The Female of the Species by Mindy McGinnis Page A

lipstick tastes like. And I feel like shit.
    I turn to face Alex, resting my back against the sink. “Thanks for stopping me.”
    â€œOf course,” she says, as if restraining people is part of her routine. Her eyebrows come together as she scrutinizes the wall above my shoulder.
    â€œIs Marilee Nolan a bitch?” she asks.
    â€œWhat?”
    Alex nods at the wall behind me. “Right there, it says Marilee Nolan is a bitch . Is she?”
    â€œNo, I don’t know. Not really. I don’t think so,” I say. But whoever wrote that had a red Sharpie and a lot of conviction.
    â€œWe should erase it,” Alex says.
    â€œThat’s permanent marker.”
    â€œNothing is permanent.” Alex pumps the towel dispenser half a dozen times and I find myself playing janitor with her, our knuckles scraping against the cinderblock wall as we wet fistful after fistful of cheap towels.
    â€œI stopped you because it’s easier to fantasize aboutviolence than actually perform it,” she says a few minutes later. “Most people consider things they wouldn’t do in real life, and there’s enough visceral satisfaction in the thought to alleviate the emotion. In reality, hurting another person on purpose is not a simple task, and not everyone is up to it.”
    I remember how I wanted to find the guy who threw out the sack of puppies and kick him bloody, how many times I’ve considered punching Branley in the face. But when I actually tried, it all went the wrong way, like a carefully scripted scene I imagined ahead of time falling apart because nobody else knew their lines. Of all the times I imagined smashing her nose until it bled and shredding her pouty lips on her perfect white teeth, I never factored in that look of complete incomprehension on her face when I did it. Now that I can’t unsee it, the absolute innocence in her eyes when I was bent on hurting her is its own revenge, and I feel gut punched even though Branley never raised a finger.
    â€œIt’s not restricted to violence,” Alex continues, still scrubbing at the wall. “People fantasize about sex with someone they can’t attain, or what they would do with the money if they won the lottery. It’s wish fulfillment, a break from reality.”
    â€œA way to escape,” I say, thinking about my dad’s words the other day.
    Alex nods. “Until it becomes your new prison, and you either live in the daydream or make it reality. And in your case, that would mean going against who you actually are, inside. A good person.”
    I toss my last handful of paper towel, now stained pink, into the trash and get myself a fresh one from the dispenser. I wet it and press it against my still-hot face. She’s right. My new friend with a good vocabulary knows me better than I know myself.
    â€œWe should go to the office,” I say. “Talk to Miss Reynolds.”
    Alex follows me into the hallway and we walk the rest of the way in our special kind of silence, the one that doesn’t need to be broken for us to be comfortable. I get into the guidance office just as Reynolds is hanging up her phone, probably getting a call from Hendricks saying I’m on my way. I don’t know why I’m here. I don’t need her anymore.
    Alex made the bathroom more productive than the guidance office, more honest than my father’s confessional. But I say the right words, tell the truth like I’m supposed to, and promise to apologize to Branley, who is reportedly being very mature about the entire thing.
    When I’m done, I find Alex waiting for me in the hallway. She’s pressed against the wall underneath the sign for the girls’ bathroom that someone drew on—anerect penis with eyes glaring up her plastic skirt.
    I didn’t expect Alex to be there. I am the preacher’s kid. My friends are on the debate team and Quiz Bowl. My friends are in marching band. My friends