CHAPTER THREE | MIA ALLEN

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          Xavier is more of an open wound than I am.

          In theory, that is. He was in no way involved in The Incident—and didn't even come home for the funerals, which is something that pissed off my dad so much he refuses to acknowledge it to this day—and I'm certain he has his own worries over in Alaska, but I don't want to compare myself to him on yet another aspect of our lives.

          There's no real explanation behind his departure from Chicago, from the family home, away from me. I've never gotten one, at least, and I don't expect him to ever pull me aside for a heart-to-heart conversation to tell me all about why he left. We used to be close, but not close enough for that sort of interaction, and he's always been a lot more closed off, private than I am—or used to be. One day, he simply left the city, bags packed, and moved away to Alaska where he can't be bothered.

          Until the day I show up there.

          I'm not looking forward to this. I miss him terribly, like something inside me has been stolen, and it has never been easy trying to come to terms with a life without my brother when he's still alive yet voluntarily out of reach. I don't know how he'll take me invading his personal space when there must be a good reason for him to be so far away from all of us and everything he's ever known, and I don't want to be a burden on him.

          I see the toll my prolonged presence in the house is taking on my dad, forcing him to change his entire daily and weekly routines to accommodate me, and Xavier has never been the type of person to settle. I assume that's why he left—he was too tired of his routines in Chicago, too tired of being confined to one space, and Alaska is different enough.

          "I don't think that's a good idea," Dad begins.

          Mom scoffs. "Of course you don't."

          "Sharon, Jesus Christ. Will it kill you to hear me out?"

          "It depends. Are you going to make me feel bad for thinking about what's best for our daughter and pursuing it instead of sitting around and waiting for things to miraculously get better?"

          They never used to fight before The Incident. Having to deal with me in the house in a time I'd usually be spending elsewhere has only stressed out my dad even more, and it's only natural that he has to somehow find an outlet to release his frustration that doesn't make him lose his job. I suppose there's some pent-up anger and resentment from the divorce, even when they forced themselves to present a friendly, united front for my sake—and Xavier's when he was still around—but these interactions don't make me feel any better.

          "Look," Dad says, with a small sigh I'm certain she'll interpret as being condescending. "I don't doubt you have a different kind of insight, but this is Xavier we're talking about. He left for a reason, and I think we need to look out for both our kids. Maybe he won't be too thrilled to have someone else around, and that wouldn't be ideal for Wendy. Not now."

          Mom deflates. "I know."

          "Then—"

          "I've spoken to Xavier."

          The air in the room tightens.

          My body is so stiff I can't move, even if I want to, and it's as though my heart has been punched out of my chest. I don't know what this feeling is, exactly—fear of what will happen, jealousy that the one person who gets to talk to him isn't me—but I don't like it. Whatever it is, it keeps me glued to my seat, a hand resting on the dog's back for comfort, and I can't bear to look at my parents.

          I don't try to explain to them why it hurts that I'm not the one in contact with him, even though I've tried, only to be ignored. I know they wouldn't understand and would probably think this is something I'll quickly get over once my life gets back on track and I wire my brain to function like a normal one.

          "You've spoken to Xavier," Dad echoes.

          "Yes," Mom confirms, hands on her hips to assert her dominance in the room, possessing knowledge he didn't. "Took me longer than I would have liked, but I finally got him to pick up the phone for once in his life."

          That's not something intrinsically related to his departure. Xavier has never been good with social media or at keeping in touch with other people, and I can no longer count on both hands the number of times he has accidentally ghosted me. It's just a vital part of his identity, but it was something we laughed at when he was still around; now, it's just another reminder that he doesn't wish to be bothered and everyone is better off like this.

          Dad sighs, accepting defeat. "That's a new one."

          "Is he okay?" I chime in. They both turn to me, mildly surprised to hear my voice, almost as though they forgot I'm in the room, and I try to shrink. Nowadays, being the center of attention isn't a good thing, at least not for me. "How is he? I've been trying to reach out for months, but . . ."

          She dismisses my concerns and questions with a quick flick of the wrist. "He's being Xavier. He's fine, as much as someone living by themselves in Alaska voluntarily can be. He understands your . . . situation, and feels bad that he never flew in for all the funerals. I guilt-tripped him," she clarifies, in response to our confused looks. "He'd known those kids since they were little and didn't even bother to—well. No need to dwell on that." The dog presses her nose against my calf when I stop petting her, a fantastic way to ground me back to reality. "We both agree Alaska is a nice change of scenery for you. He even said there were a few people he could reach out to if you feel like you need to stay in therapy—"

          "She does," Dad mumbles, through gritted teeth, while part of me is still dumbfounded that Xavier would go through all that trouble for my sake. The little I know about psychology is enough to tell me I shouldn't be seen by someone he knows or is close with because of conflicts of interest, even if he's trying his best to pretend I mean nothing to him. "As long as we're not talking about someone he's randomly picked off the street—"

          "Anyway"—she claps once before Dad can resume his snarky tirade against Xavier—"he's on board. It took a bit of convincing, and I told him you didn't need to switch schools if you don't feel ready to go back to college next month, but he wants you to know that going back is an option on the table if you're so inclined. We need to get started on those emails and paperwork soon if you decide to go to school there, but it should be a quick application. I'm certain they'd be considerate of the . . . circumstances."

          The application has to be sent before the deadlines end at the beginning of August, which already puts me at a disadvantage considering I have never transferred anywhere before and there's not much to me that will make me stand out from other applicants. I'm not sure of how competitive UAS is—Xavier is in Juneau, which is how little we know about his infamous new life—but, though my freshman year grades were fine, good, even, they're not extraordinary. My extracurriculars were mediocre when compared to Emma's, who could have gone to school anywhere she wanted, and I don't want to use the sympathy criteria to push my admission forward.

          It feels dirty to use what happened as a funny little trick to get me ahead in life, to make me better than anyone else—if it bothers me when the other Survivors, the other Final Girls do it, I'm not better than them by exploiting my friends' deaths for personal gain. If there's an essay, I'll be expected to talk about it if the admissions office learns about what happened, as those are the special circumstances behind my transfer. It made it to national news, so I'd be naive to think they haven't heard about it at all.

          Exploiting my trauma and the deaths of my friends makes me no better than the reporters hounding my house, aching for a statement I can't give them. I can't make my reality more appetizing and proper for consumption, but they don't want me to be gritty and gory enough to leave them feeling nauseous. What they want from me is a condensed version of the truth, one that makes it palatable for audiences, one that turns me into a perfect victim, a perfect survivor, one that turns me into a hero at the cost of my normal life.

          I can't make this pain, this trauma sound beautiful. I can't make this sound inspiring.

          This is my life, even though I spend every waking moment of it pretending it isn't, and no college admission essay will ever accept the real version of it. I can't be too honest or too distant. These days, it feels like I don't get to be myself anymore; all I'm destined to be is the girl who nearly died.

          I am a Final Girl now. It's not the kind of achievement you can brag about in essays.

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          Both the dog and I successfully survive the flight from Chicago to Juneau. It's an almost ten-hour flight with the delays, a stopover in Seattle, and my inability to hold too many documents in my hands plus my luggage, including a note from my now former therapist that the dog is a psychiatric service dog and, therefore, is allowed to fly next to me.

          I was asked to name her just so she could have a name on the papers and certificates and, though calling her Sidney started off as a joke, it's all she answers to now—that and to 'good girl'—so it's stayed that way.

          She's been a surprisingly good addition to my treatment plan, whatever that is, and is the only one that doesn't seem bothered to be woken up in the middle of the night thanks to one of my inevitable nightmares. When that happens, she hops on to my bed and curls next to me, head resting on my stomach until my breathing stabilizes and my vision clears. Mom says this is what she's been trained to do and, even though I'm not entirely sure how that works, sometimes it's just enough to not make me want to quit altogether.

          Xavier is working when my plane lands, something I only find out after waiting at the airport for twenty minutes, but he gives me the directions to his house via text. All that's separating me from my brother is a bus ride, in a vehicle full of strangers who may or may not recognize my face from the news, and my heart stops in anticipation just by thinking about what I'll do if I get jumped.

          Like she feels my hesitation, Sidney trots closer to me, her body brushing against my leg, and I clutch my wallet in my fists as the bus slowly comes to a stop. It's almost empty and there aren't many people waiting in line, which brings me the slightest bit of relief as I struggle to carry my bags inside, Sidney rushing past me like it's no big deal. This raises a few eyebrows and I'm mortified, my heart clenched so tightly it could explode the next time it beats.

          "She's a psychiatric service dog," I clarify, speaking as low as humanly possible, and it still feels like I'm drawing too much attention. Someone behind me clicks their tongue in annoyance thanks to how long I'm taking to buy a simple bus ticket, and sweat runs down the nape of my neck. "I'm sorry, I have all these bags—"

          "I'll handle those," the bus driver groans, exchanging my money for a ticket he stuffs into my outstretched hand like I'm begging for it, then helps me store my smallest luggage in the overhead bin above an empty seat. The rest of it is tucked under and in front of the vacant seat next to Sidney's, who has been patiently waiting for me to get things under control. Above anything, she's been godly patient with me. "Animals aren't usually allowed out of their carriers, miss."

          "She doesn't have one."

          "Well, then—"

          Behind us, someone clears their throat as they wait for the bus driver's return to his seat, which leaves him no choice but to leave me and Sidney alone instead of kicking us out and causing a scene. Sidney's ears droop as she looks at me, silently apologizing for something that's not even her fault, and I lean my head against hers.

          "You did nothing wrong," I tell her. She sighs. "It's okay."

          She's not big enough to not be able to lie down on her seat, so, as she curls around herself, I pull my knees close to my chest, watching the streets go by.

          Juneau is the furthest thing from Chicago Xavier could have found and it's made even more evident now. The streets are busy, but not in a comparable way to what I've seen back home, and the salty smell of the air lingers in my nose long after we've driven away from the sea. There, I saw fishing boats and seagulls, not to mention cruise ships anchored in the harbors. While Chicago has its buildings, Juneau has mountains and hiking trails, and even has an entire coast and piers. I've lived in Chicago my whole life, but I rarely ever went to the beach or saw the ocean—the closest thing there is to an ocean is Lake Michigan—but Alaska doesn't strike me as the type of state to promote long walks on the beach or dipping one's toes in the water.

          It's still summer, still July, but the temperatures are considerably lower than those in Chicago, and I had to put on a warmer jacket. I'm used to our winters and have packed every piece of cold weather clothing I own, but Alaska is far up north, and I've heard the lowest temperatures here can be brutal, especially while living by the sea. The thought sends chills down my spine, and I wrap an arm around my torso instinctively as a way to conserve body heat, even though realistically it's not that cold. The residents will surely think I'm pathetic for not adapting to a different climate when I'm supposed to know what a harsh winter feels like.

          The bus slows to a stop when my cheek is numb from leaning against the cold glass, my breath fogging up the window and shielding my view of my surroundings outside. I recognize it as being the stop Xavier told me about and I signal the driver, silently begging him for some patience while I sort out my luggage situation and unbuckle Sidney's seat belt. She leaves the bus without me, but still waits for me by the sidewalk, tail wagging.

          It's a short walk from the bus stop to Xavier's residence according to Google Maps, which saves me from the mortifying ordeal of getting lost in a state I don't know, but it doesn't fully shake the fear away. Even with Sidney by my side, the temptation to look over my shoulder every five steps is too strong to overcome, and I'm counting the moments of minimal peace I still have before I need to leave everything behind and sprint away from safety. Sidney wouldn't need me to carry her, but the thought of leaving her behind to save myself disgusts me, so I tighten the hold on her leash, unsure of which of us I'm trying to comfort the most with this gesture.

          My heartbeat never rests during the walk. I try to pick up my pace just enough to lightly jog, but not to the point it wears me out and steals the stamina I'll need to escape. Like in all those nightmares, the edges of my vision blur and my surroundings fade into each other, as though everything but me is moving much faster than my brain can process. I'm the only one stuck in slow motion, unable to force my legs to carry me away to the one place my mind can identify as being safe in the middle of unknown territory, but I'm stumbling over my own feet, over obstacles that aren't actually there.

          There comes a point in my life when I'm not sure what I'm running from anymore, or if there actually is something. Most of the time it's nothing palpable—He cannot hurt me anymore, I know that, but there are so many others that can—and, when I reach out a hand in the dark, nothing brushes against my fingers. I think that only makes it worse, though—the uncertainty, the inability to attach an image to a thought, to a fear.

          That night, I knew exactly what I was dealing with. I could put a face, a name to the looming threat. Most of the time, I can't. All I do these days is run from everything.

          Xavier's house is much smaller than the family home back in Chicago, but that's to be expected. I don't think he needs much room to be able to do whatever he does in here, and I go through a brief moment of panic by thinking there's no room for me.

          It's still beautiful from the outside, two-stories tall, the walls covered in light-gray paneling, plenty of windows to let the natural light in, and a garage door on the front. There's no porch—which, for some reason, I expected to find—but the gravel pathway leading to the front door rises in short steps and lines the front garden. There aren't many plants around, but the rock garden he's always wanted to have is featured to the left, the most decorated portion of the yard. He has neighbors, separated from his house by a picket fence, as cliché as that is, but something about the house screams Xavier to me, like it was built specifically for him.

          I inhale. The air is thick like petrol and I'm suffocating on dry land by the time I make it to the front door and ring the doorbell. I can hear rustling sounds coming from inside, so I know he's home, but part of my brain insists on raising a catastrophic hypothesis—it might not be him that's in there and something terrible has happened.

          When the door slides open, I step back right before it slams right into my face, and he's right there in front of me for the first time in an eternity.

          "Xavier."

          He straightens his shoulders. "Hey, kiddo."