The Female of the Species (20 page)

Shit. Shower. Shave. This is how a guy gets ready for prom.

Branley has been getting ready for two days. Yesterday was phase one, which involved a very long salon appointment that she informed me consisted mostly of waxing, and made a big deal out of telling me they had to order more wax ahead of time because she was
very thorough
. Today is phase two. Phase two is pedicure, manicure, hair, and makeup. She fills me in on the brand of makeup that, again, the salon had to order because the one place in town that will do facials doesn't carry the high-end stuff. And I couldn't give less of a fuck, but senior prom is going to be her crowning achievement, and there's a part I'm supposed to play.

I know I'll end up in bed with her. Tonight I'm going to get drunk, probably be an asshole to a few people, and then I'm going to screw Branley because she wants me to. And if I'm being honest, the bottom half of me is into it, even if the top—where my brain and my heart are—knows that it's all wrong and I shouldn't go to the lodge that a whole bunch of us went in on together for after prom.

I shouldn't go because if I do I'm the same Jack Fisher who started senior year, the guy who was led around by his dick and drank too much. The guy who hadn't ever been in love or had his heart broken. A guy who never knew Alex Craft. But that guy was also happier in a lot of ways. He didn't know things that I know.

I wipe the rest of the shaving cream off my chin, let Mom snap a couple of pictures of me in my tux, and then I head out the door. At Branley's house there's a whole process involved. Her parents make me wait in the living room and she actually comes down the stairs to me, like we're getting married or something. They video my reaction, and I don't have to fake it. She looks amazing. Stunning. Absolutely gorgeous.

I tell her that, and I mean it, and she actually blushes a little. I can see it under all the makeup and it makes me want to tell her to wash her face, put on a pair of jeans, and we'll go up to the lodge early, wade in the stream
like we used to when we were kids. But her mom is pinning a boutonniere on me (tinted to perfectly match Branley's dress—sea-foam green—I know this because I've been informed many, many times), and if I said let's drop the shit and just be ourselves there'd be hundreds of dollars thrown away.

So I put on my fake smile and her parents take about a thousand pictures and tell us what a beautiful couple we make, and I bite down on my lip because I don't know if we are a couple or ever have been. Branley laughs and smiles, rests her head on my shoulder, leaving behind a flesh-colored smudge of makeup on my jacket that I really hope will come off because I can't afford to pay any kind of cleaning fee.

Then we're in the car and I'm trying to drive but Branley keeps putting her hand on my leg, her head on my arm, touching me so much that it's distracting more than erotic and all I can think about is that this is what college will be like. She'll follow me around and her hands will be on me all the time, feeling, touching, needing, and I'll give her whatever she wants because I always have and that'll just make it worse. My grades will slip and I'll lose my scholarship and have to drop out, and Branley will follow me home and
fuck
I probably will end up marrying her and we'll have kids and they'll go up to the church to make out with the kids of the
people we're going to see at prom tonight.

“Stop touching me,” I say, my voice so hollow she actually listens.

I glance over and I can tell she's hurt but I can't let it bother me, not after the thoughts that just chased through my brain, an endless loop that I can't stop picturing.

Prom is a sea of colors, all of them vying for attention, much like the girls wearing them. Red, green, blue, a few brave souls in yellow, a couple of colors I'm pretty sure don't even have names and definitely don't occur in nature. What I see the most of, though, is flesh, everywhere. Technically prom is supposed to follow dress code, but the teachers know that if they toss some kid who spent hundreds of bucks on a prom dress they'll have to deal with a pissed-off parent, whether it shows her areolae or not.

So there's legs and tits everywhere, quite a few midriffs. Shiny white teeth flashing out from behind lips coated with gloss, shining unnaturally beneath the lights. I brought a flask and I've been helping myself a little more than is probably smart, but I don't know how else to deal with this night. I tell Branley I need to sit a song out, that if I keep moving I might lose the chicken cordon bleu I paid thirty bucks for all over her dress. It's a threat to her perfection, so she allows me to go.

I'm sitting at our table, fishing in my jacket pocket for the flask, when I see the hole in the brightness, a spot of darkness that stands out among the chaos. Alex is weaving through the crowd in a brown dress that probably looked like a bag on the hanger but looks better than sex on her. It covers everything it should but hugs close, giving you an outline of what's underneath that is way hotter than just going ahead and showing it.

Branley looks fantastic, no doubt. She looks like the perfect teenage prom date, a little kid playing dress-up. Alex looks like a
woman
, like an adult who has already seen it all and doesn't need to prove shit. She heads for a table on the far side, where I see Sara and her date in matching dresses.

Branley's watching me over the shoulder of her dance partner, eyes slit like a cat ready to pounce. I grab my punch glass and tip the flask into it under the table, almost dumping half the drink when Peekay flops into the chair next to me.

“Hey, asshole, dance with me,” she says.

It's not the most flattering invitation I've ever had, but I know Park brought his own flask and it looks like Peekay got in on that action early. She drags me onto the floor so hard I'm tripping to avoid stepping on the back of her dress, which drags even though she has on heels. Even with the shoes her face just hits my chest,
so I'm looking down into her fairly flushed cheeks as we start to dance.

“You see Alex?” she asks.

“Yeah.”

“She looks good, right?”

There's no harm in my admitting that, so I nod, trying to steer us away from Branley so she can't overhear our conversation.

“So what's up with that?” Peekay pushes on.

“What do you mean?”

Peekay rolls her eyes, and suddenly one very pointy, nicely painted fingernail is digging into my chest. “You listen to me, Jack Effing Fisher,” she says. “Branley's run-of-the-mill. She's a golden retriever, you got me? Alex is an Irish wolfhound.” The nail pushes in a little farther.

“An
Irish wolfhound
,” she repeats, red-rimmed eyes daring me to contradict her. “And you can't just walk away from that.”

She's so mad at me I don't know if I'm going to get the chance to explain that I just came to that realization—or something like it that didn't include dog breeds—a few minutes ago. I pick her up by her elbows and lift her so that we're face-to-face, which at least gets the digging nail out from my skin. She's so surprised she stops talking.

“I know,” I say, and the depths of how well I know it
must show because Peekay suddenly smiles, transforming her whole face. I put her back down and she barrel hugs me, little arms stronger than I expected.

“If Branley is a golden retriever and Alex is an Irish wolfhound, then you're a pissed-off cocker spaniel,” I say.

“With rabies,” she adds. “And don't you forget it.” She bares her teeth at me and disappears into the crowd.

I'm at the edge of the dance floor, Alex's table only a few feet away, the doubts of the past few months reduced to nothing. My mind is trying to piece together an argument against it, but my heart knows what it wants and my feet are already moving in her direction. It's not a decision so much as instinct, and I'm beside her, my hand on hers as I say her name.

She looks at me, her eyes even bigger with a dash of eyeliner around them.

“Can we talk?” I ask.

She nods, takes my hand, and leads me out of the room, out to the balcony where the fresh air and Alex beside me is the most sobering thing I've ever experienced. I don't want to say stupid things. I don't want to tell her she looks nice or say I didn't expect to see her. I only want to talk about the things that matter, the things that have been rolling around in my brain for months, knocking into all the normal things I'm trying
to concentrate on and throwing them off course. But the only thing that comes out is the truth, simple and impossible at the same time.

“I want you,” I say.

Her face lights up, the lingering shadows I've noticed from afar for the past few months thrown aside as she smiles, her expression the only answer I need. And somehow that was the most important part. Now that it's been said, I feel like everything else, no matter how horrible, is manageable.

“You're sure?” she says, her eyes searching my face.

“I need to ask you some things first,” I say. “Are you coming to the lodge after?”

“Claire and Park are, but I don't think I'm invited.”

“I'm inviting you.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Is that okay?”

“There'll be so many people there no one will know either way. We can't talk here. Branley will be on me any second and she might throw her drink in your face.”

Alex shrugs. “Then I'll kill her.”

I almost laugh, but the sound gets stuck in my throat. Alex watches me for a second in silence. “Kidding,” she adds. “I have criteria.”

And then I do laugh, an expulsion of all the darkness that's been inside me since I was with her last, confusion pouring out of me into this bright moment of clarity.
She slips away from me, back into the swirl of chaotic color that we just escaped, and I rest my head in my hands.

I know there's a wrongness encapsulating everything, that Alex has done something terrible—maybe more than I know. But buried underneath all the questions and answers I might not want to hear is a very hard kernel of truth.

I'm in love with this girl.

And that's what I'm holding on to right now, in this moment.

I carry that peace with me to the lodge. Nothing penetrates the buoyancy that's filled me since I locked eyes with Alex, said the words that have built up for so long.

Branley separates from me at the door, trailing a finger down the front of my chest and telling me it's time for her to move to phase three of getting ready. I nod, well aware that I'm about to disappoint her. She disappears into a bathroom and I take a beer from the fridge, wind my way through groups of people.

There's a decent pool game going. Some of the guys already managed to alienate their dates by paying more attention to the Xbox than them. Peekay and Park are curled up on the couch together, involved in each other and not their beers. Everyone says hi to me. A couple of girls ask where Branley is, but I fend them off, eyes
roaming the crowd for the one person who matters.

I spot her on the deck, back turned to the house. She switched out the dress for a dark green hoodie and jeans, but her hair is still up in a knot. I slip out the back door and she turns with a half smile, hand out to me.

“Ready?” she asks.

My phone goes off and I've got a pic from Branley. She's sprawled on a bed, wearing a little red nothing, rose petals strewn on the sheets around her. She's seductive, gorgeous, amazing. The wet dream of 99 percent of the male population.

I'm ready. Are you coming?

I text back a simple answer—
no
—aware it's going to land me in a shitstorm later. Then I turn off my phone.

“Ready,” I say, and I take Alex's hand.

I walk away from the lodge, the heat, the people, the light.

I walk into the dark with Alex.

My spine is vibrating as if it would erupt from my back, singing in the night air as we find a downed log to sit on, the moon lighting our path.

“Tell me,” he says. “Tell me everything.”

So I talk.

“After Anna, I was numb. It started in my heart, like a defense mechanism so that I wouldn't feel all the pain. But it pumped through my veins, flowing into my head. I couldn't feel anything, ever. I wasn't even sad. My entire body, my mind, everything was like scar tissue. Insensitive. Dead. Protective.”

He nods. I've seen his body, know it well. Scar tissue is something he understands.

“I felt the first thing in a long time when they let
Comstock get away with it,” I say. Jack's head drops, a groan escaping, trailed by the fog of his breath.

“You were just a freshman,” he says.

“The only thing stopping us is ourselves,” I say, and he covers his face with his hands. I don't know what he's thinking, but it's been said and can't be taken back. Like so many other things.

So I tell him.

I tell Jack about Comstock's drunkenness and the baseball bat, the metallic ring of metal against skull, and how he slid to the ground like a bag of water. I talk about my strength as I lifted him onto the chair, the hammer and the nails, the sucking sound of his lung trying to re-inflate, the flow of everything I needed being provided to me in the moment. The easiness of it all convincing me that everything was as it should be.

I tell him and he listens, his head still in his hands as the frogs begin to sing around us as they grow accustomed to my voice. I go on.

“I was a scar, inside and out. Claire came along and started picking at the edges, her fingers finding a way to open me a little. And then you. You tore me apart and now I'm a fresh wound, open to the air and the infection all around me. Everything gets in and everything hurts. I'm this raw, bleeding thing feeling everything for the first time, the joy and the pain. When Sara called Claire
that night at the church—”

His fingers are on my lips. “Stop.”

“I thought you should know,” I say.

“I do know. I know and I'm still here, right next to you.”

I'm crying and so is he, the heat from our faces evaporating into the night. I fall into him and we just hold each other, arms wrapped so tightly I don't know where he ends and I begin and it doesn't matter anyway. We pull apart and he puts his hands on either side of my face, tears sliding away under his thumbs.

“Can you stop?” he asks.

I don't know. I've wondered myself, had so many moments when the words were in my mouth, the necessary sounds to both damn and save me unable to find their way out under the grim stare of my mother.

“I don't know,” I tell him.

“Can you try? For me?”

“Yes,” I say, and his eyes catch all the light of the moon as he smiles.

“We can do this,” he says, hands dropping to mine to squeeze tight. “I've got a good scholarship to Hancock. Come with me. You've got the grades. Pay the late application fee and just fucking leave. We'll go together, get you some help.”

His hands leave mine to spin in the air, helping to
weave this tale of hope and the future. Something that might actually happen now that this weight is not on my heart, every beat a struggle.

“Yes,” I say.

“Maybe we can get an apartment, live off campus,” he goes on, now that I've confirmed this daydream could become a reality. “I don't have a lot of money but I'll get a job, do whatever it takes.”

“We'll get a dog,” I say.

“An Irish wolfhound,” he says emphatically.

And I'm laughing. Laughing at his optimism, his absolute conviction that everything is going to be okay.

But maybe he's right.

Maybe it will be.