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However, I only play a final girl at Camp Mirror Lake; I don’t actually want to be one. I turn my Black ass right around and book it back to my cabin, where I close and lock the door. For now, my face full of fake blood is going to stay just the way it is.
A good final girl always makes sure the generator, no matter how ancient, has fuel and is in good working order.
“I’m a vegetarian,” I say to him. He looks at me, confused. “Huh?” “She don’t like meat,” Porter says. “Strictly strawberries, like my man Harry Styles said.” Javier’s brows push together. Me and Porter are both part of the alphabet mafia, so we get it, but poor Javier is clueless.
She grins. “If you’re the final girl, what does that mean for the rest of us?” “It means we’re all dead,” Tasha says, grinning.
“Be careful,” she says. “You know what happens to Black folks in slasher movies.” “I’m the final girl,” I say. “Guaranteed to survive the night.” “You better,” she says before closing the door.
I know full well that the police aren’t here to protect and serve; they’re here to enforce compliance with whatever set of rules they’re following today.
“As soon as people start having sex, it’s like a bat signal to the killer. He hears cheeks clappin’, then here he comes with a knife to slice everybody up.”
Bezi leans close to my ear. “Are the straights okay?” I have to cover my mouth to keep from laughing. “Absolutely not.”
“Oh, honey. You’re going to die out here, and there’s not a damn thing you can do about it.”
I’ve been playing the part of a girl who escapes a serial killer every night for months. It’s not a game this time. The consequences are real, but we still have to play.
