29 | sidney prescott

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE | SIDNEY PRESCOTT

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The thing about this Final Girl is that she's an avoidant coward, but she also gets things done when there's no possible way of delaying them any further.

I go back to college in January after passing all my finals—with honors, even, something no one ever saw coming after how badly I struggled with revising—and feeling like I'm in danger of getting hit by a truck whenever I least expect it. Now that things between me and Claudia don't feel like a ticking time bomb and I can finally walk into World Literature lectures without my brain insisting that flinging myself into the sun is a much better idea, part of me was expecting to have a more positive outlook on my fourth semester of college.

And yet.

It's the first week back to school and we haven't had much to do so far, still getting acquainted with the few new professors and syllabi, which leaves me with plenty of free, dead time to do whatever I want. I never know what to do when I'm not busy with college, the highlight of every single one of my days, but I don't want to commit to an extracurricular activity when my schedule is this free only to have to either drop it or burn myself out once things start picking and piling up.

The rest of the group—it still sounds so odd to refer to them as such, like I couldn't possibly find more than one person who tolerates me and actively wants to spend time with me—are far busier than I am, especially Betty, so the loneliness gets particularly aggressive. The bad weather remains relentless, so I don't even get to spend some time outside, and all I have to spare my sanity is the campus library. There, people don't give me the stink eye if I'm sitting by myself, surrounded by my laptop and textbooks, like they would if I were sitting at the Grill, and I easily blend in.

Whenever I find myself worrying about that, the painful experience of being judged by young adults, I can faintly hear Callum's voice in my head, out of all things.

You really need to stop caring so much about what other people think. The planet is, like, dying. We're not that relevant in the greater scheme of things, so maybe we should invest all this effort into things that actually matter for our future.

Though yes, it's true that I won't ever have to worry about being judged by my peers if the planet burns and everyone dies, my mind doesn't exactly work that way, and it hyper focuses on the things that are closest to me. I can't do anything to save the world by myself, just how I can't stop people from perceiving me or turning me into a subject of their thoughts.

In spite of that, I still head to the Grill at the end of the week when I realize I have a two-hour break between lectures. With everyone else still stuck in their own lectures and my stomach rumbling like a distant thunderstorm, I decide to treat myself to a cup of coffee and a pastry, despite my suspicions about the negative effects the sugar and the caffeine will have on my body.

I haven't had a panic attack since the New Year's Eve party, which is a considerable improvement coming from someone who couldn't go two or three days without falling victim to one, but the hyper vigilance state never goes away, not completely. That, along with the combined efforts of sugar and caffeine, leaves me somewhat fearful of what is to come.

I sit in a corner with my peppermint mocha, a cinnamon roll, and my laptop, treating myself to a moment of privacy—as much as the Grill can provide, that is.

It's not too crowded, even with the warm food and the heating system turned on, buzzing softly in the background, and I suspect that's the only reason I've managed to snag one of the coveted corner tables. There's a window to my left, but if I sit at a certain angle and move my laptop to the right just enough, no one outside will be able to see what's on my screen, and the lighting works perfectly for what I need.

I don't ever do this. I don't like video chatting with people, mostly because of the lag and because I'm far too vain to stop myself from staring at the little box containing my face to check whether I look half-dead or not, but I still find myself in this situation. I hesitate, fingers hovering above my mousepad, but somehow there's enough courage left in my heart to make me plug in my Bluetooth earbuds and press the call button.

Part of me doesn't expect anyone to pick up. It's been seven months since Camp Comet at this point, and it's been way too long since I last spoke to anyone. The looks they threw my way during the funeral drilled into the back of my skull and have yet to leave my memory, seared into the walls of my brain, and I replay each moment over and over when I'm lying in bed at night. Even if they didn't mean it, even if that fury was a product of the circumstances at the time, I still remember it.

The green dot taunts me as the call rings and rings, and I almost give up, my courage wavering. Everything in me wants to run away again, like leaving Chicago has fixed any of my problems, and I know I should just give up on this video chat before my life and my mood worsen, but the universe won't let me win this time.

Or, you know, ever.

"Wendy?"

I immediately straighten, all the years I spent taking ballet classes coming back to me like a tsunami. "Mrs. Chang."

She looks nearly identical to the woman I left behind—my former ballet instructor, the mother of my best friend. Former best friend. Former mother of my former best friend. I'm not sure the latter applies; after all, you don't stop being a parent even after your child dies. It's why it hurts this much, I assume.

Her hair, as dark as the midnight sky, is longer than I remember it, free from the tight bun she used to sport during ballet lessons. The similarities between her and Emma are so uncanny I get whiplash, momentarily believing I'm staring back at a ghost, but she's older, and not just naturally; Camp Comet has aged her considerably, especially when outliving your children is the most unnatural thing that could happen to a parent. Her eyes, still kind in spite of all the heartache, search for some semblance of pain in mine, and I know that's the only thing she'll ever find.

If she expects me to be happy, she's setting herself up for disappointment. I haven't been happy in months, in spite of occasional moments when I feel like the world isn't as bleak and manage to forget all about what's happened. When I do remember, however, everything comes back to me like a train, and I can never jump off the tracks in time.

"I think we're a bit past formalities at this point," she retorts, while I feel like digging a hole, burying myself in it, then proceeding to die from embarrassment. Good thing I'm great at holding my breath and pretending to be dead. A shiver runs across my spine. "How have you been?"

I can lie to her and tell her I'm fine just to be the portrait of hope and overcoming obstacles, but she, much like Emma, will see right through me. I've been moving forward for the sake of moving forward, fueled by stubbornness and a fear of disappointing everyone I let die that night, but I don't believe myself for a second when I try to convince myself I'm fine. I can look the part, no problem, and it certainly helps as a placebo effect, but that's all there is—a façade.

Though I am doing better, there's still a long road ahead of me, and there are days I can't figure out how to move past everything that's blocking my path or how to break free from the restraints holding me back. Sometimes, I look back and notice there's nothing holding me in place—I'm the one that's simply not moving and self-sabotaging.

It's easier. It's comforting to stay this way, protected from everything and everyone.

"You know," I mutter, tugging at a loose strand of my sweater. "It's been hard. I try to stay busy most of the time. How are you?"

I'm not that great of a liar. Never have been. I think that's why my honesty earns me a smile from her, even if it looks like it's taking all her energy to move her facial muscles, but even her eyes soften in the way Emma's used to. It was a rare sight, with Emma always being so assertive, so sure of herself, so reluctant to show any signs of weakness or to let anyone see through the cracks. Every time she spoke, she lit up the room, with everyone turning to listen like she was the beacon.

In a way, she was one. She was a star, the brightest star in my universe, and I never got a chance to beg her to believe me because she never did. She always wanted to be perfect, to constantly improve herself even when it wasn't possible, and the lengths she'd go through to be better than all her past selves were admirable, but I also knew how much it drained her. I tried so hard to convince her she was perfect already, flaws and all, and I loved her with every fiber of my being, but somehow it never felt enough. She'd tell me it was enough, but I never felt like it was.

We never felt like we were enough, like we'd have more time to make it better, but I was the only one out of the two who ever got a chance to make things right. When she looked at me that night, when her eyes glossed over and she wasn't looking at me, not really, I stayed frozen, staring right back at her. I waited for a breath to pass through her lips, her blood coating my clothes, and it never did. Whatever chance she thought she had, it slipped right between our fingers.

There are so many things I never got a chance to tell her, always believing it wasn't the right time or that I'd sound stupid, but now that I won't ever get to speak to her again, I realize just how dumb all of it was.

"Same here," she eventually replies, shoulders hunched forward as she scowls. For someone who has been a stickler for good posture ever since I can remember, I don't want to think about this sudden change. "Winter is always the hardest. We needed to prepare for Swan Lake, but it never felt quite right. Our Odette and Prince Siegfried don't have the best chemistry out there, but there wasn't anyone better."

Emma, as always, was the one who got me into ballet, but we outgrew it at some point and knew we had to choose between it and a regular college education. Some other people in our ballet classes wrinkled their noses at our decision, as they breathed and lived ballet, and have moved on to successful dancing careers, but that was never our dream.

I've never known what my dream is, even now—especially now—that my life has been completely thrown off its axis, but I have my doubts whether I would've gone through with it if my childhood dream was to become a professional ballerina. It was my thing with Emma, even if she was the first to quit, and, though I think she would've understood if I'd gone on without her—even if she were still alive now—it still stings.

I clear my throat when it feels too clogged, when the corners of my eyes are burning. "My . . . my dad came over for Christmas. Both my parents, actually, but he told me . . . well, he advised me to give you a call. I know I probably shouldn't be saying this to your face, but I needed him to do that if I wanted to have the courage to do it. It felt too impersonal to just hear your voice." Something glistens in her eyes. I can't bear the thought of seeing people cry, especially her, and my chest is caving into itself so hard it feels about to explode. "I've tried so hard to come up with something to say, but my mind just comes up blank. An apology won't cut it. It won't change anything. It won't bring her back."

She shakes her head, the weight of my words hanging between us like rust. "No. It won't. You also have nothing to apologize for."

"But I made it out. I survived. She didn't. I had to stand there and speak on their behalf, and everyone was staring at me like they wished I hadn't survived the night."

My words sound more ridiculous than ever as I pour my heart out to her, but she's under no obligation to sugarcoat her feelings to spare mine or to lie to me and pretend I don't sound like an idiot. We're not talking about some random girl who died that was on the news—we're talking about Emma Chang, the most important person in both our lives. Even if she loves me like a daughter, I'm no replacement for the real thing, and we're both painfully aware of that fact.

She leans forward, like we're actually sitting in front of each other, and I know this is the moment when she should reach out for my hand. "No one wishes you hadn't survived. If it hadn't been for you, no one would ever know exactly what happened that night; you know how fickle forensic evidence can be and for how long investigations can run."

"Is it actual closure, though? I feel like I'm still trying to come to terms with what happened, still trying to understand why." I slide back on my seat, creating a bigger distance between me and the laptop, and my first instinct around Mrs. Chang is to straighten my shoulders. The years I spent in ballet classes did wonders for my spine. "My therapist keeps saying I don't need to understand why, and I know that, realistically, but I still keep running after a rational explanation for what happened like there even is one. Even if I could talk to Jake now and ask him why"—she shudders with the mention of his name, the same way I acted whenever it was uttered at first—"but I know I'd never be satisfied. It won't help anyone, certainly not any of you."

"You're chasing after something you won't find, I'm afraid, honey."

"I know. I know that. It's just . . ."

". . . what works. I understand. During the first few months, it was all I could do, but real life doesn't work that way. Real life is hardly that rational, and you're just coming up with fake scenarios you'll try to fool yourself into believing are real." She locks a strand of hair behind her ear, avoiding my eyes. Hers are still quite watery, so maybe it's for the best. "We've had each other to lean on these past few months, so at least it hasn't been too lonely and we have . . . people who went through the same thing. People that get it. Reaching out to the Hortons was hard."

My heart momentarily stops. I never even stopped to think about the Hortons and what they're going through, having found themselves at the center of an experience no other family involved is. I haven't been in Chicago for months, so I can't speak for certain on what's happening, but I can imagine how isolated they must have been feeling.

I've read people online blaming the parents for what happened, like they could've seen it coming, but I've known Jake's family my whole life and know they cannot be blamed for Camp Comet's events. I'm always reluctant to blame him, though, even though I know I can't blame anyone else involved—and, even if I could, I would never—because that was also my friend Jake, in spite of what he did to Emma, to Zach, to me. At the end of the day, however, it was his decision, whether it had been planned for a while or if it was a spur of the moment thing, but his family stayed behind to deal with the fallout.

"They didn't want to see anyone for a while," Mrs. Chang continues, "and no one wanted to force them to come out. We tried to be there for them; we told them it wasn't their fault, that they hadn't caused anything and we weren't holding it against them, but it's hard to change people's minds when they've already made them up. You know how brutal people can be behind a keyboard."

I lower my head, flashes of everything I've had to read—mostly during the months immediately following the Incident—coming back to me like a sucker punch. "I think I also should've tried harder to reach out to them, too, but I . . ." I swallow the lump in my throat, but it's still hard to breathe properly. "I was scared."

I think that covers most of my complicated feelings regarding the complicated subject that is my relationship with Jake. I'm scared of speaking to his parents when I'm partially responsible for his death, the friend he tried to drag back inside and made him pay for it with his life. I'm scared to allow my brain to come to a conclusion about whether I hate him or not, about whether he's a different person compared to the one I'd known for years before that. I'm scared to accept my friend could be capable of such violence, even though I was there, front and center, and was even a part of it.

Like that's not enough, like living frightened of everything that lurks around a corner—more precisely, of everything that could live around a corner, the unknown—isn't enough, I didn't find the bravery to talk to anyone from back home besides my Dad because I've never thought of myself as being capable of handling how it would make me feel.

This anxiety makes me live fifty steps ahead of everyone else, preparing myself for hypothetical situations with catastrophic results that, most of the time, don't actually come to fruition. It's exhausting living this way, even if there's a vile, vile voice at the back of my head insisting I need to do this, just so I won't ever be caught off-guard like I was before. I can't let anyone harm me the way Jake did—both physically and emotionally.

Even this conversation with Mrs. Chang is something I replayed on my mind over and over until I finally had no more excuses for postponing it, going over every single possible scenario, some more ridiculous than the others. At the end of the day, it's been a lot more pleasant and cathartic than I ever thought possible, having been so focused on the disastrous consequences I failed to list the good that could come out of it. Now that we're talking, now that the initial awkwardness has mostly left the building, it feels as though an anchor has been lifted off my chest—not fully, but slightly.

"We miss you, Wendy," she reminds me, for the hundredth time. "Don't be a stranger, will you?"

Avoiding everything from my past is easier, I've found. With each passing day, the thought of turning Camp Comet into a distant, painful memory becomes more appealing, like I can magically erase everything that has happened if I simply refuse to think about it.

It's easier. It's also a lie.

"I'll try," I reply. Making promises I'm not sure I can't keep won't help anyone, and she, like Emma and Doctor Albott, sees right through me.

"I know we're a few hours away, timezone-wise, but we'll be around. Zach's parents, too. I heard they gave you a box of his belongings." I try not to let it show on my face, but it tugs at my heartstrings. I'll have to go through it eventually, just like I had to speak to her. "I'm sure it would be helpful for everyone involved."

"Yeah. Maybe."

She nods, then looks at something next to me. "Can you show me that dog of yours? Your father hasn't shut up about her."

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