The Female of the Species (18 page)

I didn't know a living person could hurt you so badly.

When the pain originates with someone who is gone, it's your own memory that hurts you. Walking through the house, touching things they've touched, hearing sounds they heard, wondering what they would've thought of one thing or another. This is pain that I know, pain that I can handle, pain that is so much a part of me that if it were removed I would not be whole.

But when it's someone who's alive who hurts you, the pain can't be escaped. The things they've touched are still warm because they were just there, the sounds they hear reach your ears too—sometimes their own voice, and it's excruciating to bear. I know what he thinks about this, that, or the other because I can hear him saying so.
But not to me. He doesn't talk to me anymore.

I want to take it back.

Not just the words I said in the dark, his face slowly closing against me as the smoke rose from my clothes and the sirens ripped the air. I want to go back further, back to the moment where I stood at my own door. I dream about walking through it instead of spinning and running into the dark. I dream about going to sleep that night to the smell of coconut shampoo, my phone screen glowing with whatever latest text came in from Jack.

I want that instead of what happened, instead of the smoke that I still can't get out of my pillowcase, the dark screen of my phone staring back at me whenever I glance at it. I don't want the memories that I have. The smells and the sounds, and all the small things I did that rounded up to one big thing.

One big thing that I can't take back.

It took me a while to be able to go back.

The clearing is frozen solid when I finally get the nerve to sneak up the hill in Dad's truck, the chains on the tires the only thing stopping me from sliding back down. It's been so damn cold nobody has been out in the woods. I can't even find deer tracks. Every living thing is hunkered down, waiting for spring.

I am too, in a way. Every night when I go to bed I'm thankful that there's a streak of eight or nine hours of unconsciousness ahead of me, time in which I don't have to think about Alex and what happened. Sleep is a kind of victory for me, because when I wake up it means there's another day solidly behind, one more step away from that night. I want to pile time on top of itself, years
upon years so that I can forget, or at least make what she did a hazy memory. I want to jump ahead a decade to when I'm out of this damn town, and the fresh grave in the cemetery has settled, and Alex is a name that doesn't feel like a slash on my heart.

I kill the engine and listen to it cooling, those small mechanical noises the only sounds out here as the sun sinks. It's easier to think when I'm alone and my brain runs through it all again. Alex's words, the smells that clung to her, the tears on her face and the news about Sara's uncle that tore through the halls the next day. The thing is, I've always been good at logic puzzles, and the only answer that fits says that Alex murdered someone.

It could've been an accident—that's what the cops decided, anyway. It wouldn't have been the first house fire this winter. We've all been freezing in our beds, the cold fingers of wind slipping through the tiny cracks to find us no matter where in the house we are.

But it was the only fatal fire, and the only one where my girlfriend showed up in my driveway immediately afterward, having some kind of nervous breakdown and smelling like smoke. All those damning little things say a lot, and all the pressure that was trying to push the words
I love you
out of my mouth now wants me to scream that Alex is a killer, but I can't do that. Not
where people can hear, anyway.

Park wants to know what's wrong. Branley wants to know what's wrong.

Everybody thinks that Alex and I got into some big fight and broke up. I almost wish we had. I wish I'd told her she was crazy, pushed her away from me. But I didn't. I held her and told her everything was going to be okay even as the ash started to drift in from the north, heavier than the snow and darker by far.

What I did was worse. I abandoned her.

It started when her ring tone made me want to vomit instead of answer, the guilt plunging deep into my belly and making me choke. I couldn't read her texts and I couldn't listen to her voice mails, scared of what she might say next. Scared of what she might
do
next. I even stared at the pic I've still got on my phone of Officer Nolan's email and cell once or twice.

But the thing is that I told her everything would be all right. I said that when this girl who I didn't even think could bend was completely broken, sobbing against me and hating herself. And I've been there. I know exactly what it's like to fuck up hard and not be able to fix it, so I couldn't damn her even if what she did was so far above and beyond my own screw-ups we can't even see each other across the gap.

I let that logic have its way with me, and I've waited
so long that if I rat her out now Nolan's going to want to know why I covered for her. Even if I leave an anonymous tip I'm screwed because we—the oh-so-happy new couple—suddenly broke up right when the shit went down, and he'll ask me questions. Questions that tear down the good-guy thing I've got going on and punch holes in any chances I have at a scholarship.

Alex has faded away in the past couple of weeks. Branley is highest on my recent calls list, Alex's number buried somewhere behind some sophomore girl who found the courage to call me in the bottom of a bottle. I couldn't understand anything she said, but I kept the voice mail, hoping I might find it funny eventually.

Branley has been doing her best to cheer me up but I haven't touched her. She's confused and pouty about it, and while I know she could distract me for an hour or two, it would still be Alex on my mind. Because fading or not, she still shines brighter than everyone else, and I have my nights when I want to call her up anyway. Fuck the fire and the smoke and the tears running down her face.

“Goddammit,” I yell, punching the horn and sending some birds out of their nests, reprimanding me with harsh voices.

I get out of the truck, snagging the garbage bag I brought along. It billows in the wind behind me like a
dark sail. The tree looks like shit: the ribbons I tied on with freezing fingers in anticipation of telling Alex I loved her are ripped to shreds, the ends frayed and brittle. A few of the ornaments have blown off and I step on one accidentally. It breaks with hardly any resistance and a million silver shards scatter across the snow.

I'll never be able to get all the pieces. They'll sink down into the ground with the winter melt, nonbiodegradable witnesses of my failed night that will never rot, just release whatever chemicals they're painted with. I try to scoop everything up, but every time I think I've got it, the sun hits another piece, and soon my gloves are soaking wet, my fingers are painfully crooked, and I've spent a half hour trying to pick up one goddamn ornament and I am pissed.

The part of me that's held on to everything I know is swelling, a bitter anger that inflames my heart and sends my blood pushing through my veins too hard, shooting black spots across my vision as I head back to the truck. Dad's ax is in the back, and it's heavy in my hand as I take my first swing, the tree shuddering under the blow. Ornaments fall and are crushed under my boots but I keep swinging, the pressure in my chest lightening a little with each connection, the head of the ax sticky with sap.

I regret it when I'm halfway through, but it's too late.
The tree leans heavily to one side, the red ribbons now faded to pink dragging on the ground. I stomp down hard on the trunk, right above the deep notch where I killed it, and the
snap
reverberates through the woods.

It's almost dark by the time I get home but I haul the tree out to the woodpile anyway, drag out Dad's chainsaw, and start tearing in. Mom comes out, coat wrapped tight around her body, a question on her face. I wave her away, sawdust flying around me as I take off the limbs, one by one, needles carpeting the ground at my feet. Dad gets home and I see Mom talking to him through the kitchen window, hands moving, as alarmed as the birds in the woods.

By the time Dad comes out the cutting is done. He helps me stack in silence, not commenting on the ornament hooks still clutching in some places, or the strands of wrecked ribbon mixed with the chips on the ground. We finish and he claps a hand on my shoulder.

“Well, that's done,” he says. As if cutting down a tree and stacking green wood we won't be able to burn for a year was on the list of things to do today. “Come inside and get some supper.”

I nod that I will and he goes without looking back, somehow knowing that the crazy thing I just did was healthier for me than all the normal shit I've been doing every day just to get by. My arms are like lead and my
feet drag as I walk to the house. I'll sleep well tonight, solidly. I'll put today behind me, get through tonight.

And maybe tomorrow I won't think of Alex the moment I open my eyes.

“I'm calling it,” I say.

“What's that?” Sara asks from the passenger seat.

“It's time for Emergency Girlfriend Pact.”

She glances up from her phone. “For who?”

“Alex.”

She looks back down at her screen, thumbs flashing. “Hmmm.”

I stop at a light, and reach over to knock the phone out of her hands. “Seriously.”

Sara sighs. “Fine. But she's your friend, not mine.”

“As long as you're in. I may need backup.”

I drive to Alex's house and we stand on the doorstep for a few minutes, listening to the knocker echo through the insides. Sara huddles against the cold,
hands jammed in her pockets.

“Nobody home,” she proclaims.

“Just because nobody's answering doesn't mean nobody's home in this house.” I take a chance, twist the knob, and shove my shoulder into the door. It pops open grudgingly and I tumble inside.

“Seriously?” Sara says, but there might be a note of admiration in her voice.

“Alex?” I call out, her name ringing back at me from the pristine walls.

“Claire?” She comes to the top of the stairs, a paperback in her hands. “Why are you here?”

“Girls' night,” I declare, climbing toward her, Sara behind me. “Let's go.”

“I . . .” Alex glances from me to Sara, unsure.

Sara looks down at Alex's bare feet. “You're going to need shoes,” she says. And this simple statement gets Alex moving, bundling into a coat and pulling on a hat as we go out the door.

“You're shotgun,” Sara insists as she climbs into the back.

“What's this all about?” Alex asks as I pull out of her driveway.

“We're celebrating,” I tell her.

“Celebrating what? My kidnapping?”

“Peekay has enacted Emergency Girlfriend Pact,” Sara says.

“We do this anytime one of us goes through a breakup,” I explain. “We're celebrating your liberation from having a boyfriend.”

“Or in my case, a girlfriend,” Sarah adds.

“We're going to drink too much and eat too much. Fuck the world,” I say.

“She doesn't mean that last one as a verb, does she?” Alex turns in her seat to ask Sara, and I see a twist of a smile on her face in the rearview mirror.

“No,” Sara answers. “But the first two are definites. I ordered pizza.”

“And I called in Chinese,” I say. “Any requests?”

“Um . . . I like cheeseburgers.”

“Done.” Sara is texting in the back. “Lila is working at the grease palace. And my brother is at the state store tonight, so hooch is covered.”

“So where are we going right now?”

“This is the best part,” I say as I pull into the dollar store, put the car in park, and give Alex a once-over.

“I think Code Yellow,” I say to Sara.

“Absolutely not,” she says, leaning forward and protectively cupping her hands around Alex's ponytail. “You're not stripping out these raven tresses. Code Red, all the way.”

“Explanation?” Alex asks me, one eyebrow high.

“This is the part where we buy cheap dye, go home,
get drunk, and color each other's hair.”

To my surprise, Alex is the first one out of the car.

We have eaten ourselves to the point of physical pain, had too much to drink, and started a fire in the pit in my backyard, which probably wasn't the smartest choice considering our blood alcohol levels and the fresh chemicals in our hair. But it doesn't matter. My mom and dad are at a church retreat for married couples and we're making the most of it.

“You can really pack it in,” Sara says to Alex. “You weren't kidding when you said you like cheeseburgers.”

“I do.” Alex nods, her gaze a little unfocused. “I really do.”

“You're staying the night,” I inform her, and she nods, the foil wrappers in her hair catching the light from the flames.

“Time?” I ask Sara, who glances at her phone, her own wrappers falling forward into her face.

“We've got ten minutes,” she says. “Then we're matchy matchy.”

“Somewhat,” I say. We decided highlights were best, a little red shot through Alex's black hair that would complement our darker browns as well.

“It'll give your face some lift,” Sara explained as she mixed the chemicals, the tang burning the inside of
our noses. Alex nodded as if she understood what that meant and I had to smother a smile.

“Thank you,” Alex says, leaning toward me now across the fire.

I touch the neck of my bottle to hers and Sara pops a fresh one for herself.

“Are we friends?” Alex asks Sara suddenly.

Sara takes a pull on her cider, touching her own foil and then Alex's. “Looks like it,” she says. “Once enacted, Emergency Girlfriend Pact cannot be revoked. We have matching hair now. This is serious shit.”

Alex smiles, her gaze going to the fire. “I'm sorry about your uncle,” she says. As usual, her words carry more weight than necessary, making it sound like she was personally responsible rather than offering condolences.

Sara freezes for a second, her eyes meeting mine. I nod to let her know that I'd let Alex in on the situation, hoping that was okay.

“Well,” Sara sighs heavily. “I know it might sound terrible, but it kind of made some things easier for my family. We didn't have to think about, you know, pressing charges or anything like that. It was just . . . taken care of.” Sara snaps her fingers.

Alex nods, as if this makes sense to her.

“But they told us he burned,” Sara continues, all
lightness gone from her voice. “Usually it's the smoke that gets them or whatever, but he burned. And I can't even imagine that kind of pain. I don't think anyone should go that way, but it's what happened.”

“Yeah,” Alex says.

“Hey, good job killing the mood,” I tell them.

Sara shrugs. “Sorry.”

“It needed to be said,” Alex adds.

“I'm officially changing the subject.” I reach into the dollar store bag by my side, searching for something I bought while Alex wasn't looking.

Sara's eyes light up, and she claps her hands. “Oh, you're going to love this,” she tells Alex.

“What?”

I whip out a plastic tiara, complete with gaudy gemstones, and put it on Alex, hooking the attached barrettes into her hair. “You're wearing that to school on Monday,” I tell her. “It's the Breakup Tiara.”

She nods as if this makes perfect sense, and it slips down below one eye.

“I definitely will,” she says, and we all clink bottles as it starts to snow.