The Female of the Species (11 page)

“What the hell are you doing?” Ray demands as he reaches for his friend.

Alex smiles. “Whatever I want. Just like you.”

Her hand flashes out, a pale arc that connects only briefly with Ray's face. There's a ripping sound, like denim giving out at the seams, except it's his cartilage letting go as she swipes his chain off, bringing a chunk of nose and his earlobe with it. It dangles in Alex's hand, fleshy weights on either end as Ray falls to the floor shrieking.

The third guy backpedals with his hands in front of him even though Alex isn't advancing. “What the hell is wrong with you?” he asks over and over. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

Alex fades away from my side, no longer interested in the tweakers. She's on the ground with Branley, the two of them propping up Peekay to get her to her feet.

“You need to get them out of here,” Park says to the only guy left standing. “Don't any of you come back, either. If Jack and I ever find you here again . . .” He trails off, any threat he could deliver paling in comparison to what Alex did to them.

But the guy nods, eager to agree. “Okay, okay, man.” He hauls Ray to his feet, who's still making noises like a deer that's been hit by a car and hasn't had the luck to bleed out yet.

“Dude,” Park says to me, “your girlfriend is, like . . . fucking scary. But also totally awesome. Is it okay if I'm half in love with her right now?”

“Yeah, man. It's cool,” I say, my eyes still riveted on three dark drops of blood against the stone floor.

Because I feel exactly the same way. On all counts.

What is wrong with you?

I know this game, have played it often. It's a question asked many times, always in Mom's voice, following my vocalization of something I'm not supposed to say. When I was younger, Anna would turn it into a joke, our version of family prayer at dinnertime, when something I'd said or done came to light over the potatoes and corn.

Like the time I punched Phil Morris at a basketball game after he snapped Anna's bra. Her cheeks had been red with humiliation, the straps still new to her body and the burn of vengeance something she'd never owned. My hands were small, sticky with the remains of a sucker. When I hit him in the gut, it knocked his
breath out and left a child-size fist-print on his T-shirt, neon blue with chemical flavoring.

Usually Anna's comebacks to Mom's favorite question were silly, designed to make me laugh. “Let's see . . . what is wrong with you, Alex? Do you have smallpox? Are you allergic to wheat? Are your legs broken? No? Hmm . . . I guess there's nothing wrong with you,” she'd finish pointedly.

But when Phil's mom called, there had been no jokes, no diversions. Anna had set her fork down after Mom's diatribe, which ended with her favorite question. “She's defending her sister,” she said. “And there's nothing wrong with that.”

And there wasn't. And there isn't. And I'll keep doing it.

I'll keep doing it even though she's not here to defend.

Because there are others like him still. Tonight they used words they know, words that don't bother people anymore. They said
bitch
. They told another girl they would put their dicks in her mouth. No one protested because this is our language now. But then I used my words, strung in phrases that cut deep, and people paid attention; people gasped. People didn't know what to think.

My language is shocking.

They would have hurt my friend. They would have
left bruises on her, like the one that will radiate from his coccyx. Theirs would have been thumb-shaped and pressed into her waist where they held her down. Instead of a warm rush down her legs when she first stood in the morning, I drew blood from his face. He'll be mutilated, I know, and some might think me too harsh.

But some men should be marked. I'm fit for that task.

And I don't feel bad.

Still, the question remains:
What is wrong with you?
Because something
is
, and I know that. I've tried to find out, looked up the words and the phrases that seemed as if they should fit. Words like
sociopath
and
psychopath
, ones that people like to toss around without knowing what they actually mean. But neither of them fits. They spoke of lack of empathy, disregarding the safety of others—when I am the opposite.

I feel too much.

I wanted to ask Dad, when he showed up for Anna's funeral. I wore high heels for the first time and they kept sticking in the mud, and I felt like the earth itself was stopping me from going to him. He came to me instead, putting a hand on my head just like when I was small. He met my eyes and all the words built up in my throat, every question I had for him wanting to come out at once.

What is wrong with us? Why did you leave me behind? Can I stop being this way?

But before any of them came out he said, “How's my little firecracker?”

Like it was a joke, this thing inside me. A cute quirk for a girl to have, our dark leanings reduced to one word. So I said, “I'm fine.”

I'm not fine, and I doubt I ever will be.

The books didn't help me find a word for myself; my father refused to accept the weight of it. And so I made my own.

I am vengeance.

Hands on me. Hands touching. Hands twisting. Hands on all the places I warned our church campers about during the awkward hour of stranger danger, where I said
the places your bathing suit covers
instead of
vagina
or
penis
or
butt
. Trusting little faces turned up toward me in a semicircle as I stammer through the talk, tiny mouths trying not to twist into giggles because they're good kids. Mom and Dad watching from the sidelines, ready to jump in if I flub too badly.

Mom and Dad.

Oh my God.

What will I tell them about the hands that were definitely in places they shouldn't be? Places that even a damn thong would cover. I keep my eyes closed, refusing
to acknowledge that the blackness has abated. I don't want to know where I am, or what has happened. They say ignorance is bliss and it has never been truer than now, as I will myself back into unconsciousness. But the darkness that had me before was deep, and my eyelids are nothing in comparison. I grit my teeth and open my eyes.

To the brightness of a new morning.

I'm in a bed I don't know, surrounded by blank walls that lack even the impersonal art of a hotel room. There's a dresser and a desk, and in the corner of the mirror I see my own picture. It's the pose of me leaning against the rock wall at the state park, the cockiest little twist of my head that was a result of the cameraman telling me one too many times to smile, and I kind of felt like twisting his head off like a chicken at that point. It's the last one I held on to, the one I gave to Alex, and as the darkness in my head fades I see her on the floor, curled into a ball, her back to the bed.

She's sleeping, the rise and fall of her breathing deep and rhythmic, her hair wrapped around her hands and tucked under her head as a pillow, because she left both of the real pillows in the bed for me. I lie back, feeling the bump of my phone in my pocket. I've got eight missed calls from my mom, five voice mails and three texts, the last one asking simply ARE YOU SAFE?

I look at Alex, the pattern of her breathing changing as she comes up out of sleep, hearing even the smallest movements I make. And I think,
Yes, I am safe.

But I slip into Alex's bathroom to be sure, trying to ignore the bump of fear that rises in my throat as my underwear slides down. I'm clean, the smell of man nowhere on me, the unmistakable whiff that varies from guy to guy but always seems to have an edge to it, like chlorine. A sob catches and I sink in relief onto the bathroom floor, propping myself against the toilet only to find the cool tiles against my bare self in stark contrast to a slight burn, a sliver where the fleshiest parts of me have been slightly scraped away.

I know what it is. A fingernail scratch from the guy who had his hand down my pants from behind, so anxious to know what I felt like he couldn't wait for cover of darkness. My brain is like a slide show on fast forward, images flickering so quickly I can't get a grasp on what his face looked like but I do remember in great detail that he had dirty hands and long fingernails, a cake of grime packed under each one.

I gag as I riffle through Alex's cupboards, looking for anything to get me clean. Rubbing alcohol is the first thing my hands find and I dump it directly onto my crotch, the sting and the panic forcing the solids behind the gag up into my throat. I make it back to the toilet
in time, the cool porcelain calming against my cheek as I vomit over and over, losing everything I drank and whatever the hell they gave me.

I'm empty, stinking of sterility and vomit at the same time when Alex opens the door, not bothering to knock. I don't care that my panties are around my ankles and there are snot runners hanging out of my nose. I can't feel embarrassment because my brain has room only for revulsion, my entire being shrunk to the tiny area of inflamed skin I can't even see.

“I don't know how anybody can stand it,” I say, shaking fingers reaching for the toilet paper roll.

Alex leans against the doorway in a tank top and pajama pants, her arms crossed in front of her, the space between us needing to be filled with words. I blow my nose, wiping the few stray tears.

“All I have is a scratch,” I explain. “One little, tiny . . .” I break down again. Because it's not just a little tiny scratch, and I know that. The softest parts of my skin are under a stranger's dirty fingernails, my DNA embedded there along with fast-food grease and his own dandruff. Some of my cells are with him right now and I don't want them to be. I want them back. I want them all right where they belong and I can't even imagine if it were the other way around, if I'd woken up with a miasma of
them
deep inside of me, and the thought sends me retching
again, the sound almost drowning out the buzzing of my phone.

Alex nods toward it as I flush. “You okay to get that?”

“Yeah,” I say weakly. The word
Mom
splayed across the screen in stark black and white is one of the most terrifying things I've ever seen, but not answering isn't an option.

I pick up.

“I'm okay” is the first thing I say, the most important detail that needs to be made clear before all else.

She just starts sobbing, the sound drawing my own from deep inside of me, from somewhere even the jolt of vomiting hadn't touched. We cry together as Alex leaves, shutting the door behind her.

“I'm okay,” I say again, once I can get words out. “I'm safe and I'm with a friend.”

“Who?” Mom demands, her relief spent, anger on the rise.

“Alex Craft.”

There's a quiet moment of confusion. “The dead girl?”

“Mom—
Alex
Craft.”

“You're with a
boy
? Claire, your father—”

“Mom!” I cut through her sentence, Mom when flustered somehow even more hilarious when I'm sitting in a puddle of rubbing alcohol and no underwear. “I am with
Alex Craft—who is not dead and who is in fact a girl.”

“Oh, well . . . good,” she says. I giggle a little, and she does too, knowing herself well enough to be aware where the hook is and that she's an inch away from flying off it.

“What were you going to say about Dad?”

“Your father went to the church.”

“Did he think God would hear him better there or something?” Because I know my dad's first response when I didn't come home at curfew would've been prayer.

“He went to
the
church, Claire.”

“Ohhhhhhh . . .” is all I can think of to say. A flush creeps up my cheeks as I picture my dad picking his way through sleeping bags full of bleary teens, probably tucking them in more securely and advising them to drink plenty of fluids in the morning.

“We tried not to be too upset when you didn't come home,” Mom goes on. “I was mad but your dad said you were probably there, and that showing up would just make it worse . . . but then . . . Claire, you didn't come home and we didn't know what to do. He went out to the church, and when he didn't find you . . .”

She starts crying again and I close my eyes. “I'm sorry, Mom. I'm so sorry.”

“So what happened?” Mom asks; there's a tone of resignation, the sound of a parent who has tried really hard
for a long time and realizes that the end of the tunnel doesn't have a light so much as a black hole.

“Some guys put something in my drink,” I tell her. “They drugged me and it could've been really bad, but Alex was with me and she . . .” I pause, because I don't know what happened in between me falling onto Ray's shoulder and waking up in Alex's bed. I just know what
didn't
happen.

“She kept me safe,” I finish.

“She must be a good friend, then,” Mom says, followed by the sound of her nose blowing. “It sounds like we should meet her.”

“Yeah, that'd be cool,” I say. “Maybe I can get her to come over for dinner tonight?”

“Sure,” Mom says, and I'm just pulling my jeans back on when she adds, “Oh, and Claire?”

“Yeah?”

“You're grounded.”

Alex tells me what she did after I get a shower, scrubbing so hard it hurts. We're eating salads—she made two without comment, slicing hard-boiled eggs into some greens and tossing cheese on top, sticking a fork in everything and handing it to me like feeding me was a common occurrence. Her mom passes through the kitchen briefly, slightly puzzled by the sight of me.
She refills a glass, using her shoulders to hide what she pours. I wait for her to leave before I respond, my eyes on the crumbly boiled yolk of my egg.

“That's . . .” I trail off, aware that I was about to say
crazy
, along with words like
you shouldn't have done that
. It's a reflex, something that's been ingrained in me. Do no harm. Be nice. You catch more flies with honey than vinegar.

But what if I don't want to catch the flies? What if I'd rather see them swatted?

“Thank you,” I say instead.

She nods as she polishes off her salad, finally meeting my eyes. She hadn't been looking at me while she explained, as if all her concentration was required to eat. “I wasn't sure how you'd feel about it,” she says.

I don't answer because I'm still sorting that out myself. I know what my parents would say, that violence is never the answer; all conflict can be resolved peacefully. But my mom doesn't have a fingernail scratch in her crotch, and my dad doesn't know what it feels like to be carried away by three guys.

“They were so thrilled when I said I'm a virgin,” I blurt out. “I'm so fucking stupid.”

I start crying again, and Alex hands me a napkin. “You're not stupid,” she says. “You simply don't assume that people mean you harm.”

“Yeah, well.” I blow my noise loudly. “Last night that equaled being stupid.”

“No, it means you're normal,” Alex says, gathering up my bowl when it's clear I'm more interested in crying than eating. “Believe me when I say it's better.”

“Why me, then?” I ask. “Why not Branley? She's way hotter and was just as drunk as I was.”

Alex shakes her head as she sits back down. “Physical attractiveness has nothing to do with it. You were alone, isolated, and weak. The three of them had been watching girls all night, waiting for someone to separate from a group. It happened to be you, but it could've been anyone. Opportunity is what matters, nothing else.”

I look down at my chest, the push-up bra jamming my cleavage almost to my chin. She follows my gaze.

“I'm telling you, Claire. It doesn't matter. What you were wearing. What you look like. Nothing. Watch the nature channel. Predators go for the easy prey.”

I think of Branley, gorgeous and soaked in beer, but surrounded by admirers. Then there was me, drunk and sulking, wandering around and practically begging for attention. Easy prey, indeed.

“She actually helped, you know,” Alex says.

“Who?”

“The blond girl, Branley. She was the one who got you up off the floor. She buttoned your shirt back up,
and made sure Sara had your phone when we carried you out to the car.”

“Oh,” I say.

“I know you want to hate her,” Alex says. “But I don't think she deserves it.”

“Wait till she bangs your boyfriend,” I mutter.

“Judging by both their behavior, I'm pretty sure she already has,” Alex says. “But he wasn't my boyfriend before, so it doesn't matter.”

“What exactly did I miss? Is he your boyfriend
now
?” I ask.

“I don't know,” Alex says, the same mild puzzlement that her mother wore earlier now crossing her face. “How do you establish that?”

“You ask, plainly,” I say, ready to take my turn as coach. “And with Jack Fisher, you need to be clear that monogamy is part of the deal. He gets around, and I swear if he hurts you, it'll be my turn to kick some ass.” I shake a fist in her face to make my point.

“Your thumb goes on the outside,” she says.