The Female of the Species (4 page)

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, teeth 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 the 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.

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.

So I've done a good job of clearing my mind of this girl that I've got no business thinking about anyway when she appears out of the rain. I'm coming around the bend of the sharpest curve in the whole county when I see someone walking, shoulders hunched, and I remember passing a car that had slid off the road a ways back.

I slow down so I don't hit them, but I stop because I see that the person is unmistakably female. I would stop anyway—just to be clear—but there's more of an incentive when the rain has plastered her already tight clothing to a very fit body. I swing alongside, roll down the passenger window, and say, “Need some help?”

I don't realize it's Alex until she raises her head, dark hair hanging in wet sheets on either side of her face. She looks at me carefully, as if she's trying to remember who I am (it hurts more than I want to admit), and then there's the phantom of a smile.

“Jack?”

She says it quietly, as if she's either unsure that's my name, or like she's been waiting for a chance to talk to me and can't quite comprehend that I'm actually in front of her. I hope like hell it's the second option, because that's exactly how
I
feel.

“Yeah,” I say. “You okay?”

I realize the second they're out of my mouth those words are both the last thing I said to her two weeks ago, and the single most asinine thing I can say to anyone who is drenched and walking away from a broken-down vehicle. I reach across my passenger seat and pop the door. “Want a ride home?”

Alex chews her bottom lip for a second, and it kills me because I know she's wondering if she can get in the car with me and not end up in a hole in the woods like her sister. I don't say anything. It's her call.

She releases her lip, leaving behind two little white indents, and says, “That would be ni—” She stops, searching for a different word. “Convenient.”

When she gets in the passenger seat, I smell rain and girl and a hint of chemicals.

I pull away, all the conversations I'd imagined us having since we talked last leaking out of my brain completely. So I say, “Were you swimming?”

“No. Why would I be?”

“Nothing, it's just . . . you smell like the pool, or chlorine, or . . . something.”

“It's bleach. I'm doing my SYE at the animal shelter and we clean out the cages on Saturdays. Turn right here.”

I brake and look for the road, aware that she hasn't
given me her address or any real directions to her house. “Here?”

She nods, but is quiet after that. I clear my throat.

“Doesn't Peekay volunteer at the shelter, too?”

Alex wrinkles her nose, sending her freckles into a huddle just on the bridge. “That's not her real name, is it? I always wondered.”

“It's what we call her. PK because she's the preacher's kid, you know?”

Alex nods and looks down at herself. “These are her clothes. That's why they're so tight on me.”

There are about a thousand sex jokes Park would trot out right now about girls wearing other girls' clothes and naughty overnights. I'm so glad he's not here. But it makes sense to me suddenly why I was so surprised to see Alex's face on the trim silhouette that emerged from the rain.

She's slipped out of the conscious thought of just about every guy around because she doesn't make herself visible. Other girls push the dress code, showing a solid few inches of cleavage or leggings that hug so tight you don't need an imagination. The cheerleaders' skirts are short enough you can easily pinpoint where leg makes the curvy transition into ass.

But Alex is different, remarkable because her clothes are utterly nondescript. She wears jeans that give no clue
what's underneath and solid-color shirts that are all function, not fashion, like they've done their job of keeping the wearer from being naked and that's all that can be expected. I notice these things because in a sea of flesh, all I can look at is Alex's hair swinging as she walks.

It's been like that since I saw her face the night I ran away from a dead body in the woods, shame tearing through the high of weed and sex to punch me so hard that I had to stop to catch my breath fifty feet away from that circle of flashlights. Three years I've been trying to find the right things to say to this girl sitting in my passenger seat, and all that pops out of my idiot mouth is:

“Well, you look nice in Peekay's clothes.”

“I . . . thank you,” she says awkwardly, like the words don't quite fit around her tongue. “Turn left.”

“You really do.” I plow ahead. “I didn't know you were so fit.”

It's an incredibly stupid thing to say, but it's also the only thing on my mind. She's put together in a way that seems a little dangerous, all whip-thin and muscle. On a guy that build means he can kick your ass, but he can also lean against a wall and you don't see him until he wants to fuck with you.

I don't know what it means on a girl, but I know I like it.

“I run a lot,” Alex says. “I like to be outside. Turn left again. It's the third house.”

It's pretty much the only one. The other two are abandoned farmhouses with rotting barns splitting like old shoes, ancient bales of straw hanging out of busted haymows. But Alex's house is nice and shiny, the kind that you pick out of a catalog and someone builds in two weeks. They're expensive and they look good, but it's good skin with a folding skeleton, a house that will collapse in forty years while the farmhouses down the road with no windows and sagging porches will stand against the elements for another century.

I pull into the driveway, but she stays in the car and looks at me for a second longer than necessary. My heart goes up into my throat.

“Thank you,” she says again, this time thinking through each syllable so it comes out a little more smoothly. “That was ni—”

“Convenient,” I interrupt with her word from before and she smiles, the hint of a blush flushing her cheeks.

“I'm sorry,” she says, and those words flow out easily, like she says them a lot. “I'm not used to . . .”

“Talking to boys?” I supply.

“Yes.”

“Well, get used to it,” I say, and before I even think about what I'm doing, I give her a punch on the arm.
Which, it turns out, might have been the best thing I could do because she busts out laughing and punches me back.

And it kinda hurts.