Slasher Summer(7)
“Nice,” Patrick said, grinning.
Jason picked up the receiver of the beige rotary phone that sat on a table behind the sofa. “Wow. Our grandma had one of these when Mikey and I were kids. Does it even work?”
A dial tone droned faintly from the earpiece. Mikey crept up beside Jason and did an uncanny imitation of the Slasher’s gravelly catchphrase. “You’re all going to die tonight.”
Jason rounded his eyes and mouth in exaggerated horror, like Jordan Knox, the movie’s Final Girl, when she picks up the Slasher’s phone call. Patrick took Jason’s photo, laughing. It was good to see a flash of Jason’s old easygoing self again. “The calls are coming from inside the house!” Patrick cried in mock alarm.
Jason put down the receiver. “Nope. If Slasher taught me one thing, it’s to never pick up the phone.”
He and Mikey moved on, reading the spines of well-worn paperbacks and classic board games on the bookcase. Patrick inspected a stereo system with an intimidating number of dials. There didn’t seem to be any place to plug in his phone. So much for the playlists he’d carefully curated for this weekend. At least there was a turntable and the shelves were stocked with vinyl records, though he suspected they were all old to complete the retro experience.
Patrick moved on to the kitchen and opened the heavy wooden cupboards—they really liked their wood back in the eighties—exposing an impressive collection of vintage Corelle and Corningware. The knife block was full, and he pulled out each knife and examined it. The knives were light and the handles made of cheap black plastic. Amateurish, but they’d do in a pinch. He couldn’t wait to get started.
He drew back the floral-patterned curtains from the window above the kitchen sink. Cedar Lake glittered below and he drank in the sight like a man who hadn’t known how thirsty he was until water hit his lips.
Life had taught Patrick the world was dangerous. At the Rialto, as the club’s lone Black member, he’d had to play the unnamed hunter who picks up the hitchhiking Slasher and gets killed in the first fifteen minutes. It wasn’t logical, and the trope had aged poorly, but because Patrick had made it inside the cabin he felt like he’d escaped his fate as the Black guy who dies first. He felt safe.
His shoulders sagged as he let out a long breath, releasing a tension he didn’t know he was carrying.
He was finally at the one place where he could be himself.
He slid out the largest of the chef’s knives again, weighing it in his hand before slipping it back in with satisfaction.
He was home.
3
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?”