today’s the day the trial of Owen Trevor Maddox begins.
Eli’s already at his locker, nursing a can of Sprite Zero Sugar. Eli’s Mormon, so he doesn’t drink alcohol or caffeine, and he’s cut sugar, too, because “sugar is the new tobacco,” according to Medscape.
He looks up as I approach, fuzzy eyebrows lifting in surprise. “Are you actually here?” he asks, frowning. “Why are you here? Weren’t you going to skip?”
“Did you seriously hit me with three questions before I even got my locker open?” I say. Ever since we were kids, Eli and I have tried to talk to each other using only questions. It’s our game. How long can we keep going until one of us breaks?
“Do you expect me to be sorry?”
“Do you expect me to give up so easily?”
“Is that a trick question?” Eli fires back.
“Were you expecting one?” I ask, and Eli smirks.
He’s not in costume. Or at least not any more than usual. He’s like a character from one of those teen dramas where everyone sprinkles their vocabulary with four-syllable words and even the unpopular kids dress like they’re runway models. His look has always been nerd chic. Think sweater-vests and bow ties and loafers with tassels on the toe, all found after hours of careful rummaging through the good Goodwill, out west.
He’s currently wearing oversize librarian frames, tortoiseshell, with a little gold chain that goes around his neck.
I know that if this were a movie, Eli would slot fairly easily into the gay-best-friend trope, but I think that’s just because people are uncomfortable with guys exhibiting an interest in stereotypically “girly” things like fashion and baking. Not that it matters, but he isn’t gay.
Honestly, the question thing can go on for a while, so I’m going to jump ahead to when Eli asks if my shoes are vintage and I blurt “Yes!” even though I’m thinking How did you know?, I groan, and Eli does a little victory cheer.
“Yesterday you said you weren’t going to come in,” Eli says. I can hear the Didn’t you? hovering at the end of his sentence, but he presses his lips together to stop himself from uttering it. He already won; he doesn’t have to rub it in.
“Ms. Perez told me I’d get a failing grade if I didn’t hand in my homework in person.” I manage to yank my locker open and stop an avalanche of books before they come crashing to my feet. “So here I am.”
“I’m into whatever look you’re going for, even if you are here under protest,” Eli adds, looking me up and down. “It’s very Craft-era Fairuza Balk.”
I wasn’t trying for that, but I still appreciate the comment. I’m wearing a black dress for court, and I’ve borrowed Claire’s—formerly my—vintage loafers, to honor her, sort of. I suppose I’ve got a slight goth-schoolgirl look happening.
“Thanks,” I say. Nineties-era fashion has always been the point at which our interests intersect. We used to hit Scout and Thrift America and all the other good vintage stores every weekend, but I can’t remember the last time we did that.
Eli leans against his locker, absently pushing the padlock back and forth with one finger. It looks like he wants to say something else.
“Spit it out,” I tell him.
“It’s nothing. It’s just . . . Millie and X are at our table. You should stop by and hang for a bit. They miss you.” He says this in a voice that’s trying very hard not to sound hopeful, which just makes me feel guiltier.
Omaha East is a massive downtown school. There are at least five hundred students in each grade, which means you only ever really get to know the people in the same classes with you. I’ve known Eli since kindergarten, so we’ve always been a package deal, but for the last three years we’ve made a point of hanging with the other honors kids, Millie and X, and, sometimes, Sierra Clayton. We’d all study together during free periods and take over the corner table in the cafeteria before school, books spread between us as we tried to get a little early-morning reading done before our first classes. Eli, X, and I were locked in a three-way tie for class valedictorian, our GPAs so close that a single point on a single quiz would’ve been enough to sway things one way or another. Someone would usually bring coffee and doughnuts from O-Town Dough, and we’d all share notes and flash cards and conspire about how we were going to ace Mr. Belvedere’s pop quiz or gossip about the pretentious way Madame Feldman said “tous les jours.” God, it was nice, like having our own tiny private world.
But that was before Claire died. Before Millie and X started How to Be a Final Girl. Before my parents split up and my dad started drinking and everything in my life turned to crap.
Thinking about my old friends now causes a deeply sad feeling to open up inside me. Nostalgia or anger, all of it mixed up with grief over Claire. Before I can stop myself, I think of what Millie said on the podcast:
If this were a scary movie, the whole Owen thing would feel way too easy, like a giant misdirect.
I have to hold my breath to keep from screaming.
My senior year wasn’t supposed to be like this. Nothing was supposed to be like this.
Your Friends
Aren’t Really
Your Friends
Omaha East’s cafeteria is inside the school’s enclosed courtyard. The courtyard used to be open-air, but they closed it up when people realized how ridiculous it was to expect students to shiver through frigid Nebraska winters in order to get to a science class on the other side of the building.
The rest of Omaha East might be grungy and falling apart, with shoddy air-conditioning and cockroaches in the basement, but the courtyard is actually pretty epic. It reminds me of one of those impossibly cool high schools that seem to exist only in teen movies. X and I used to talk about how amazing it would be to film a slasher here, how the flickering gas lamps in the courtyard are the perfect touch for a really good Act One jump-scare scene.
I push that thought out of my head and instead run through everything I want to say as I follow Eli to our old table. I’m going to do it; I’m going to tell Millie and X exactly what I think of their stupid podcast.
Or at least that’s the plan. But then I hear Millie’s voice.
“. . . remember how she painted herself green?” Millie has an abnormally loud voice at the best of times, but when everyone is talking in hushed, early-morning whispers, it actually echoes, like she’s using a megaphone.
A shudder goes through me. Eli and I stop behind her, but Millie’s facing the other direction, so she doesn’t see us.
X, sitting across from her, does. “Millie,” he murmurs.
Millie must not hear the warning in his voice. “You remember that, right? It was for Wicked auditions? God, that was cool.”
Eli shoots me a sideways glance. I ignore him, too focused on the pit opening up inside my chest.
Millie’s talking about my sister, of course. I should’ve figured every-one would be talking about her today. Specifically, she’s talking about how Claire got cast as the lead in Wicked when she was just a freshman. Omaha East is serious about the performing arts; people who don’t even have kids here buy tickets for our fall musical. Freshmen never get cast in speaking roles, but Claire was determined. She knew she was good enough, but she was worried they’d bury her in some chorus role, so she made it clear she was going out for Elphaba by slathering green body paint all over herself during auditions.
What Eli and Millie probably don’t remember was how her skin was stained green for a week afterward. She had to do this really intense bleaching treatment to get all the green out. It made our hall smell toxic for weeks.
“Hey, Allie,” X says pointedly. Millie stops talking in the middle of the word amazing, and I hear her chair groan as she turns to look at me. A blush appears on her naturally tan skin.
X and Millie are dressed up like Bonnie and Clyde, with fake gunshot wounds and everything, probably some sort of inside reference from their podcast that I don’t get because I normally refuse to listen on principle. Millie’s had her hair cut short since the last time I saw her, and it’s half-hidden by her beret.
I stare at the beret so I don’t have to meet her eyes.
“Alice,” Millie breathes. “I’m so—”
“It’s fine,” I murmur before she can apologize. Dimly, I remember that I was going to say something to her about the podcast, but I can’t remember what it was. My head’s too full of Claire and bleach and Wicked.
I want to ask Millie if she remembers how Claire sneaked us into the wrap party, even though we were only in middle school and so embarrassing. How I felt so proud of her that night, like she was a real celebrity and not just the star of a high school play. My famous sister, Claire.
I clear my throat so none of the emotion I’m feeling comes out in my voice and say, “I’m not staying. Ms. Perez wanted to see me . . .”
The world’s most awkward silence gathers between us like a dear friend. Why, hello, awkward silence; so nice to see you again. What exactly are you supposed to say to the people who used to be your best friends and now talk about your dead sister on their obnoxiously well-liked podcast? I listened to your last episode, and it made me want to vomit blood, but the new mics are sounding pretty good.
Oh God. I wish the floor would open up and swallow me. I wish this were like a movie I was watching on Netflix and I could just fast-forward through this scene.
What did I think coming over here was going to accomplish? This isn’t scripted; I’m not going to magically figure out the perfect thing to say to make things go back to the way they were.
X flashes me one of his megawatt smiles. Normally, I can’t help smiling back at him. But I think of his voice buzzing in my ear (Watch any horror movie—the prettiest girl always dies first) and feel the corners of my lips tighten.
X’s smile falters. “Uh, Millie was just going to tell us all about Sierra’s new secret boyfriend.”
It’s an offering, his way of trying to make this not awkward, as though that’s even possible.
Play nice, I think.
“Um, Sierra has a boyfriend?” I don’t know Sierra too well, but this is actually sort of interesting. It’s a pretty open secret that she hasn’t dated anyone since she started high school. This shouldn’t be a scandal. I mean, I haven’t dated anyone, either. But Sierra . . . how do I put this? Sierra has D cups. So, according to the gross adolescent mutants who go to our high school, her being single is basically a Shakespearean tragedy. Never even occurred to them that she might not be interested in their misogynistic asses.
“Secret boyfriend. Key word being secret.” Millie shoots X a look, but she doesn’t seem particularly annoyed. Millie loves gossip. You don’t tell her something unless you’re ready for the whole world to hear about it. If Sierra doesn’t know that by now, it’s her own fault the secret’s out.
“Does he go here?” I ask.
Millie hesitates—her final concession to the fact that this is supposed to be a secret—and then expels a long breath, giving in. “No, I think he went to Mercer. She told me she met him at the gym.”
“He’s a college kid?”
Millie shakes her head. “Used to be. Sierra said he got kicked out.”
I go still as X makes a joke I don’t catch, and Millie rolls her eyes and says something about how we don’t live in Riverdale. I barely hear them. I stopped listening after “he got kicked out.”
Eli, who knows every one of my secrets, stiffens beside me, realizing what I’ve already worked out. His face falls as he glances at me. “Allie—”
I hold up a hand, stopping him. I’d completely forgotten what I came here to do, why I thought this was a good idea. I feel like my lungs are filling with water. Like I’m drowning.
“I— I gotta go,” I murmur, backing up.
X stands. “Alice, wait.”
My body is frozen, even as my brain whispers, Run away, run away.
“I just wanted to say that we, uh . . .” X trails off, looking at Millie.
“We wanted to say that we’re sorry,” Millie adds. “About the podcast. Some of our followers are truthers, but we don’t think you’re lying or anything.”
“Right. Yeah,” I say. And with that, I turn and hurry for the door on the opposite side of the room, cheeks burning.
“Alice, hold up,” Eli calls. I hear his shoes slap against the stone floor behind me, and then he’s grabbing my shoulders, spinning me around. In a low voice, he asks, “You think Sierra’s dating Wes?”
I shrug, trying to look like I couldn’t care less, which probably just makes it clear that I care a lot.
Eli told me that he’d heard Wes got kicked out of Mercer at the end of last year. Something about a fight or maybe an illegal casino night he was running out of his dorm. The rumors weren’t totally clear, which is very on-brand for Wes.
I really don’t want him to be dating Sierra.
Trapezius, I think, running through the names of the muscles in the back. Deltoid and . . . and I can’t remember anything after that. Something pricks my eyes, but it’s probably just dry in here. I’m not crying. I used up all my tears after Claire. I don’t have any left.
I haven’t spoken to Wes since Claire died, our almost-relationship just another thing on the long list of casualties from that night. But I still feel a twist in my gut when I think of him dating Sierra. I have the sudden urge to kick a chair, to slam a door.
When am I going to stop being surprised by all the things I’ve lost, all the things that suck now that never sucked before?
“Are you going to be okay?” Eli asks.
“Yeah,” I say automatically. I don’t have even the slightest idea what “okay” feels like anymore, but I’m going to keep moving and thinking and talking, and I guess that’s close enough.
Eli looks like he wants to say something else, but all that comes out is, “Yeah, that’s good.” He pushes his glasses up his nose with one finger, adding, “You should avoid the third floor. I heard some of the Final Girls are hanging out there.”
A chill moves through me. The Final Girls are what the How to Be a Final Girl fans all call themselves. Over the past week, they’ve become obnoxiously insistent that Owen Trevor Maddox is innocent.
It wouldn’t bother me so much if they didn’t keep trying to talk to me. Like they think they can convince me that I didn’t see what I know I saw. I feel another rush of hate toward Millie and X. Assholes.
“Thanks,” I tell Eli, and I step into the hall, letting the cafeteria door slam shut behind me.
Final Girls
Do It in a
Cornfield
Ms. Perez’s office door isn’t locked. It creaks open when I knock.
She has her coffee cup halfway to her lips, but she sets it back down on her desk when I poke my head into the room. “Alice,” she says brightly. “You came.”
