CHAPTER FIVE | KIRBY REED

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          It quickly becomes clear to both Xavier and me that I most likely cannot be trusted around loud noises in the middle of the night.

          We move the floor lamps somewhere we're not bound to trip on them ("I got them as a Secret Santa gift last year," he confesses. "They're horrid, but I don't have the heart to get rid of them."), but I don't try to get him to switch his whole life around just for my sake. If he owns that bar, then he makes his own schedules based on what's comfortable for him, not for me, and I don't want to pull his world out of its axis even further.

          The therapist he mentioned to Mom is the cousin of the husband of one of the other bartenders. It's someone he's never met, so there won't be a conflict of interest preventing this from being a positive, fulfilling therapeutic relationship, but all I know about her is her name and appearance thanks to a quick Google and LinkedIn-on-anonymous-mode search. I know she's (Doctor) Heidi J. Albott and I know she has big, round, kind eyes, complete with an ambiguous hair color, much like me and Xavier.

         I don't know her success rate. Searching for former patients of this woman I've never met doesn't seem appropriate and I know I'd make an accidental mention to it in case I ever decide to pursue that path, so I stay put with her phone number and email on my phone.

         I don't sleep much, either.

          Most nights, I average around two or three hours of restless sleep and stay in my room most of the time, leaving to walk Sidney around the block, use the bathroom, shower, and grab some food when I absolutely have to. Xavier doesn't try to convince me to come out and doesn't ask me to keep the door open, like Dad used to. It was more of an issue whenever Zach was around, but I don't get to sneak him into the house anymore.

          That amount of free time helps me finish the essay, knowing damn well I don't sound nearly as honest as I should, but it's the most effort my sleep-deprived brain can muster, so it will have to do. I submit my application three days before the deadline, receiving a promise in return about how it will only take one or two business days to hear back from them, and refuse to look at my email inbox any longer.

          In the meantime, Xavier and I try to fall into a routine that's comfortable for the two of us, without much sacrifice from either party. I'm left to my own devices most of the time, but he insists I help him cook, especially with how much we depend on leftovers, as he refuses to survive on takeout.

          Cooking has always been his thing. The kitchen is his sacred place and I remember growing up and wishing I had the smallest bit of his talent, but I can't cook a gourmet dish to save my life. I don't ask questions about why he owns a bar instead of a restaurant, as I've never heard him mention a thing about enjoying making drinks, but it must be yet another thing I don't know about him.

          To his credit, he does try to involve me in his life.

          I'm a complete disaster in the kitchen, but he's amused by the fact, adding it's 'refreshing' that I'm so bad at this and don't pretend otherwise, as opposed to all his employees who consistently try to gain an advantage over each other as they try to impress him. I've never been particularly good at faking my talent for any given craft and I'm way past the point of bending and breaking to impress other people, so his so-called compliment doesn't land.

          Not that I tell him that.

          I force myself to smile, trying my best to ignore the way the light from above glistens on the blade of the knife he's holding. I think he catches me staring and sets it down, excusing himself to go make a phone call, and I don't make a move to follow him or attempt to eavesdrop. If he's calling Mom and Dad, I don't want to hear what he has to say about my behavior.

          All my life, I've been praised for my 'good behavior', even with all the sneaking around, sneaking in and out of each other's houses and dorm rooms I did with Zach and Emma. I don't know the feeling of suddenly rebelling, having always been too good at meeting people's expectations of me to the point it's almost comical; it's my own expectations for myself I never quite measure up to. I'm so bland compared to everyone else, this good girl persona so tightly stitched to me, that I know it's been discussed online on those Final Girl forums.

          If anything, I'm a cliché—I fit the trope almost perfectly, to the point it sounds fabricated, to the point they think I'm faking all of it, to the point they think it's a cover up and I might have been involved in the massacre after all. Apparently, it's far too convenient that I'm good, that I don't get in trouble, and the speculation about my sex life disgusts me, but it all got so much worse when my connection to Him was found.

          I don't need random anonymous people on the Internet to make up theories about how vile and twisted I really am and justifications to believe in them, based on 'evidence' they assume to be true and accurate. I've repeatedly been told my version of events is the correct one and I want to believe it with every fiber of my being, I do, but it gets harder to do so when multiple people, so-called experts on Final Girls, insist on reminding me everything I know is wrong.

          When they comment how, in theory, I'm almost the perfect victim, almost the perfect Final Girl, they do so in detriment to Emma's entire existence, like she's a mere side character on a film instead of a real person with family, friends, hopes, and dreams. She was Tatum and I'm Sidney, I'm good and she was bad, I'm a frigid prude and she was a promiscuous slut who had it coming according to the laws of horror movies and of patriarchal societies. My behavior was rewarded, like it's the sole reason I survived and she didn't.

          These times, I wonder what she'd say if she were the one to live and tell the world the story about how her life has been turned upside down and twisted to fit a narrative that's not her own. I'm certain she would defend me from attempted defamations of my character, while all the media has gotten from me has been a vague statement and radio silence for the greater part.

          Zach is portrayed as a loving boyfriend and a talented quarterback, but that's far from the best of him. They leave out his charisma, his generosity, his ability to see good in everyone, and he's reduced to a love interest. There's rarely any mention of his family and friends and his name always appears associated with mine. All of them do—all that matters is their connection to me, the survivor, and to Him, the perpetrator.

          He gets his own page. He even has fans. For the sake of whatever is left of my mental health, I don't look up His name.

          Everyone else is just a footnote, like they weren't even there.

          I finish mincing the vegetables myself, with Xavier still being absent from the kitchen, and wipe my forehead with the back of my free hand. It's not nearly as cold as the first day, now that August is approaching, but I'm still finding myself overdressed. Next to me, Sidney's ears perk up when I move to toss out the carrot peelings and she happily trots behind me, even though we've just fed her.

          "Is your stomach a bottomless pit?" I ask her. She pokes the back of my knee with her nose in response. "You've already eaten. You can't possibly be hungry."

          The front door slams open, startling the two of us, and Sidney, ever the sweetheart, immediately darts towards the living room, barking at the top of her lungs. Xavier is there—I can hear him complaining—and I should be safe, but there's no telling anymore. You can never be too safe, too relaxed, not when danger lurks around every corner in every shape imaginable.

          I grip the knife tighter. It's not a baseball bat, but it's lighter and sharper, a lot easier to handle by association, and I'm not defenseless. I'm confident Sidney can hold her own against most things, but she's still a living being and that can be her downfall as quickly as one blows out a candle. Worse—she's still a baby.

          "I've told you countless times you can't keep doing this," Xavier says. "This is not your house. You don't get to barge in here whenever you feel like it just because your sister has a key."

          "She told me I can," a soft, bubbly voice replies. When I peek out of the kitchen, I find an exasperated Xavier following a small redheaded girl across the foyer as she waltzes around like she owns the house. She even tosses her coat to the back of a couch, looking around her. "Have you cleaned up? Is she stopping by?"

          "Elizabeth," Xavier warns.

          "You sound like my dad. That's a bit cringey."

          "You're in my house—"

          "—and you're calling me by my full name, which I'm certain you know I hate because I feel the need to remind you of it every time I see you—"

          "—you need to stop slamming my front door. I'm serious."

          "Yeah, why? Cute dog, by the way." She crouches in front of Sidney, who accepts the pets like the happy traitor she is. "I thought you didn't like dogs."

          "That's hardly any of your business." My heart sinks with her comment, but I make no sounds to alert them to my presence, lingering between two rooms like a ghost trapped in purgatory. I see the way Xavier looks at Sidney and that's not the face of a person who doesn't like dogs—he happily takes her for a walk whenever I'm feeling physically and emotionally unable to leave my bedroom and feeds her treats for doing the bare minimum—but I never know what to expect from people anymore. "I have someone staying with me, someone who doesn't like loud noises, and it's frankly disrespectful that you even feel like you have the right to do this just because—"

          I try to back away, but my foot steps over a loose floorboard, and I swear the entire house creaks with my weight. Xavier doesn't notice the sudden sound, but she does.

          Elizabeth raises a hand, staring right at me. Her eyes are so blue they pierce right through me, freezing me in place, but there's something else. There's something else about her that keeps me anchored where I am, heart pounding. "Xavier."

          "Don't Xavier me, Elizabeth, when you know I'm right."

          "Xavier."

          "What?"

          "Don't look now, but there's a girl standing in the hallway with a knife."

          Xavier follows her stare and, lo and behold, there I am. I can safely assume this isn't how he expected things to go with me around, but I don't know how to be anything but this mess of a nineteen-year-old who can't even leave the house on her own, who can't deal with loud noises. I stupidly wonder if I'll never be able to go to a concert again, if I'll never be able to accidentally slam a door by myself.

          I stupidly wonder why I can't shut my brain off. He was able to do it just fine whenever a body dropped to the floor, whenever He saw me turn a corner, running as fast as I could, covered in blood.

          "As I was saying, I have someone staying with me," he continues, voice dry. Sidney finally remembers I'm her human and returns to my side, like she wasn't being scratched behind the ears by a complete stranger just moments ago. Elizabeth eyes me with curiosity now instead of suspicion, a change I gladly welcome. "That's Wendy. She's my sister."

          Her eyes widen. I can almost see the wheels in her brain turning as she puts two and two together. "Oh, so you're the Wendy Collier. I've heard about you. You're that girl who—"

          "Don't bring that true crime shit into my house. Especially nowhere near her."

          Elizabeth's cheeks flush pink as she straightens herself. "Right. Sorry. I'm sorry. I'm really, really sorry for your loss. I'm sure it was a terrible thing to go through." I flash her a stiff smile. It was a terrible thing to go through, terrible and terrifying, but no one ever wants to hear about how it is to go through it now, after the imminent danger has passed. All that ever matters is that one moment in my life. "I'm Elizabeth. Betty. I live across the street."

          I wave—not with the knife-wielding hand. "Hi."

          "Her sister Clara is the employee I told you about when you first got here," Xavier clarifies, helping me fill in the blanks regarding all these dynamics I don't know about. From what I've gathered, he might be dating Clara—or wants to, at least—which explains why he happily chose to cover her shift and why she owns a copy of the house keys. I don't even have that privilege. "Clara has a key to the house. Elizabeth does not. I should have told you about that. I'm sorry."

          Maybe he should have, yes, but I don't feel like I have the right to agree with him on that, especially verbally, so I set the knife down on a counter and slowly return to join them like a wild animal. When I do, Sidney sits in front of Betty, head on her knees, and Xavier is still anguished, trying to get her to leave.

          Betty asks me if I'm going to UAS, a harsh reminder that this is my life now, the new girl in Juneau, but the place is big enough for a normal transfer student to go by unnoticed. I, however, am not a normal transfer student, and Betty here knows who I am, so there's no way of knowing how many people will recognize me.

          "I applied for a transfer," I reply. "I have yet to hear back from them."

          "Oh, don't worry about that." She waves off my concerns. "They accept every transfer. Well, most of them. If you're anything like Mr. Grumpy over there"—she nods towards Xavier, who dramatically rolls his eyes—"then I'm sure you're a great student. An overachiever, even. UAS values grades and GPAs, so I'm sure you'll get in no problem as long as you weren't flunking all your classes back home. You weren't, were you?"

          "No."

          "You'll be fine. When you get the email, let me know, yeah? You just need to cross the street. There's not much to do around here in the summer, so I'm usually home or at the library with Odie. Odette. My best friend. You'll love her, I promise. You're free to hang out with us whenever you—"

          "She gets it, Elizabeth, thank you," Xavier chimes in.

          "You could let her speak for herself sometimes."

          "You could not barge into my house—"

          "This again?"

          I leave them with their bickering, not surprised they don't even notice I've left the room. Betty doesn't even notice Sidney isn't there anymore, either, but Sidney isn't nearly as bothered by the thought of being replaceable as I am. I don't want to be overcome with hurt and resentment over Betty from across the street feeling more like Xavier's little sister than I do, but she has been present for moments in his life I wasn't, key moments about his new life in Alaska.

          All I know about him is the old Xavier. This one is still Xavier, is still my brother, but, somehow, he still feels like a completely different person. I've never had this type of bickering relationship with him, not like Betty does, and it isn't even fair or logical of me to be so resentful of this girl, like she is trying to or wants to take my place in his life.

          I wonder what the forum users would say about me if they had the faintest idea of the bitterness in my heart. Would I be a true Final Girl, then? Or does that become yet another notch in my reputation, something else to be pointed out as a fatal flaw?

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          I get my UAS acceptance email the following morning.

          It takes every inch of courage and swallowed pride in my body, but I still drag myself across the street, Sidney in tow, and ring the doorbell.