Jennifer--s Body -2009- Here

I knelt beside the pool and held her hand as the water turned clear again. Her face softened back to the girl I knew. Then it went slack.

I’m still hungry too.

I walked to Megan’s house after school. She was in her room, painting her nails black. A red Gatorade bottle sat on her nightstand. I knew, without wanting to know, that it wasn’t Gatorade.

I picked up her hairbrush. It was crusted with something dark at the bristles. “The thing inside you. Can you feel it?” Jennifer--s Body -2009-

I wanted to believe her. I’d been her best friend since we traded juice boxes in fourth grade, back when she cried over a dead salamander. But three days ago, I’d watched the Satanists from the next town over drag her into their van after the indie band’s show. I’d watched the fire. I’d watched her walk out of the woods, naked and smiling, while the band’s trailer burned behind her.

I went home and sharpened my mother’s sewing scissors. The final scene happened at the town pool, after hours. Megan had lured the entire football team there with a text that said “skinny dipping and no consequences.” She was in the water, floating on her back, when I walked in. The boys were already gone. The pool was pink.

She blew on her nails. “Chip was a boy. And he tasted like insecurity and AXE body spray. Next question.” I knelt beside the pool and held her

I should have run. I should have called the police, a priest, the guy from the Discovery Channel who debunks myths. But Megan leaned in and pressed her cold forehead to mine. For one second, she smelled like the girl who let me copy her algebra homework. Then she smelled like the inside of a slaughterhouse.

I closed my eyes. The wind smelled like her hairbrush.

She grinned. Her teeth were too white, too straight, too many. “Tasted like old jerky. Boys are better. Boys are an appetizer you don’t feel bad about finishing.” I’m still hungry too

“You brought scissors to a demon fight?” she laughed.

“Go to the kitchen,” I said, pulling my comforter to my chin.

Because that’s the thing about surviving a demon. You swallow a little of its darkness. And once it’s inside you, you start looking at boys—at everyone—and wondering what they taste like.

“Not that kind of hungry, Needy.”

“The hunters,” I said.