𝐅𝐈𝐍𝐀𝐋 𝐆𝐈𝐑𝐋

𝕡𝕣𝕠𝕝𝕠𝕘𝕦𝕖

❛𝐖𝐡𝐲 𝐝𝐨 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐧𝐞𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐦𝐲 𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐬𝐨 𝐛𝐚𝐝𝐥𝐲?❜

☎

The paper lid of the Jiffy Pop pan opened in one swift motion and you discarded it onto the counter without a second glance. It wasn't your first time spending the night at Casey Becker's house but no matter how many times you did, you could never remember where exactly the trash can was.

Saturday movie nights at Casey's had been a tradition ever since Halloween of your freshman year. Just like clockwork, you would appear at her doorstep at 7:30 with your collection of VHS tapes in one hand and an overnight bag in the other. Every other Saturday, every single month, two years running. That was, of course, if she wasn't blowing you off to bump uglies with her meat-for-brains boyfriend, Steve Forrest.

Steve. The name made you grimace as you turned the knob and lit the stove in front of you. You never liked Steve. He was nice, sure. But boyfriend material? Absolutely not. When you first met Casey, she was dating a sweetheart named Stu who actually made an effort to talk to you whenever you went on the stupid little double dates that Casey went through the effort of setting up.

Steve didn't talk to you. Steve played football and made out with your best friend in front of your locker and didn't do much of anything else.

When she broke things off with Stu this time last year, you had already adopted him as your second best friend—and only other friend at Woodsboro High, thank you very much—so no one really bothered to ask why you decided to join his new friend group and play nice with his new girlfriend.

Casey never stopped begging you to spill all of Tatum's dirty little secrets during your slumber parties, and you might have given it more than a second thought if she didn't steal your Chemistry notes for Steve to copy right before the midterm. You loved her to death but you refused to be a third wheel on her little love-trike.

Speak of the devil, you thought as a certain blond rounded the corner and sauntered into the kitchen. Casey beamed at you behind a tall stack of well-loved VHS tapes. They were all horror movies, courtesy of your friend Randy who worked at the local Blockbuster. It only two batted eyes and a pouted lip and he had you hooked up with the latest, goriest, most psychologically manipulating slasher flicks he could get his grabby little hands on.

"Ok," Casey huffed, setting the stack down on the granite kitchen countertop and pulling two from the very top. "It's between Nightmare on Elm Street and Killer Klowns from Outer Space."

Leaning over, you blew on the stovetop to help the flame ignite. "Don't you have Child's Play?"

You knew that Casey was rolling her eyes even with your back turned. This little song and dance was part of the movie night tradition. You would beg to watch Child's Play and she would turn you down. Then as soon as she fell asleep on the sofa you would pop it into the VCR anyway.

"You can't pick Child's Play every single time, (Y/N)," she scoffed, sliding it out of the stack and tossing it aside as if to isolate it from the decision pool.

"Watch me."

The popcorn began to pop in sync with the ringing of the landline phone. Casey leaned over and picked it up off of the stand. As she spoke quietly into the reciever, you patiently shook the Jiffy Pop, listening as the butter began to crackle. You weren't good at cooking by a long shot but if there was one thing you were proud of, it was your mastery in the arts of popcorn making.

"Hello? Who is this?" She asked. You heard the low rumble of a voice on the other end and automatically assumed it was Steve. She had had blown off some big date up at the kissing bridge to hang out with you and he was beyond peeved. She didn't even try to hide how disappointed she was when you pulled into her driveway at your usual time.