Eight

Under a giant painting of Prometheus chained to a rock, Sally Priest stretched on the king-size four-poster in Dan Womack's bedroom. The morning sun glared through the closed blinds, its light exposing the imperfections of his crummy apartment while lending it a certain bohemian grace.

She'd woken to Dan's clumsy pacing around the room. Sitting up, she slid a blunt between her lips and scanned the side table for her lighter.

Noticing she'd awakened, he stopped.

"We can't do this anymore," he fretted. "It's not right."

"Mm," said Sally, focused on her search.

Back when he scored a speaking role as a major character in Mary's Birthday, Dan was a hunky thirtysomething sleeping with Angela Crispin, the fading actress who played Mary's mother and his on-screen wife. Nearing fifty, he was now still that handsome devil if the lighting was right, though his long hair had largely gone gray and he'd become as paunchy as marshmallow with age and too many bottles of fine Merlot. A big, shaggy bear of a man with a salt-and-pepper beard.

After surviving Arthur Golden's schlocky nightmare, Dan never acted in front of a camera again and performed instead in a wide range of stage plays. He'd earned his biggest accolades for playing Prometheus in Prometheus Unbound, the ancient Greek tragedy by Aeschylus, at the Geffen. Between gigs, he taught a theater workshop, where he educated scores of bright minds and, rumor had it, more than a few female bodies.

Sally's mother had told her to always level up by taking acting classes. The problem was that like any other creative field, Hollywood was chock-full of charlatans and rip-off artists preying on the desperate young. Some acting teachers abused their students and treated them like children to foster emotional dependence and feed their own egos. Some demanded adherence to methods that involved breaking down actors' emotions in sadistic ways reminiscent of a cult.

Anyway, Dan wasn't like that.

Okay, maybe he was a little. But he wasn't the worst of the bunch.

Sally allowed him to seduce her, as he seemed so worldly and erudite compared to the vain, gorgeous, and horny boys in her class. She'd never had a spring-fall relationship and thought it might offer an interesting experience, which proved out: Dan liked to cuddle, had an encyclopedic knowledge of American theater, and never made things too heavy, at least until now.

"Despite my strong feelings for you, this isn't right," Dan said.

Sally's hands clenched empty air. "Have you seen my lighter anywhere?"

Tonight, she had a rehearsal for a play the workshop would put on at the tiny community theater Dan rented out. She'd originally planned to read for the lead role of Zoey. Her mother had convinced her to instead play the smaller but more challenging role of Shana, a clingy, obsessive, and jealous young woman.

She found it hard work inhabiting a character that was so not her. Sally loved a challenge, but she wanted to get mellow before she stepped again into Shana's turbulent head today. A little weed would do the trick. A ginormous cup of coffee and a half-decent orgasm would be nice too, but neither seemed to be in the offing.

Dan, meanwhile, had gone back to his pacing.

"I'm your teacher," he moaned. "I'm supposed to be teaching you."

"Ha!" Sally spied the lighter behind the table lamp.

He wheeled. "What?"

She pulled on it only to end up gripping the prop knife she'd scored at Arthur Golden's sad little sale. She collapsed the blade against her palm and sighed.

"Look, it happens to everyone," Sally said. "Please don't sweat it, okay?"

She'd given him the production prop last night in the hope that he'd appreciate it as a keepsake, something with which to remember his long friendship with Arthur Golden. Instead, he'd become gloomily maudlin, swilled too much wine over dinner, and ended up with a limp noodle in bed.

"I don't know whatever you mean." Dan padded into the bathroom huffing, where he continued to lament their doomed romance.

Still no joy finding that lighter, which had turned into this scene's primary motivation. Sally thought about getting up to at least scavenge some coffee.

She didn't move, her paralysis a visible expression of the creative wall she'd been banging her head against all week.

Shana: I'm sick of trusting you with what's mine.

Tony: I don't know what you're talking about.

Shana: What I gave you is a gift, but it's still a part of me. You carry it like a condom in your wallet, something you can use and throw away, but even then it's a part of me. It's always a part of me. You're always a part of me.

Tony: You're acting crazy.

Shana: I'm not crazy. I just want you. I just want you.

Sally sighed.

Shana, Shana, Shana.

Where's the key that will let me inside to become you?

Probably hanging out with her lighter somewhere.

It's always a part of me.

It's always a part of me.

It's always a part of me.

Hoping to dissect what made the character tick.

What do you want, Shana? How can you expect that making Tony suffer is going to convince him to show you he loves you more? You're driving him straight to Zoey with your controlling behavior. You're destroying what you're trying to save.

It didn't help that Shana's dialogue sounded stilted, either.

Sally tried to imagine being this possessive about Dan Womack, which almost made her laugh out loud. The fact was she'd never been jealous in a romantic way about anyone. She knew what it looked like, having been on the receiving end, but she couldn't relate enough to harness it as hers. She could only produce a copy.

An odd thing, feeling angry at herself for not having been mauled by the full spectrum of ugly traumas and emotions that plagued the human race. Sally had led a relatively charmed life that in the world of acting could be inhibiting. Life had never really punched her in the face.

People who'd seen real shit, Sally envied them for their far deeper creative well. That was the kind of jealousy she could relate to. It was part of the mix that had attracted her to Dan. The man had experienced horror. Notable example: Sixteen years ago, he'd shown up on the Mary's Birthday set moments too late to hear the director's farewell speech but just in time to witness a slaughter.

"And that's why we can't go on like this," Dan now opined from the bathroom. "A relationship as wonderful as ours must progress. All relationships, in truth. They must move forward or die. But what do I have to give? I can teach you, yes. I can make you a star, if that's what you want. But what else, really? Think about it, Sally. You will end up falling in love with me. What then? Should we get married?"

God, he was monologuing now, probably going at it full tilt in front of the mirror.

"I think I'm gonna take off," she called.

He immediately reappeared from stage left, shambling into the room with his junk dangling between his hairy thighs, tilting his head to fire up his own fatty.

Goddamnit! He had her lighter. He'd had it the whole time and didn't tell her, letting her search for it while he'd opined about them breaking up.

Wait—she could use this.

He had the lighter but didn't tell me.

She almost grasped the essence of it.

The lighter—

Something he treated casually but is important to me. Something I needed him to keep safe but that he could toss without a care if provoked, and then I'll never smoke a joint again and I'll fail as an actor.

Her whole career rested right there in his beefy paw, and he appeared scarcely aware of even holding it, ready to crush or drop as he pleased. It made her angry and helpless, which she continued to amplify.

Balling her fists, Sally tossed the sheets aside and rose to kneel on the bed. The vulnerability of her nakedness only fueled her desire.

"I'm sick of trusting you with what's mine," she snarled with caged fury.

Dan coughed on a cloud of pungent smoke. "What?"

"What I gave you is a gift, but it's still a part of me." Passive edging toward full-on aggressive, seething with a deep weakness presented as strength. "You carry it like it's a condom in your wallet, something you can use and throw away, but even then it's a part of me." Livid now. "It's always a part of me." The first cracks appeared as she faced her vulnerability and realized she'd never be able to leave this person who could easily destroy her. "You're always a part of me."

"Oh my God, Sally, I'm so sorry—"

"I'm not crazy!" she screamed with anger approaching hate, though she directed it at herself now, the woman who fell in love and thought this time it'd be different. That this time a man would love her back the way she needed.

"What's wrong? Are you okay?"

Pleading: "I just want you." A hollow, petulant echo: "I just want you."

"Oh, Sally, I'm here—"

While he stumbled toward her with his arms outstretched, she flopped back onto the bed and exploded in a sigh. "I got it!" She laughed. "Fuck!"

Dan froze. "Wait—you were running lines, weren't you?"

She extended her fingers. He handed her the joint, and she took a deep drag and held in the hot smoke before sighing, "Yep. I just cracked that shit."

"Oh." His own hand disappeared into his thick graying mane to scratch the back of his head. "It was good."

"Maybe." Scowling, already doubting herself.

"I might be in love with you," Dan said, going off their own script.

"You're…?"

"I'm sure that sounds ridiculous to you, but I think I might be."

Her heart melted. He looked so sad standing there, rubbing his bare rotund belly and hoping for reassurance. But she had to get back to work. Sally handed the joint back to him and rose to swipe her panties off the floor.

"Listen, it was totally thoughtless and stupid of me to bring you that prop," she said. "It obviously dredged up some horrible stuff." Another little pang of envy; she wished again against her better judgment that she had been there at that set and forever had to live in the traumatic echo. "I'm sorry about that, Dan. I really am."

"It's okay," he said, watching her nudity disappear with longing.

"And I'll tell Max Maurey that you want to be left in peace. I think you earned that much."

"Maurey?" Dan frowned.

"I met him at the Jack the Knife premiere party?"

"What?"

"We went to the estate sale together yesterday. I told you all this last night…" But he'd been distracted by his nightmare.

"Of course I wouldn't remember him," he huffed. "The man's a barely talented, overpaid hack."

Sally gave him a knowing look. "He's a pretty successful director."

"If you find that sort of thing attractive."

"I'm not interested in dating him, Dan."

He grunted, only half-mollified.

"He's a huge fan of Mary's Birthday, that's all," she added. "He wants to make a new movie using the camera he found at the sale. And he might cast me as—"

"Wait." Dan blanched. "What camera?"

"An Arriflex 35BL. Max said it was the one used to shoot your movie."

His face turned into an icy grimace.

"What's wrong?" she asked him.

"Evil," he whispered.

"What?"

"I thought Arthur destroyed it. That camera. It's the devil itself."

"Seriously, what are you talking about?"

"I, uh, changed my mind. I'd be happy to meet this Max Maurey."

"I thought you hated—"

"If you don't mind setting up a meeting." Dan swallowed hard.

"Are you kidding? He'd love it." Cocking an eye at him, Sally shimmied into her jeans and zipped. "Are you sure, though? You look pretty—"

He took a step forward to lay his hands on her shoulders. "Listen. I wanted to tell you I'm sorry too. Laying that guilt trip on you. I didn't mean any of it."

"It's fine, Dan." But Sally was still thinking about Max Maurey.

He gazed at her with his overgrown puppy eyes. "Are you sure?"

Turning it around on her, one of his little rhetorical tricks. This time, she decided give his inquiry a long, hard think.

Now that she'd cracked Shana's pretzeled brain, her mind already raced ahead to her next role. She hoped it would be in Max's new project.

Back in front of the camera, Sally would scream again.

Max had hinted he might cast her. Perhaps even as the lead.

With most men, in particular directors, she had an instinctive read on them. Nature or nurture had made Max Maurey a different animal. He acted like a monk whose self-flagellating religion was making horror movies. It was this singular passion that allowed her to connect with him on something close to a human level.

A strange guy, a bit spooky, in fact. Take a man like John Carpenter; you'd find him so personable you wouldn't guess he'd directed some of the era's most provocative horror movies. With Max Maurey, you likely wound up wondering how many bodies he had buried in his backyard.

The director seemed to know this but not care. Hell, he appeared to take a perverse pride in it. As egotistical as the best of 'em—the type who complained about how hard they had it when their PA brought them a cappuccino with insufficient foam—but his ego appeared to be narrowly focused on one thing: terrifying people using the medium of film.

On set, he had a reputation as a mad tyrant. He micromanaged production and sometimes fired crew for failing to translate the movie playing in his head. As a result, he had few loyalists who would drop everything and work for him. On the other hand, he knew what he wanted and could make decisions.

Max was an oddity for sure, but for once, an industry bigwig's interest in Sally had nothing to do with the dimensions of her chest. She'd screwed up by making herself so vulnerable at Lyman's party, but he'd been a total gentleman. She had to admit it was refreshing to be appreciated for her ideas.

This being Hollywood, Sally didn't trust the man, but still, a girl could hope.

A lead role. At last, she might be the Final Girl.

In the tarot deck of horror, the Final Girl stood out as strong, resourceful, and smart. Modest and responsible and kind. Out of all her peers, she acted the most grown-up and prosocial. She lived more or less chaste to fulfill the masculine idea of purity, but she proved no stereotyped helpless female. She had real agency. She got knocked on her ass over and over and always came back swinging. This made her the embodiment of both living terror and courage in the face of evil.

Overall, the Final Girl was empowering.

Sally had to make ready for the role, and do it now, always now. She was young and attractive in a town where these qualities were a dime a dozen. As her mother reminded her every chance she got, the biological clock was ticking. Hollywood worshipped feminine youth and beauty and hated wrinkles. Past thirty, major roles for women dried up. Past forty, they took a nosedive. Before Sally had even started professional acting, she'd been running out of time.

She needed lightning to strike. She needed to be the lightning.

Dan stared into her distracted eyes. "Are we okay, Sally?"

The Bad Girl was dead, along with all she entailed. Long live the Final Girl.

"I'm her now," she murmured, free and receptive to a different load.

"What?"

"I'm the Final Girl." Her voice firm.

"I don't know what that means," said Dan.

"The girl who makes it. The girl who defeats evil. The girl who's pure."

"Okay." He frowned. "I still don't understand what that means."

"It means you were right about one thing," Sally said.

He perked up. "Oh?"

"About it being time we ended things." She stood on her toes to give him a chaste peck on the cheek. "It's been lovely, Dan. I'll see you at rehearsal."

Living life to the fullest meant abandoning all regrets.

As for the lighter, he could keep it.