The Female of the Species (2 page)

The thing about Alex Craft is, you forget she's there.

I didn't give her much thought until we were freshmen, chomping at the bit to help with search parties for her sister. We enjoyed pretending to be adults, the feeling that we were actually doing something, even though most of us forgot to check the batteries on our flashlights and Park had a baggie in his pocket that stopped our searching cold once we were out of sight of the real adults.

Branley actually packed a snack, like we were going camping or something. To be fair, after the baggie was empty, we were totally thrilled and she was our hero, just like she wanted. She sat on my lap that night, happy to squirm right where she knew I liked it. And I didn't
stop her. I've never stopped Branley. Still haven't learned how.

So our hero was the girl who brought Doritos to chase our weed, and a few yards away from where we sat, an actual hero found the body. Parts of it, anyway. We didn't even notice the gathering flashlights until the girl Park was with made a noise when he got her in just the right place, and they swung toward us.

I've thought about it a lot in the three years since, how we must've looked in that glare. Branley's “Find Anna” shirt shoved up over her tits, my pants around my ankles, all of us with red-rimmed eyes and big
oh shit
looks on our faces.

The guy out in front was all rugged-looking, dirty beard and a hat, a loose jacket. The kind of guy who I thought would laugh and tell us to keep on going while he kept the light on us. But he never even glanced at Branley or Park's girl while they yanked their clothes in place. Instead he looked right at me and said, “Get the fuck out of here, douchebags.”

I was so busy tucking it all back in I thought everybody was pissed because of us, that their faces were set hard and their lights were pointing at the ground because they didn't want to know—for sure—what we'd been doing. But that wasn't it.

Her hand was sticking up out of the dirt, stripped to
the bone, the gnawed-on skin peeled back to the wrist. I froze in the act of pulling up my zipper. I didn't know then that once the area was cordoned off, parts of Anna Craft would be found all over the place. I thought it was a shallow grave she'd tried to dig herself out of, with me a few yards away doing my best to pound a different girl down into the ground.

“What?” Branley had said, eyes on my face as always, completely missing that they'd found what we were supposed to be looking for.

I left her. I did exactly what that guy said and turned around and got the fuck out of there. I ran because one of the faces in that circle of light was Alex Craft, a girl I'd gone to school with my whole life, a girl who sometimes you don't see. I saw her then, as she reached down to touch her sister's dirt-streaked fingers, like a kid digging up a toy that got mired in the sandbox. And I haven't been able to unsee her since.

This is what I think about when she brushes past me on the first day of our senior year, her dark hair swinging as she walks, face still wearing the hard mask I saw that night, like it's permanently set.

I wonder if she heard that guy call me a douchebag.

And I want to know if she agrees.

Because I sure as hell do.

I have a name, but everyone just calls me Peekay because I'm the PK—Preacher's Kid. I'm thinking about this because my name—or at least my nickname—should be somewhere in the pic Sara just sent me, a screencap she snatched off my boyfriend's phone while he was passed out at a party. A screencap of increasingly dirty sexting that should alternate between
Adam
and
Peekay
but instead says
Adam
and
Branley
.

I toss my phone into the passenger seat and focus on not crying while I wait for the woman from the animal shelter to arrive and unlock the building. My leg is bouncing up and down while I burn off my anger, the car keys jangling against my knee. I yank them out of the ignition when I spot the beaded key chain that
says “Peekay & Adam 4-Ever.” It's made out of letters and footballs and hearts, the paint rubbed away in spots from years of friction as it passed in and out of my jeans pocket.

Years.

“Fucker,” I say, and break the black cord that holds them all together, sending letters and hearts and footballs all over my car.

I'm not supposed to say that word, because I'm a preacher's kid. But I'm also not supposed to drink beer or know what a dick smells like, so language is the least of my sins. My phone makes a noise at me, one that used to make me dive for it in the middle of the night, breathless and happy. A noise that used to send my stomach up in my throat. Except now that organ is definitely going another way, and I get out of my car so I don't have to look at the screen all lit up with his name, hearts on either side of it. Some beads roll out behind me and one crunches under my foot as I get out.

It's the “&.”

More pieces fall out onto the gravel and I hear another car. I tuck my hands up into the sleeves of my hoodie because it's colder than it's supposed to be today (thanks, Ohio) and I'm ready to get inside the shelter and start my Senior Year Experience.

On my grade card it will say SYE—Animal Shelter
Volunteer, and that will probably be followed by a capital A, nicely aligned with all the others. I have a very different idea about what constitutes a Senior Year Experience, and Adam was supposed to be a part of that. Until now.

I stomp my foot, telling myself I'm doing it to keep warm, and that the little heart charm that has now been ground into a fine powder had nothing to do with it. The other car pulls up next to mine, but it's not the lady from the shelter. It's another student, and it takes me a second to place her as she gets out of the car.

Actually, that's kind of a lie. I know exactly who she is, I just can't remember her
name
. So I'm standing there, my fists balled up in fabric and my feet smacking against the ground, when I say, “Hey, Anna. You volunteering here for SYE?”

She looks at me for a second before I realize what I just did.

“I'm Alex,” she says.

“I know, right. Yeah, I totally know,” I say, my words falling out all over each other. “It's just—”

“It's just that when you look at me all you think about is my older sister, so your brain offers that name instead.”

“Yeah,” I say, more than a little set back by her factual presentation, like I'm a science fair judge instead of a
girl who just put her foot in her mouth.

“Yeah,” she echoes back at me, then moves toward the shelter. Which, it turns out, was unlocked.

I watch her walk away from me, back rigid, and I think it's going to be a long Senior Year Experience. Then I hear my phone again, insistently making its Adam noise, and I think about those texts between him and Branley Jacobs and that word slips out of me again.

“Fucker.”

It's cold enough that it makes a fog in front of my mouth when I say it, and even though I brushed good this morning I can smell stale beer. So there's the word and the beer, all hanging there together in the air, and my dad would probably be really disappointed in me right now. Also because I know what a dick smells like. Or what Adam's does, anyway.

But just his.

It's easier to like animals than people, and there's a reason for that.

When animals make a stupid mistake, you laugh at them. A cat misjudges a leap. A dog looks overly quizzical about a simple object. These are funny things. But when a person doesn't understand something, if they miscalculate and hit the brakes too late, blame is assigned. They are stupid. They are wrong. Teachers and cops are there to sort it out, with a trail of paperwork to illustrate the stupidity. The faults. The evidence and incidents of these things. We have entire systems in place to help decide who is what.

Sometimes the systems don't work.

Families spend their weekend afternoons at animal
shelters, even when they're not looking for a pet. They come to see the unwanted and unloved. The cats and dogs who don't understand why they are these things. They are petted and combed, walked and fed, cooed over and kissed. Then they go back in their cages and sometimes tears are shed. Fuzzy faces peering through bars can be unbearable for many.

Change the face to a human one and the reaction changes.

The reason why is because people should know better.

But our logic is skewed in this respect. A dog that bites is a dead dog. First day at the shelter and I already saw one put to sleep, which in itself is a misleading phrase. Sleep implies that you have the option of waking up. Once their bodies pass unconsciousness to something deeper where systems start to fail, they revolt a little bit, put up a fight on a molecular level. They kick. They cry. They don't want to go. And this happens because their jaws closed over a human hand, ever so briefly. Maybe even just the once.

But people, they get chances. They get the benefit of the doubt. Even though they have the higher logic functioning and
they knew
when they did it THEY KNEW it was a bad thing.

The shelter is running a neuter-and-spay clinic next month. One of my jobs this morning is to get the mail,
fighting the urge to throw a rock at a speeding car when the driver wolf-whistles at me. The mailbox is full of applications for the clinic, most of them for dogs but a handful of cats as well. Rhonda, the lady who runs the shelter, has me sort them out, dogs and cats, male and female.

Rhonda snorts when she sees all the male dogs on the roster. “People don't learn,” she says.

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“Everyone thinks if you fix a male dog it will lower his aggression, but most of the biters are female. It's basic instinct to protect their own womb. You see it in all animals—the female of the species is more deadly than the male.”

“Except humans,” the other girl volunteering says.

The phone rings. I answer, saying, “Tri-County Animal Shelter, this is Alex,” instead of saying to the girl, “You wouldn't be in a position to know.”

Which is what had been on the tip of my tongue.

Rhonda gets a call about a stray out on the county line, so she takes the pound truck and tells us to “hold down the fort.” There's not much to hold down at this particular fort for the moment. The mornings are filled with volunteer dog-walkers and wives who like to pet cats but “aren't allowed” to have one at home. All of
those people have slowly seeped out. The other girl and I are waiting out the last fifteen minutes, me at the desk pretending to sort through spay-and-neuter applications so that I don't have to make conversation, her on her hands and knees poking her fingers through the cage our lone bunny resides in, which we dragged out to the waiting room hoping that someone would cave and take her home.

The front door swings open, slamming against the wall hard enough to knock down three “Lost Cat” posters and an informational pamphlet about Lyme disease. A woman with a red face and eyebrows that are permanently frowned into a meeting position above her nose comes in, talking before she even looks at me.

“Someone just tossed a bag of puppies out down on 9,” she says.

“County Road 9?” I ask for clarification, mostly because I know it will annoy her and because I don't like how she's talking to me. Or rather not talking to me, just shouting words in my direction, already half turned toward the door to leave.

“Yes, County Road 9,” she snaps. “What'd you think I meant?”

The other girl pulls her fingers out of the bunny cage and stands up but doesn't approach us. She hovers in the background like if I need support she might
actually say something but I shouldn't count on it. This annoys me as well, so now I'm happy with no one in the room.

“Where at on 9?” I ask, pulling out a slip of paper to write it down.

“Right before the curve,” the lady says. “He slowed down a bit and chucked the bag out the window.”

“How do you know it was puppies?” I ask.

“Excuse me?” she says, the brows finally separating a little as they fly upward.

“How do you know the bag has puppies in it?”

“I had to swerve to miss it,” she says, her voice losing a bit of its edge. “I could see it in the way that it rolled, you know? Like there was something inside trying to get out.”

“Could've been kittens,” I say.

“What does it matter?” the lady half yells at me. “I came here to the shelter to tell you there's a bag of kittens or puppies or whatever lying in the ditch on 9 and you're not doing anything about it.”

“Why didn't you stop?” I ask, feeling my internal gear switch from argumentative to combative smoothly, a well-oiled machine.

“What?” She's fuming now, her breath coming in shallow gasps that aren't giving her brain enough oxygen.

“You swerved to miss the bag. You care enough to
report it. So why didn't you stop and do something yourself?”

“My kids are in the minivan,” she says. “I didn't want them to see anything they shouldn't. Look, I'm doing everything I can. I feel sorry for those puppies—”

“I'm sure they appreciate your pity,” I say.

She's done playing nice. I see her own gears switching and know that I've pushed too far, called out a sanctimonious would-be do-gooder who isn't going to fold under my logic.

“Who is your supervisor?” she asks, glancing around the room as if suddenly realizing she's the only adult here.

“God,” I say.

“God?” I close the passenger door of Alex's car and she kind of half smiles as she starts it. The shelter is locked up, the sign flipped to “Closed,” a heavy cloud of dust marring the air from the lady in the minivan, who tore down the driveway like we'd loosed a biter on her. Alex left a message on Rhonda's phone telling her we were checking into a “tossed bag that is moving” out on 9—not specifying puppies or kittens.

“Technically it's true,” she says, in answer to my question.

“So you believe in God?” I want to kick myself as soon as I ask it, because first of all it's not the best icebreaker in the world, and secondly I just firmly filled in all the cracks of the preacher's-kid mold I'm trying to crawl out of.

But Alex shoots back with a question I'm not expecting. “Do you?”

I don't think anyone has ever asked me that before. It's assumed, like the fact that I don't own any naughty underwear or am tattoo-free.

“Yeah,” I say, and that's actually the truth. I don't like being a PK, but I'm not a liar, either.

“Why?”

I feel my imaginary ruff going up, like a dog trying to make itself look bigger. I don't know Alex, I don't know if I like her, and I don't feel like defending something as big as my belief in God during our first conversation. I'm about to say something along those lines to her, even though it'll be the pared-down version—
fuck off
—but I bite my tongue. All the shitty things I could possibly say back up in my brain because it sounded like an honest question, not a single-syllable word laced with derision, which is what I'm used to. And I guess if I'm going to be working with Alex at the shelter, we have to speak to each other at some point. Might as well cut the shit.

I take a second to put together a real answer, not some blow-off recitation of “Jesus Loves Me” where I tell her it's “because the Bible tells me so.” I know I've got something to say, but I want to get the words right, so I look out the window as Alex drives toward 9.

We hit the one light in town on a green and head
north, going past three bars and two pizza places before we get to the dead zone—a couple of paved streets with real signs (Fifth and Sixth) but nothing on them except dead-end drives. The town planners got a little overexcited in the nineties about what they thought the new calculator plant could bring to the community. Ended up all it had to offer was a broken lease and a big empty building two years in.

Oh, and like a lifetime supply of free calculators for the school. But then someone programmed them all to spell BOOBS when they powered on (58008, upside down) and they got tossed into a school auction. In a terrible twist of fate, a church the next town over bought them for their school-supply drive and apparently a bunch of fifth graders got more than they bargained for the first day of math class. But none of that musing is getting me any closer to giving Alex an answer about why I believe in God, and she's kind of giving me the side-eye while she drives.

“I guess it's because sometimes when I'm really upset, if I quiet down and let myself be still, I can feel . . .
something
.” Tears well up in my eyes even as I say it, because Lord knows I've been really upset lately and that feeling of comfort surrounding me for no reason I can put a finger on . . . well, yeah. It makes a girl cry. Even one who's trying to shed the PK stigma.

But in the end it's still a shit answer.

So I'm surprised when Alex nods like she totally gets it.

“You feel it too?” I ask.

She shrugs. “No, not like that. But things have a way of falling into place for me when I need them to.”

“Cool,” I say, and our big soul-baring is over.

Alex turns onto 9 and we spot the bag at the same time. It's an industrial-strength black garbage bag, visible heat waves rolling off it. Alex pulls over and puts her hazards on—although why she bothers, I don't know. We're surrounded by cornfields waiting for harvest and haven't seen another vehicle since we passed the last bar in town. We both get out of the car.

I know before we get to it that there's no hope. The bag's not moving, which is part of it. But there's also the reek of urine in the air and the slight metal tang of fresh blood. I don't even know if I want to see inside, but Alex doesn't hesitate. She opens it without flinching, both smells amped by about a thousand when she does.

I look away.

I hear the rustle of the bag while Alex checks to make sure they're actually dead, and then the zip sound of her lacing the drawstings up tight and double knotting them.

“Three puppies,” she says. “Two broken necks and an asphyxiation.”

I look up and down the road, the only sound the dry corn stalks rustling against one another and the persistent, regular ticking of Alex's hazard lights. “No chance anybody saw him out here,” I say.

“No,” Alex says, taking the bag to her trunk and laying it in gently. She snaps the lid shut. “But at least that lady felt sorry for them.”

We head back to the shelter, Alex in silence, me fuming. I've got my mouth clamped shut tight, all my breath coming in and out of my nose in short little bursts. All I can think about is that truck flying down the road, the hands that would've put their sleek little bodies in the bag before tossing it out like so much garbage.

A puppy feels like life and love. Their entire bodies are soft—fur, skin, the pads of their feet new and delicate. They radiate warmth in the way science can explain, but it goes further than that. The heat of affection pours out of their eyes and makes their little butts wiggle like crazy as soon as they see a person—they don't even care who. They're love, encapsulated. And someone touched that, put it in a bag, and killed it.

We come to a four-way stop in the middle of nowhere, corn stubble on one side of us, a collapsing barn on the other. It's one of those places that have stop signs on all the corners for no apparent reason, because never in the history of the county have there been four cars here at the same time. But there is another right now, an elderly
lady in her Buick. She waves at us to go ahead and Alex waves back, her fingers a casual up-flick on top of the steering wheel.

My breath is catching in my chest, my mind still thinking of puppies wriggling together, trying to draw comfort from one another in the overheated trash bag, the little whining noises they would've made to signal to the guy driving that they were scared. Their mystification that he didn't care. And the sound it would've made when the bag hit the road. For one second I wonder what I would've done if there had been a truck sitting at the intersection, and I let myself follow the thought.

I imagine a rusted-out truck, a guy wearing a T-shirt with ripped-out sleeves. I think about how he'd roll down his window, a casual question on his face until I open the door, drag him out, and kick him in the gut over and over and over until he's making the same noises those puppies probably were.

It's a fantasy, and I know it. I'm a tiny thing—five foot four—and on the days I have to bring more than two textbooks home I struggle lifting my backpack. I'm not big. I'm not strong. I'm not intimidating. I will never kick the shit out of anyone, and even if I had the chance I wouldn't do it.

But it kinda feels good to think about it.