The Female of the Species Page 3

  I’m part of this last group.

  Branley, who everyone knows is a Friend to All Penises, isn’t making much of an effort to control her volume, and her natural soprano is grating on my nerves.

  “What if he can’t have kids now?” she asks, a perfect little pout following up her intense concern for Park’s man parts. “That’s just crazy.” More emphasis than necessary is put on this last word, and she glances at Alex as she says it, who turns a page of Dostoyevsky.

  A little burn of resentment starts down in my belly and I try to quash it, fast. I don’t know if it’s because Alex and I have established a kind of companionable silence after incinerating three dead puppies, or if it has more to do with the fact that Branley now traipses around holding Adam’s hand.

  But I really want her to shut up.

  Seeing the two of them together hasn’t been easy. I finally answered a call from DickFace (he’s been renamed in my phone, all heart emoticons removed) about a week ago. I guess it was our official breakup, even though he’d been sharing one chair with Branley at lunch ever since Sara sent me that screencap.

  “Babe,” he’d explained, unable to drop the endearment even as he dumped me, “it’s Branley Jacobs. I have a shot at Branley Jacobs. I can’t pass that up.”

  I guess he expected some sort of congratulations from me as he climbed the social ladder, stepping on the skull of the preacher’s kid so that he could jam his face up the skirt of the blond cheerleader. And he seems pretty happy. So, whatever. Fuck him.

  “Fuck her,” Sara says as she flops into the chair next to mine.

  “Right?” I agree, but can’t stop my eyes from going back to Branley as she keeps using words like vicious and dangerous.

  Branley is kind of perfect. One of those girls who wear matte foundation and always look like a porcelain doll, except I think if you spread a doll’s legs as far as hers go, they would break. I can say this with some accuracy because of the pics she sent my boyfriend.

  Ex-boyfriend.

  I concentrate on that (ex-boyfriend ex-boyfriend ex-boyfriend) and flip open my own copy of Crime and Punishment as I try to distract myself from a visual I accidentally created. A picture of Branley’s perfectly molded, heart-shaped face, breaking into shards under my fist. I clench my fists and my teeth, warping a classic paperback and shredding my own enamel at the same time.

  Miss Hendricks finally gets everyone in their seats and Branley passes my desk, leaving the scent of strawberry-vanilla shampoo in her wake. She tosses her phone into her open backpack on the floor, and I can’t help but glance at it.

  I expected to see a selfie background, something coyly posed and angled for maximum cheekbone effect, probably shot from above to make sure the cleavage gets its due. Instead it’s her little sister holding a vanilla ice-cream cone while a clearly well-trained Saint Bernard stares longingly, dual slobber chains caught in midwobble.

  Nice. I want to punch a Saint Bernard owner, the most patient people on earth.

  Good job being the preacher’s kid, Peekay. Good fucking job.

  8. ALEX

  We use objects to navigate spaces, making a map in our heads as neurons fire, pathways so well-worn we don’t even know we reference them as we move from one location to the next, the same pattern. Every day.

  There are things in place to help us, signs in certain colors and shapes. Arrows pointing. Symbols indicating. Making your own framework is more entertaining, more personal. Less constricting.

  The blue house she would’ve seen last.

  The tree that has bloomed three times since then.

  The dirt road that used to be gravel, the gravel road that is now paved, the paved road that is disintegrating back into gravel.

  Here in this building I have the dent in the locker where I broke my wrist after hearing a rape joke, dropped as casually as pocket lint.

  A ceiling tile still knocked askew two years after I took a vicious kick at thin air and my shoe flew off. No one has noticed it.

  The residually sticky spot on the wall outside the science classrooms where the anatomy classes hang their posters with double-sided tape every year, the obligatory genitalia comically large. Nothing hangs there now but a thread of my own hair, torn out.

  No one sees me do these things. Until today.

  Now there is a new place, a place where a boy came at my face with his hands, his mouth open, tongue out. A place where he fell, pale-faced. A place where his tears pooled afterward. It is a place where I did not mean to, but it happened.

  I use my markers as I go from place to place. Seeing evidence of my small rebellions, spots where my wrath was allowed to vent and has impacted the world around me, no longer safely encapsulated inside. My life is made of these tiny maps, my paths always steady as I move inside a constricted area, the only one I should ever be allowed to know.

  My violence is everywhere here.

  And I like it.

  9. PEEKAY

  If I were to uncoil my trumpet, I’d have four and a half feet of brass pipe. This fact was on repeat in my head at last night’s football game, because I was seriously considering dismantling my instrument so that I could wrap it around Branley’s swan-white neck and strangle her. I also considered just sticking all four feet into the ground right when her squad threw her up in the air so that when she came down she’d be impaled on it.

  I played out both scenarios in my head, picturing the cheerleaders screeching as I choked their poster child, the other bandies trying to stop me. Maybe one of the trombone players would hook me with their slide. I imagined the stunned silence that would emanate from the bleachers after the homecoming queen had a trumpet bell explode from her chest when she came down from a toss, her perfect smile slipping into confusion, Adam running from the sidelines, his football spikes clicking against the track. He’d hold her while she died and maybe one of the other trumpet players would do a riff on “Taps.”

  And then I spotted her little sister in the stands, two blond pigtails poking from either side of her head, a popcorn kernel stuck on her chin as she cheered along with Branley, who she probably thinks is perfect. I reminded myself there’s a Saint Bernard with big woeful eyes who loves Branley, so of course I did none of those things. Instead, I wallowed in my rage and missed a quarter turn on the thirty-yard line that threw off the entire trumpet section during the halftime show, so that’s karma for you.

  Anger makes you tired, but guilt keeps you from falling asleep. So I hit my alarm twice this morning, even though it’s Saturday and my SYE is as good as a class and I need to get my ass out of bed.

  I’m still the first one at the shelter, and there’s a dump.

  It’s a mutt, part retriever (maybe), part shepherd (maybe). Definitely all pain and anger. Rhonda told me this has been happening more lately with the shitty economy. People can’t afford their pets but they can’t pay the surrender fee either, so they tie their dog to the fence at night and drive away.

  Once someone didn’t even cough up the money for a chain, instead just chucking the poor dog in the trash. Rhonda found that one. She had to climb into the empty Dumpster while Alex and I leaned over the side standing on chairs, Rhonda’s arms wobbling as she tried to get the terrified dog to us and we tried to get him over the edge without losing our balance.

  But today is something new. Someone apparently tossed this dog over the fence, and I’m guessing he didn’t land right because he’s holding one paw up in the air and showing teeth at me as I twirl the combination lock on the gate. His fur has a fine coating of early November frost, which can’t feel good.

  “It’s okay,” I say quietly. “I’m here now.”

  He doesn’t seem convinced that everything is okay, and when I get a closer look at him, I understand why. Someone really did not give a shit about this dog. One of his eyes is crusted completely shut, and both his ears are sprouting growths.

  “Not a lot of love, huh, buddy?” I say, and he lunges at me through the fence, teet
h clicking against the wire. The wave of stench that follows him makes me back off more than the snarl. I’m sitting on the concrete step with my hand over my nose when Alex pulls up.

  “What?” she asks as she gets out, using one word to encompass me, the dog, and the locked door.

  “Rhonda’s not here yet,” I say through the sleeve of my sweatshirt. “Somebody dumped this guy. I think they threw him over the fence. He’s got a broken leg and smells something awful.”

  Alex walks toward the fence and he goes for her.

  “You might want to leave him alone,” I say. “Unless you think you can punch him in the dick through the fence.”

  The words pop out before I realize it, but Alex doesn’t seem to care. She digs into her pockets and pulls out a set of keys. “Rhonda gave me these last week,” she explains. “She said we’re familiar enough with the morning routine to handle it alone. She’ll come at open hours.”

  “Fair enough,” I say, accepting the duplicate that Alex hands me. We walk into the front office. My heart dips a little every time. There’s a single desk with a phone, a computer someone gave us when they upgraded, and a line of metal folding chairs the church donated a few years ago. That’s the sum of our only weapons in the battle to help unwanted animals across three counties find homes—and the phone is a rotary phone. Sometimes I’m really glad that the door separating the office and the kennels is solid and heavy as hell. I don’t want them to see how hopeless it all is.

  Alex flips the lock behind her and we glance at each other in the oddly private space of a public area before the lights are turned on.

  “I would never punch a dog in the dick,” she says.

  I bust out laughing. She’s so intense, her mouth in the firmest, flattest line I’ve ever seen, serious as my dad on Easter morning.

  I’ve never heard her say anything normal. Two months of working with Alex Craft and I’ve learned that she doesn’t say “Huh?” She says, “I’m sorry, could you repeat that?” Alex says, “Were you able to scoop the litter pans this morning?” Not, “Did you get the cat shit?”

  So when she says “I would never punch a dog in the dick” with the same gravity as a newscaster on 9/11, I laugh hysterically. And I think maybe, just maybe, there’s the slightest upturn of a smile on the corner of her lips as she turns the lights on.

  “What do you think about the dump?”

  “I suppose we should wait for Rhonda,” she says. “Unless you think we can get him to come in through the outside run and into one of the caged kennels.”

  “We can try. He might bite, though.”

  She shakes her head. “He’s scared, not mean. I’ll stay inside and open the run gate; you see if you can steer him in the right direction from outside.”

  “Deal.” I head outside, grabbing a pair of gloves from the staff shelf as I do. They’re heavy, but I know if he wanted to, that dog could have it off my hand, skin included. And once he bites me—scared or mean—he’s dead.

  He backs into a corner when I go to the gate, front leg dragging. There’s a continuous low growl as I walk in, swinging it shut behind me.

  “Hey, buddy,” I say quietly, going down in a crouch so that he doesn’t think I’m trying to intimidate him. “We’re going to get you inside, okay? It’ll be warmer, and there’ll be food and . . .” I’m trying to think of something else enticing when a voice pipes up behind me.

  “And surgery, by the looks of it,” Rhonda says.

  “I wasn’t going to tell him that part.” Just then Alex opens the run from inside and he turns toward it, teeth on display. Alex backs out of his sight and the warmth emanating from the building is enough to coax him to follow.

  “You shouldn’t be in there.” Rhonda pulls the lock off and opens the gate. “He’s mad and hurt and feels cornered. Never know what a threatened animal will do.”

  “Sorry,” I say as I slip outside. “We just thought we should try to get him in if we could.”

  “Nice idea, but he hurts either of you girls, he gets put down, and I doubt the school sends me any more volunteers.”

  I follow her into the office, stripping off the gloves. We’re heading back to the kennels when the barking starts. First thing in the morning is always the worst, which is why I prefer the cat room. Alex doesn’t seem to mind the clamor of a dozen dogs all waking up hungry, sick of being caged, and desperate for attention. The cats just stretch languidly, take jaw-cracking yawns, and then look at you like, “Oh, have you come to feed me? Splendid.”

  If the dogs like Alex, then they love Rhonda. I swear they know the second she walks in the door. They don’t have to see her or even hear her, they just get so spontaneously happy some of them literally lose their shit.

  Alex has convinced the dump to follow her from the outside run to a kennel. She’s making all the right noises to reassure him, but the cinderblock walls aren’t overly inviting even on a good day. And that dog is not having a good day.

  Alex is down in a crouch with her hip holding the kennel door open when the other dogs explode at the sight of Rhonda. The dump, who had taken his freak-out from an eight down to about a two, snarls and shoots forward into the kennel. Alex swings the cage door shut, and it all would’ve been very nicely handled except for the fact that she’s in there with him.

  “Get out of there,” Rhonda says.

  Alex shakes her head and slides down to the concrete floor, her jeans soaking up the bleach water she’d sprayed around earlier. “Don’t want to startle him,” Alex says tightly.

  And while she has a point—the dog’s ruff is up as high as he can get it, his teeth out for more than show, and he’s climbed onto the cot so that he’s got some height on her—I hear something more in Alex’s voice. Even though we’ve exchanged only a handful of words, I know her tone. And I’m pretty sure that dog bit her when he ran past and she’s trying to hide it.

  “You probably shouldn’t make any sudden movements,” I say. “Maybe just let him get calmed down and we’ll get you out of there.”

  Alex looks at me and nods, while Rhonda eyes the dog warily. He’s still growling, but the snarl is out of his tone. “All right,” she says. “But—”

  The doorbell from the front office chimes, sending everybody into a fresh peal of barking. “Christ,” Rhonda mutters, backing away from the kennel door. “Stay here in case he gets it in his head to rip hers off.”

  I nod even though I’m unsure what to do if Alex is decapitated, and drop down to my knees to talk to her through the kennel door. “He get you?”

  “Right in my butt,” she says, and I start giggling again even though it’s not funny.

  “How bad?” I ask.

  “I’m bleeding.” Alex lifts her rear off the floor for a second and we share an awkward moment of me investigating her ass through a wire fence.

  “Your jeans are ripped, but you’re not bleeding too bad. If Rhonda finds out—”

  “I know.”

  We look at each other through the wire for a second as the dog relaxes onto its back legs, a whimper escaping as his dangling paw bumps the side of the cot.

  “I’ve got my yoga bag in the car,” I say. “I’ll bring it in, tell Rhonda your clothes are all wet. You can clean yourself up in the bathroom.”

  Alex gives me a quick once-over and I know what she’s thinking. Her legs are probably as long as my whole body.

  “Wear high-waters or have a wet ass all day. Your choice,” I say.

  Alex considers this for a second. “I’ll wear your clothes. But first, would you do me a favor?”

  “Sure.”

  “Sneak me a tranquilizer for him. If he’s unreasonable when the vet gets here, it won’t go well.”

  It wouldn’t be hard. The key to the meds hangs on the wall right next to the cabinet, a silent testimony to how much Rhonda trusts her volunteers.

  Hard? No.

  Totally legal? Er . . . I’m not clear on that.

  But the exhausted sound that escapes t
he dump as he settles onto his cot, followed by the pathetic scraping of his tongue over his paw in an attempt to get to a hurt he can’t understand, undoes me.

  “Be right back,” I say.

  It’s quick and easy. I sneak the pill to Alex wrapped in a slice of ham I pilfered out of my own lunch. When I hand it to her through the wire, our fingers touch briefly, slippery with grease, and I think: This is how you become friends with Alex Craft.

  “Dogs are really good at taking the treat and spitting out the pill,” I say, watching through the fence as the dump chows down. “Make sure he gets the whole thing.”

  “She,” Alex says.

  “What?”

  “It’s a girl,” she says, reaching a tentative hand out to the dump, who growls again, low and threatening.

  “Either way, it has teeth,” I say. “Watch it.”

  “It’s okay, girl,” Alex says, her voice entirely different than when she speaks to me or Rhonda. It’s melodious and gentle, with an undercurrent of emotion I wouldn’t have dreamed her capable of. “I won’t hurt you,” she says, and the dog hesitantly sniffs the ham. It disappears in a few seconds, hunger outweighing caution.

  The dump bows her head, watching Alex’s hand come nearer until it rests on her crown and they both relax, the tension slipping out of the cage until the only thing I can hear is them breathing, in unison.

  10. JACK

  It has been two weeks since I talked to Alex, two weeks since she dropped my best friend to the ground at my feet. Two weeks that I’ve wished every girl I saw, talked to, or touched was her. But my dad likes to say that you can shit in one hand and wish in the other and see which one gets full first. And he’s totally right.

  I’ve told myself to forget Alex, which shouldn’t be all that hard since we’ve only shared a few sentences, only held gazes for as long as a lightning bug can hold a burn. And I’ve been doing okay at taking my own advice, with a little bit of Branley’s help one weekend when her parents were out of town and Adam wasn’t answering his phone. I definitely did not have Alex on my mind when Adam realized he’d missed her calls and I had to run out the back, sweat sticking my T-shirt to my shoulder blades, Branley trying to finger-comb the sex-bump out of her hair before she answered the door.