CHAPTER TWELVE | DONNA KEPPEL

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          I'm beginning to think Xavier has lied to me.

          Clara St. Germain is the older version of Betty, just a little bit more contained than her younger sister. I don't even mean it in a bad way, but Xavier has always been a quiet, reserved person, and I understand why he and Betty clash so much—they're polar opposites of each other, an introvert crossing paths with an extrovert—and he simply doesn't have the energy to keep up. With Clara, it's different, and I'm beginning to see why.

          I do feel bad for Betty, though, with Clara being yet another person asking her to tone it down, and I can only imagine what going through life constantly hearing that you're a bit too much can do to one's psyche. She sits next to me at the dining table, a clear change from our usual nights, where it's just me sitting with Sidney in my room, yet something still feels off. I can't put my finger on what it is exactly, but the warning looks Clara shoots Betty from the corner of her eye whenever she dares to speak a bit louder leaves a bitter taste in my mouth.

          We sit there, with Xavier playing the part of the perfect host, when just a few hours ago he was stressing out about the chicken casserole not looking as immaculate as he wanted. Guilt is quick to settle in, tucked neatly under my ribs, as it always does, and I know he's mentally tearing apart every piece of my involvement in preparing the meal.

          Guilt has a way of completely robbing me of an appetite, so I mostly push my food around my plate, creating swirls with the sauce left behind by the cooked chicken squares, and Xavier is too busy talking to Clara to notice. I don't dare speak up, not even in Betty's defense, mostly because I know it wouldn't really help to choose sides during a crisis, but I still find myself wishing I could be braver, have more of a backbone. It would save me from plenty of heartache, but I've never been great at standing up for myself or for other people, even my friends.

          Emma, on the other hand, did that perfectly, well enough to cover for both of us, so I never felt the need to learn how to do it . . . until the day I lost her. Until the day she was ripped away from the world, from me.

          I know someone at the table is bound to notice I don't look too good—I certainly don't feel too good, still reeling from everything that has happened today—but I don't want them to interrupt a conversation to make it all about me. Every time I'm thrust into the spotlight, my first instinct is to retract back into the shadows where I can't bother anyone and, in return, cannot be bothered, either.

          Pushing everyone away isn't the solution, I know that, and, even if it works, it's only a temporary fix. The pain is still here and I'm still alone in this, regardless of what everyone says; their support is conditional, depending on how palatable my suffering is, and I don't know how to make it look aesthetically pleasing all the time like my life is a Lifetime movie. Unlike in those movies, there's no knight in shining armor, no hero to come sweep me off my feet and save me.

          This time, I'm on my own.

          "How are you liking Juneau?" Clara asks, wiping her mouth on her napkin. It takes me a second too late to realize she's talking to me; I only realize it with Betty elbowing me in the ribs.

          "It's fine," I say, hoping it sounds sincere enough. It's not perfect and it certainly isn't home, either, but I came here because I wanted to, after all. It won't look good if I suddenly start rethinking my decision, or worse—if I start actively telling people I regret it every day of my life. "I'm still getting used to it."

          "It's an acquired taste. Soon enough, you'll wish you came here sooner."

          "It wasn't exactly my idea."

          She chokes on the wine she's sipping. "I know. I know, I'm sorry. I didn't mean—"

         Xavier sets a hand on her forearm to soothe her. "She knows what you meant."

          I do. I also know people are never really certain of how to behave around me or what to say or how to word things, and I know from experience—thank you, Betty—that's it's common for them to just forget why I'm here, what happened to me, or to simply put their foot in their mouth. Most of the time, I'm thankful they're giving me a chance at a normal life—or the closest thing possible to such a thing—and that they're not expecting anything from me, but then a gnawing voice, resting at the back of my brain, remarks that's just me trying to forget what happened.

          Forgetting what happened, pretending nothing in my life changed prior to coming here means forgetting all about my friends, and that's the one thing I don't want to do. This leaves me in a rough spot, unsure what to think or what to do, unsure whether to be thankful some people just forget who I am and, therefore, treat me like they would anyone else, or to be offended that they're deciding to erase a vital and important part of my life.

          No matter how hard I try, I can't change the past. I agonize about it every waking moment of my life, I do, and it's exhausting trying to think of ways I could have stopped the entire thing from happening—locked the doors, barricaded every point of entrance, called the police earlier—but my brain doesn't shut off when I need it to.

          "It's okay," I eventually say, no longer wanting to cause an argument at the dining table, especially with the girl my brother is interested in. I did promise I'd behave and I want to keep my word, but it requires so much effort to not be a brat that I keep having to remind myself I can't ruin yet something else for him. It's bad enough that I refused to do the one thing he asked of me. "I'm trying to get used to things around here, but everything is so . . . open. In Chicago, there are tall buildings everywhere, and sometimes you feel like you can't breathe. It's probably not as clogged as, say, New York City, but Juneau is literally a breath of fresh air. It's the first time I've lived by the water."

          "It's a shame you won't get to go swimming anytime soon," she continues. I can't ignore the cautious tone in her voice, now that she's alert to the words that come out of her mouth. "The water is about to freeze."

          "I didn't go out much when I first got here, so I might have missed out on a lot of the warmer days. We mostly went to the library." I nod towards Betty, whose lips stretch into a tight smile. "Someone had to keep poor Odette some company."

          Clara's bright blue eyes widen in recognition. "Right, you met Odette. I feel like it's been ages since the last time I saw her." She looks at Betty. "When is she coming over? She used to stop by all the time."

          Betty sighs, shoulders drooping, and my first instinct is to reach out a comforting hand towards her. However, I stop myself. "She's . . . well, she's busy all the time, isn't she? She worked all summer, she has that boyfriend of hers . . ."

          Clara frowns. The resemblance between the two of them when she does that is even more evident now. "Is she still dating Callum? After all this time?"

          "Yeah. I can't stand him either, so she never gets him to tag along whenever she's with me, but when she isn't . . ."

          "Truly insufferable. Truly, truly insufferable boy. Do you remember that one time . . ."

          I've never seen Odette with a guy ever since the day I first met her and this doesn't seem like a conversation that absolutely requires neither my attention nor my input, so I focus back on my half-eaten meal. Xavier knits his brows when he finally realizes I have yet to start eating properly, but I don't think he wants to make a big deal out of it in front of Clara, out of all people.

          As for Odette, she's always seemed so reserved, so independent I never assumed she's in a relationship, but she's succeeding in keeping it so private this is the first time I'm hearing this story. Betty and Clara share horror stories about this Callum guy like he's the worst person to have ever graced this planet, when he's probably just a guy in love with a girl whose best friend cannot stand him.

          Emma didn't like Zach at first, either, so I get it, but she ended up warming up to him eventually. It took them years to start getting along, brought together by the common denominator in both relationships—me—and look at where that got them. Had I not forced them to be civil with each other for my sake, I wouldn't have lost them both. It's a terribly selfish way of thinking and I'm disgusted with myself for even considering such a thing, when there are much bigger issues to worry about.

          It's not like any of that matters now, is it? They're both still dead. No amount of reminiscing or wishful thinking will ever bring them back.

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          I sit in Doctor Albott's waiting room in sepulchral silence.

          Staring at the other people in the room feels too intimate, too intruding, so I keep my eyes glued to the floor or to my hands, folded over my lap, as I wait for my name to be called. She rents an office on the sixth floor of a building, along with other therapists on the same floor, and each floor is used for various purposes; for example, the one directly below us houses a lawyer firm—though not the one Odette's mother works for—and the fourth is filled with accountants.

          I know not everyone here is waiting for an appointment with Doctor Albott. 

          The guy sitting in front of me usually sees whoever occupies the room next to hers, while the now empty chair two seats away from me used to be occupied by someone who ran off into the room at the end of a long hallway. Even without knowing anything about them, just being in the same room as them makes me feel strangely comforted.

          Part of me wonders if there are any other Final Girls in this waiting room, or if I've ever crossed paths with them, or if Doctor Albott herself is also their therapist. I don't think she could be one herself and willingly decide to take on these cases, as it probably is a clear conflict of interest—one could argue she'd just project all over them—but I also don't find it fair to speculate about her personal life. She keeps her personal and professional lives strictly separate, which I respect, but I'm still weirdly bitter that I don't get to do the same. Therapy!Wendy and Personal!Wendy are the same person.

          I've been dreading this appointment for a few days now.

          My weekend was spent in sheer agony, partially due to cramps that not even a hot water bag could solve, and partially thanks to my annoying tendency to suffer in anticipation.

          Instead of doing something productive, like working on my increasingly bigger pile of coursework (who even cares about Metaethics anyway . . .), I spent two full days in bed, doomscrolling through news articles about the other girls and myself, like the self-centered prick that I am, and incessantly reading other forum posts. Some of the girls keep blogs they use as journals, not all of them anonymous, and they argue that the Internet sometimes feels better than going to therapy. They feel better by screaming into the void and posting about their trauma, creating small communities that support them.

          I considered doing that for a brief moment, but the idea quickly proved to not be nearly as appealing as it seemed at first. I don't want to stop attending my therapy sessions, as they've been a pleasant outlet for these thoughts and emotions I don't know how to properly express, and I don't think keeping that sort of online presence would be beneficial. I don't deal well with stress and, if there's one thing that the trolls from June and July showed me, it's that anonymous opinions scare the living hell out of me. I can never be too sure whether they're friend or foe, if they're genuinely trying to help and support me or if they're just baiting me into saying something that can be used against me, or if it's a reporter on the other side of the screen.

          I've read horror stories about Final Girls believing they're talking to a fellow survivor, someone they can trust, but then something tips them off that there's stuff not adding up. The details the other person gives them about their Incident feel too generic, like they're borrowing from books, movies, TV shows, or a bunch of real-life Incidents all mashed together, and the Final Girl gets suspicious. She confronts the stranger. In the end, it ends up being either a reporter, a writer, or someone wishing they'd gone through a tragedy for sympathy points online. Either way, there are liars out there, and some are dangerous.

          Two years ago, a Final Girl from Tampa ended up being killed after being lured to what she thought was a meeting with another girl. She fell right into a stranger's trap, a grown man trying to prove a point—if the woman is supposed to die at the end, she doesn't get to subvert her odds. She doesn't get to survive by the skin of her teeth. In his eyes, it was poetic justice, a rewriting of history.

          Doctor Albott, as always, listens to my rambling in perfect silence.

          At this point, I'm not sure whether my words are making any sense, if my speech is coherent or if it's just a bunch of jumbled thoughts held together by wet cardboard, but I know I shouldn't be so frightened by the possibility of sounding remotely ridiculous. It's not her job to judge me and I know she doesn't do it, but getting past that mental block is one of the hardest things I've ever had to do.

          My brain always returns to them, to the Final Girls, to the ones who listen and truly understand, who can truly relate to what I'm talking about, but, realistically, they aren't a crutch I can keep using to support myself for much longer. Their support is fickle, conditional, and it's impossible for me to keep bending and breaking to fit an unrealistic, arbitrary standard of perfection.

          The Internet provides them with just enough anonymity that they get to be mean and rude to me, and I let it slide. I let it slide because, at the end of the day, they're the only people I've got, and I'm one of the only people they've got. It's like a found family, as dysfunctional as it may be, and there's a strong thread connecting me to them, connecting them to me, that I don't feel ready to sever just yet.

          "Do you think that this relationship with these other girls is helping you?" Doctor Albott asks. She laces her fingers over her knees.

          "I don't think it's healthy."

          "That's not what I asked."

          I shift in my seat. "I don't know. Sometimes. Sometimes it's good to know that there's someone out there who truly gets it, in their own way, but at the same time there's this constant fear that I'm biting off more than I can chew. They all have their own problems, and I don't feel well dumping all my problems on them when I can just do it here. I'm not saying that's all I come here to do," I rush to say. The corners of her mouth curve upward ever so slightly, a gesture so small I barely notice it, but it's there. "I just . . . someone there once mentioned trauma dumping. I never know when to stop talking to them, and it's so easy to assume that they're always open to listen to someone else vent about their trauma, but they rarely are. Sometimes, they're just too caught up in their own heads to have the mental energy to care about someone else's problems, and I don't want to risk making things worse. I always have this feeling that I'm imposing my presence on other people's lives, like they have nothing better to do than to listen to me cry and bawl and complain all day long, and these girls have families. Some of them have children. I don't want to be just another thing they feel like they have to take care of."

          She uncrosses her legs, finally switching to a more open posture instead. "Is that what you think you're doing on those forums? Trauma dumping?"

          I shrink into myself, knees pulled close to my chest. For someone who insists on sitting straight all the time, she doesn't extend that requirement to me. "Since they don't usually ask how I'm doing or if there's anything I want to share, then . . . no. I know these are just message boards and I can't see or hear them, but it still feels so personal, like I'm getting to know them, even if it's just . . ."

          ". . . stuff related to their trauma."

          "Yeah. I hate reducing them to this one thing out of everything in their lives, but it always comes up. It's the one thing they speak freely about."

          "Does that apply to you as well?"

          I flick away a piece of chipped off nail polish. "With them, yeah. I don't think they're that interested in me as a person. It's a Final Girls forum; I think they couldn't care less about what I do in my free time."

          "What about other people? Do you feel like they think the same way?"

          "It depends. I guess. It depends on who it is. Sometimes, I feel happy to have some moments of normalcy with people who aren't constantly looking at me like I'm about to have a breakdown, but then . . ." I chew on my bottom lip. She leans forward, aware I'm about to say something important. "On my first day of college, this girl from my World Literature class handed me this pamphlet for something they're doing for the National Suicide Prevention Week . . . I'm not at risk," I rush to add, before this conversation can take an unpleasant turn. "I don't think she thinks I'm at risk, but there was something about trauma there. They do this every year, so it's not because of me specifically, but I don't . . . I don't know how beneficial it can be. They'll probably expect me to open up, and there's this true crime club on campus that I just know is dying to get some information about me, so I don't want to turn this into a way of digging more into something that's dead and buried. The case is closed. Discussing it won't help anyone else."

          "Why do you think that?"

          A chill crosses my spine. "There's no blueprint, no way of using it to predict something like it from happening again. It will happen again, somewhere else, with other people, not necessarily at a summer camp. If they ask what they can do to survive, what am I supposed to say? That I really was the luckiest girl ever? That I was lucky to be saved for last? That I was lucky I could still swing a bat?"

          Doctor Albott sighs. "I don't think you're wrong."

          "You don't think I'm right, either."

          "It's not up to me to decide that. I've never gone through what you did, and it wouldn't be fair to tell you how right or wrong your feelings are. The circumstances are different for everyone." I nod, once again avoiding her eyes. "If you do want my opinion, though, I think there were plenty of factors working your way that night; maybe it was perseverance, maybe it was strength of spirit, maybe it was luck, maybe it was something else, but something ensured you'd survive. The rest was all you."

          "Fate, then? It was fate that decided that was how things would end?"

          She shakes her head. "I don't believe in fate. I believe in free will. Still . . ." When I finally gather enough courage to look at something else other than my knees, the look she flashes at me in return is warm, considerate. "The odds were stacked against you, and you still came out on top. All that strength had to come from somewhere. Don't underestimate yourself."