The Female of the Species by Mindy McGinnis Page B

are in class right now because that’s where they’re supposed to be. Except Alex isn’t.
    And I’m pretty damn sure that she’s my friend.

20. JACK
    It’s definitely a girl-fight day. First Peekay went after Branley; now Alex and Branley are vying for space in my head. It’s a good thing I have a job where your mind can be elsewhere. In fact, it’s better that way.
    Because I kill things for a living.
    It’s raining. The holding pens smell like wet shit and anxiety. The living cows might not know what the coppery tinge to the air is, but they do know it’s nothing good. Another one comes down the chute toward me and I put my bolt gun right on its fuzzy forehead, the spot a kid would kiss if this were a stuffed animal being tucked in at night. I pull the trigger and it drops, fifteen hundred pounds of unconscious steaks and hamburger hitting the ground with a meaty thump .
    I hook a chain around a back leg and this one is hoisted away from me, tongue lolling. Depending on which line it goes down it might see my dad in a few moments, pupils reflecting his face right before he slits its throat and the brightness fades. He did that job before the animal rights groups said they had to stun them first. He says the pigs would scream like women while they hung and you had to spin them to get their throat pointed at you right. He wore earplugs then.
    Now he wears earbuds, says the screaming was almost better because you didn’t hear the skin tearing, the blood dripping onto the concrete. I know for a fact that his playlist is straight classical music. He just stands there all day, a huge guy with a blood-spattered beard wearing a rubber apron, holding a knife, pumping Bach into his ears so he can go somewhere else in his head. Nicest guy you’ll ever meet.
    Dad got me this job when I turned eighteen, told me this was the best way to earn money for college and appreciate it at the same time. And I sure as hell do, because there’s another cow already coming down the chute, looking at me with big, confused eyes that won’t close, not even when I pull the trigger. I don’t know how my dad has done this for so many years, but I know why—so that I don’t have to. I love the shit out of him and have grown too old to say it, so when he pulledsome strings to get me a shift after school that would overlap with his for one hour I said yes.
    Yes because even that little bit of money will help get me through college. Yes because when he asked he expected me to say no. Yes because I don’t think I’m better than him, not by a long shot. Yes because when he’s leaving he walks past me and claps me on the shoulder without speaking. Yes because my dad is a good guy, and I want to be one too.
    So I shoot the next cow and try to let the impact noise jolt Alex and Branley out of my head, but they won’t go. They’re stuck there, revolving around each other while I try to sort out what’s what.
    When Branley faced down Peekay I was right next to her because that’s where I’ve always been. In fifth grade it was me and Park across from Jimmy Owens when he knocked her into the gravel on the playground because she wouldn’t lift up her skirt and show him her panties. She’s got tiny white scars on her knees from that, places the gravel dug deep and turned her skin to ground meat. I look at them sometimes, and I can still hear her crying.
    But I remember a time before that when she didn’t wear skirts, before she realized that she was cute as hell and it could go a long way. I remember hunting for crawdads with Branley wearing jeans rolled up to her skinny knees, mud smeared on her cheeks, sweat making herhair dark. I remember when Branley was my best friend and we didn’t understand why people smiled at us when we held hands. And now my hands have been everywhere on her, and she doesn’t dish out a smile unless she wants