“No way. I’m Scrappy-Doo.”
Patrick laughed. “Agreed.”
Jen took the compass out of her back pocket to check they were headed in the right direction. “Come along, Velma.”
“I liked it better when you called me Carlton,” Patrick grumbled.
Washed out by their flashlights, the woods took on a flat, surreal quality, as if they were inside a smudged charcoal drawing on cheap paper. All the trees looked the same, and no matter how much they walked, it appeared as if they hadn’t moved at all. They were in a world where the rules of time and space didn’t apply.
Yet in this environment, the kitchen knife felt right in Jen’s hand. An extension of her body, like a paintbrush. Ideas tumbled through her artist’s mind, one after the other. She had a new appreciation for slashers now. Maybe serial killers saw what they did as art. Itwasart, in a way. A performance for an audience. The best art evoked a visceral, emotional response, and was in conversation with others.
Is this how horror movie slashers felt with a knife in their hand?The comforting weight, the seductive shine of the blade? The urge to part skin, to slip it into flesh, to feel that delicious resistance? Jen shivered with gruesome delight.
“I figure if Russ is hell-bent on reenactingSlasher,we’ll be safe,” Jen said. “Like that guy says inScream 4.You have to be gay to survive a horror remake. You and me, we’re sacred cows. Untouchable. Thank you, inclusive casting.”
“Didn’t that guy get killed anyway?”
The delightful shiver froze into ice. “Spoilsport,” she muttered.
“Let’s just hurry up and find Mikey. Mikey?” Patrick called out.
Jen hit him in the arm. “Shush! Russ will find us!”
“If he’s roaming the woods, he’s going to find us anyway with all the noise we’re making. And the flashlights.”
Jen hurriedly turned off her flashlight. “Seriously?” Patrick said.
“The clouds have lifted and there’s a full moon. Our eyes will adjust.”
Patrick grunted, but he turned off his flashlight, too. “Mikey?” he called again, this time in a hiss.
Fucking Mikey. He justhadto run off. He was still so awkward, despite his buff new body. Still that puppy tagging along after Jason and drooling over Carrie. And running from responsibility. Everyone knew he’d been the one to set off those smoke bombs in the boys’ locker room, after some guys on the basketball team had been giving him a tough time about his parents. Jen actually admired his fiendish revenge plot. The kid had hair on his balls, after all. But then he’d kept his mouth shut and let Jason take the fall. Too bad MIT didn’t offer courses in accountability, because Mikey needed them.
Was it the fear of Ranger Russ or being back in Cedar Lake that had stripped them down to their basic selves? Sticking them back in their roles, like they were playingSlasher’s character tropes at the Rialto. The jock, the preppy, the goth. The cheerleader, the stoner, the nerd, and the good girl. It was all veryBreakfast Club.Patrick probably didn’t seem this uptight in his economics program, whereeveryone was probably a lot like him. Same with Mikey. He’d be just another nerdy tech-bro-in-training. At Jen’s art school, she was one of many goths. Back in boring Cedar Lake, however, she found herself behaving more rebelliously to remind everyone she didn’t belong.
“Mikey?” Patrick said again.
This was fruitless. There was nothing around but more trees. “I don’t think there’s any point looking for him,” she said.
“But he could start Russ’s car and get us out of here. And Jason—” Patrick’s mouth clamped shut like he was afraid he’d said too much.
Jen rolled her eyes. Again, coming back to Cedar Lake had dragged them into the past. She bet Patrick never thought about Jason at all while he was at college. But as soon as he was back in their hometown, he was mooning over the football hero like a schoolboy.
“Speaking of Fred and Daphne, are you really gonna let them make up? I love Tiff, but we all know she treats him like crap.”
Patrick sputtered, and Jen took delight in having discomfited him. “It’s none of my business who Jason dates. Anyway, there’s nothingIcan do about it.”
“Isn’t there? Can’t you get him alone and show him the depth and breadth of your spreadsheets?” Jen elbowed him in the ribs, waggling her eyebrows suggestively.
“Ow! We’re just friends,” Patrick said, swatting her away. He was so precious when he was in denial. Fred and Velma—that was a ship no one would see coming, not even Patrick himself. “He’s not even into guys.”
“Mm-hmm.” She had her doubts about that. She’d once spotted Jason at a hole-in-the-wall diner two towns over, gazing intently at Bruce from the basketball team over a tray of nachos. But she didn’t tell Patrick, because the one thing she would never do was out someone who wasn’t ready to be outed. She had scruples. Sometimes.
“Let’s just find Mikey,” he continued. “You can worry about our friends’ love lives later.”
Jen snorted. “I doubt Pipsqueak’s gone for help. He’s probably on his way to Mexico, like he said.”
Patrick took out his phone and glanced at the time. “Even if he is, he’s probably still gotten lost.”
