Chapter 3 Jen
Jen
Jen asked Tiffany for the tenth time that day if she was sure she wanted to share a room. Tiffany tossed her head, ponytail flicking like a horse swatting a fly, also for the tenth time. “Jason and I are done for good,” she declared.
As if Jen hadn’t heard that before. She rolled her eyes. “What’s his name?”
Tiffany had the grace to look a little embarrassed as she folded back the sheets on the double bed, her peachy complexion blushing to a rosy pink. “Clive. He was the TA in my psych class.”
Jen raised an eyebrow. “Uh-huh.” Only two syllables, but they carried a world of knowledge.
Clive would offer everything Jason couldn’t—namely the sophistication and worldliness a small-town jock lacked—until the initial attraction withered and he realized Tiffany was the most basic bitch to have ever lived, laughed, and loved.
Tiffany was great fun, but she couldn’t imagine a future outside a white picket fence and the PTA.
Her mother’s life, really. Though to be fair, Mrs. Podemski seemed genuinely happy and Jen understood the appeal of a sedate, comfortable life.
Jen didn’t blame Tiffany. She was pursuing her own mother’s life herself—flaking out and leaving everyone behind, without considering anyone else’s feelings.
Tiffany cleared her throat and added, “I’d prefer if we shared a room. So I won’t get tempted to make any mistakes.”
“Sure.” Typical Tiffany, putting herself just out of reach in order to taunt Jason.
Although Jen didn’t think it was going to work this time.
She suspected Jason was bunking with Mikey to avoid his ex.
Out of sight, out of mind. Still, Jen left her overnight bag packed, ready to play musical beds if Tiffany and Jason decided to take a vacation from Splitsville for the weekend.
It was hard not to feel the romantic pull of nostalgia at the cabin, and who knew?
The sound of the crackling fire, scent of burnt marshmallows, and taste of cheap beer might resurrect the good memories and send them into each other’s arms.
Better the good memories than the bad.
“I’m gonna see if the boys need help with anything,” Jen said, leaving Tiffany to unpack her suitcase.
She found Patrick in the kitchen, opening the fridge. A large picnic cooler sat by his feet. “Anything I can do?” she asked.
Patrick jerked up in surprise. “No!” He angled his body as if he didn’t want her to see what he’d brought.
“I see three years at Harvard didn’t untwist your panties.” God, Patrick was so fussy. He always had to have things exactly his way. Well, he was going to be in for a surprise later.
Patrick cleared his throat. “Sorry. You scared me, that’s all. I’m good, thanks. Why don’t you go see if the fire pit’s usable?”
The kitchen’s back door was already open, the screen letting in a breeze from the lake. Jen checked the time on the vintage stove’s clock, then went outside. It was early yet. She should enjoy the sunset before all hell broke loose.
Mikey had unlocked the shed and was splitting wood, shirtless, like Patrick and Jason used to.
How adorable. He almost looked like a real grown-up.
He’d come a long way from the nerd who’d worked at the school library, fiddling with the computers and printers between shelving books.
In the years since, he’d ditched the thick glasses for contacts or corrective eye surgery, and his chest had broadened with muscle, although it only emphasized the stubbornness of his jaw.
No amount of deadlifting would fix that.
But hey, Mikey would be making Silicon Valley money when he graduated MIT and would be able to buy himself a new chin if he wanted.
He grinned at Jen and flexed his pecs. He should’ve known that wouldn’t impress her, for many reasons. She gave him a sardonic thumbs-up. “Good job, Squeaks. Glad to see you finally hit puberty.”
She probably shouldn’t have taunted him while he was holding an axe, but someone needed to take that endearing little geek down a peg.
He’d always tried to ingratiate himself with everyone, and he never understood that trying too hard made others respect you less.
Like her mother’s attempts to repair her relationship with Jen after she left Jen’s dad for her Pilates instructor.
Mom had stopped dragging Jen out for mother-daughter spa days when Jen started dressing like Lydia Deetz.
Jen picked her way down to the lake, glad she’d worn combat boots to navigate the awkward zigzag path through the rocks and trees.
The fire pit still sat on the scrubby beach.
One of the rocks that made up the ring had rolled aside.
Jen pushed it back, huffing from the effort. They were in business.
Cedar Lake was a gouge in the forest, filled with liquid fire as the sun lowered over the water.
The dock looked freshly stained, but she didn’t see the canoe.
Maybe it was being repaired before Slasher Summer started.
The rental company wouldn’t have removed it permanently.
The scene in which the Slasher dragged nerdy Ralph out of the canoe was iconic.
All that blood in the water and ropy entrails floating like jellyfish? Chef’s kiss.
Jen walked out onto the dock and gazed across the lake, enjoying the tranquil moment.
She was glad she’d come. One last hurrah before she blew this pop stand for greener pastures.
Time to go out in a blaze of glory and kill the past. Next week she’d be twenty-one, and she was going to cash in Grandpa’s trust fund and fuck around Europe where no one from this tiny backwater would ever find her.
She’d live fast, die young, and leave a beautiful corpse for the poets to write about.
Like Lord Byron, Jen aimed to have an ex-lover describe her as mad, bad, and dangerous to know.
That would provide more inspiration for her painting than boring art school.
She’d run out of hearts to break in her college town anyway.
Chloe, Tanis, Bree, and—what was her name?
It had started with an M. Moira? Mara? It didn’t matter.
She’d complained Jen had been too honest about avoiding commitment.
Jen had thought honesty was a good thing.
Whatever. Relationships-with-a-capital-R made shit complicated.
Just look at Tiffany and Jason. Just look at her parents.
She was about to turn around and go back to the cabin when she saw the figure.
They stood on the opposite shore, tiny at this distance, but clearly an adult-sized person in dark pants and a pale short-sleeved shirt.
Standing with legs planted slightly apart, hands on hips.
Like they were watching her. She peered at them curiously.
There was a summer camp across the lake, but by this time of day all the counselors would be corralling the brats into their bunks.
It was probably the camp director surveying his kingdom.
Jen couldn’t remember his name, but knew he was Tiffany’s uncle.
She waved. The watcher didn’t wave back. A frisson of unease glided down her spine. Tiffany’s uncle would’ve acknowledged her. He was essentially Mister Rogers incarnate. There was something truly unsettling about the watchfulness of this person, as if they were waiting for something.
The two of them stood motionless, facing each other as if in a standoff. Jen didn’t want to give them the satisfaction of retreating first. Also, she didn’t know why, but she didn’t want to turn her back on them.
The watcher finally turned, melting into the trees. Jen gave their retreat the finger and made her way back down the dock to the cabin.
The sun had nearly dipped behind the horizon.
She slipped her phone out of her shorts, meaning to turn on the flashlight, and noticed the low battery.
Crap. She’d have to remember to charge it later.
She’d forgotten how dark it got out here, without streetlights and with the sky blotted out by trees.
Creepy McCreepster had freaked her out a little, too, and she twitched at every shadow, expecting them to be standing there.
Thankfully, the cabin’s lights were on, and she could see Patrick through the kitchen window.
Music drifted from the open screen of the back door.
Was that—Huey Lewis? And was Patrick dancing?
Trust Patrick to slip immediately into the eighties vibe of the place.
He’d always been way too intense about the cabin.
Mikey had abandoned his macho grandstanding, the axe stuck in the sheared tree trunk where he’d been splitting wood. She’d grab a flashlight or lantern—Patrick was sure to have packed them—and start bringing firewood down to the beach.
As if her thoughts of light had summoned it, a glow began to illuminate the path to the main road. Jen strode to the front of the house. Headlights. They were growing larger, but slowly, as if the driver hadn’t quite made up their mind where they were going.
Mikey came out on the veranda, his shirt back on. “Is that Freddy?”
The car came closer, and Jen could see it was too small to be Freddy’s van. She shook her head, pleased. Tiffany and Patrick joined them outside, drawn by the lights and the sound of the engine. They filed down the steps beside Jen to greet the mystery visitor.
Tiffany shielded her eyes from the approaching beams. “Can anyone see who that is?”
“Maybe it’s a renter who mixed up their dates,” Patrick said.
The car finally stopped. The engine turned off, but not the lights. Giddy anticipation thrummed through Jen’s bones. This was it. Gasoline, meet fire.
The car door opened and a girl stepped out.
“Fuck me,” said Mikey.
Jen would recognize that graceful silhouette anywhere.
Tall and slim, her Pre-Raphaelite brown tresses now cut to her chin, Carrie Zhao wore the jeans and white tank top she might have sported when she’d played the Final Girl in their Slasher shadow cast. She clutched an army green canvas duffel bag like a life preserver, looking as stunned as the others probably felt, as if she couldn’t believe she’d had the nerve to show up.
She said nothing, but Jen wouldn’t have known what to say either if she were in the other girl’s shoes.
Other than, Holy shit, is this really happening?
Patrick and Tiffany looked dumbfounded. Mikey’s mouth had gone slack.
Jen almost felt a little sorry for him. He’d always carried a torch for Carrie.
Hell, everyone had been a little in love with Carrie, Jen included.
Even Patrick, and he didn’t like girls. Saint Carrie just had this aura of self-possessed goodness that you couldn’t help being drawn to, in the hope some of it would rub off.
As a teenager she’d volunteered at the Cedar Lake seniors’ home, the animal rescue, the food bank.
She’d read stories to kids at the library after church on Sundays and helped organize park cleanups.
Which had made her fall from grace all the harder.
Everyone stared at Carrie. Carrie stared back. Another standoff, like Jen had experienced by the lake.
And then Jason came out.
The front door squeaked open. “What are you all doing out here?” Jason said, jogging down the steps. “Has Freddy finally shown up?”
Jen amended her earlier thought. No, not everyone had been a little in love with Carrie. Everyone had felt that way, except the one person who’d mattered to her.
Jason halted as he realized who everyone was gawking at.
“Care Bear?” he said.
Carrie’s face blanched as white as her top. She spun on her heel and fled into the woods, her duffel bag bouncing on her shoulder.
Everyone snapped into motion, the spell broken. “What the fuck?” Tiffany said.
Jason rounded on Patrick. “Why would you ask her back here?” he demanded, showing a flash of uncharacteristic anger.
“You didn’t tell us she was coming!” Mikey said, his cheeks blotchy.
Patrick backed away, his hands up, spluttering a confused protest. “I didn’t ask her, really I—”
“Then how did she find out about the reunion?” Tiffany said.
Jen gleefully watched them argue for a good ten minutes before stepping in. As much as she was enjoying the show, she figured she should put Patrick out of his misery. “Everyone, chill. It was me. I still had her email address, so I invited her.”
“Jennifer Emilia de la Fuente!” Tiffany screeched. “What the fuck were you thinking?”
Jen crossed her arms defiantly. “It’s been nearly four years. We’re not dumb teens anymore. It’s time to move on.” She gestured to the cabin and the surrounding trees. “If we’re saying goodbye to this place, we have to let bygones be bygones.”
Patrick, Jason, and Mikey looked suitably chastened, but Tiffany’s lips had thinned into a hard line. That girl could hold on to a grudge as tightly as Jason could carry a football. Jen glanced in the direction Carrie had run off. “Shit. Someone should go after her. It’s pretty dark in the woods.”
“You can go,” Tiffany said, stabbing a finger at Jen’s chest. “I don’t have anything to say to that bitch.”
Patrick padded to Carrie’s hatchback, opened the door, and turned off the headlights. Jen’s retinas thanked him. Now the only light was the gentle glow from inside the cabin.
He shut the car door and slowly scratched his head. Jen could almost see the gears turning in his head as he attempted to recalibrate his plans. “If she’s staying, she can have Freddy’s room. It’s probably better if he sleeps in his van anyway. He’ll stink up the sheets.”
Bright spots suddenly danced in front of Jen’s eyes. Were they afterimages of Carrie’s headlights? But then she heard the rumbling cough of a very old, very large vehicle.
“Speak of the devil,” Jen said.
Freddy’s white van barreled down the road, kicking up clouds of dust in its clumsy wake. “Jesus,” Mikey said.
“Is he high?” Jen said wryly.
“Guys—” said Jason. “We should—”
They all scattered as the van careened into the driveway and screeched to a stop, just inches from the veranda railing. The driver’s-side door flew open and Freddy nearly fell out of his seat, the van rocking from the force of his braking.
Jen had joked Freddy was high, but he’d never been careless enough to drive under the influence before. She and the others ran to him, Patrick sneezing as he got close. He’d always been sensitive to the sandalwood incense Freddy burned constantly to mask the scent of weed.
“Freddy? Are you okay?” Jason asked.
Freddy didn’t seem to hear him. His normally half-lidded eyes were round as saucers under the edge of his knitted hat.
“Holy shit,” he said, chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath.
It was hard to take a goofball like Frederick Min seriously, but the frisson of unease Jen had felt on the dock crept down her spine again.
That feeling that something she didn’t understand was on the verge of happening, and she was powerless to stop it.
“Holy shit,” Freddy said again. “I saw the Slasher.”