Page 31

“What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Alex hooks one of his feet with her ankle, spinning his back to her and punching him right above the ass with enough force that I hear a crack. He moans, a soft, defeated sound, and slumps forward, one hand on Ray’s knee. I picture the bruise that will be left behind, a pattern of broken blood vessels tracing the path of pain that just streaked through his body.

“What the hell are you doing?” Ray demands as he reaches for his friend.

Alex smiles. “Whatever I want. Just like you.”

Her hand flashes out, a pale arc that connects only briefly with Ray’s face. There’s a ripping sound, like denim giving out at the seams, except it’s his cartilage letting go as she swipes his chain off, bringing a chunk of nose and his earlobe with it. It dangles in Alex’s hand, fleshy weights on either end as Ray falls to the floor shrieking.

The third guy backpedals with his hands in front of him even though Alex isn’t advancing. “What the hell is wrong with you?” he asks over and over. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

Alex fades away from my side, no longer interested in the tweakers. She’s on the ground with Branley, the two of them propping up Peekay to get her to her feet.

“You need to get them out of here,” Park says to the only guy left standing. “Don’t any of you come back, either. If Jack and I ever find you here again . . .” He trails off, any threat he could deliver paling in comparison to what Alex did to them.

But the guy nods, eager to agree. “Okay, okay, man.” He hauls Ray to his feet, who’s still making noises like a deer that’s been hit by a car and hasn’t had the luck to bleed out yet.

“Dude,” Park says to me, “your girlfriend is, like . . . fucking scary. But also totally awesome. Is it okay if I’m half in love with her right now?”

“Yeah, man. It’s cool,” I say, my eyes still riveted on three dark drops of blood against the stone floor.

Because I feel exactly the same way. On all counts.

24. ALEX

What is wrong with you?

I know this game, have played it often. It’s a question asked many times, always in Mom’s voice, following my vocalization of something I’m not supposed to say. When I was younger, Anna would turn it into a joke, our version of family prayer at dinnertime, when something I’d said or done came to light over the potatoes and corn.

Like the time I punched Phil Morris at a basketball game after he snapped Anna’s bra. Her cheeks had been red with humiliation, the straps still new to her body and the burn of vengeance something she’d never owned. My hands were small, sticky with the remains of a sucker. When I hit him in the gut, it knocked his breath out and left a child-size fist-print on his T-shirt, neon blue with chemical flavoring.

Usually Anna’s comebacks to Mom’s favorite question were silly, designed to make me laugh. “Let’s see . . . what is wrong with you, Alex? Do you have smallpox? Are you allergic to wheat? Are your legs broken? No? Hmm . . . I guess there’s nothing wrong with you,” she’d finish pointedly.

But when Phil’s mom called, there had been no jokes, no diversions. Anna had set her fork down after Mom’s diatribe, which ended with her favorite question. “She’s defending her sister,” she said. “And there’s nothing wrong with that.”

And there wasn’t. And there isn’t. And I’ll keep doing it.

I’ll keep doing it even though she’s not here to defend.

Because there are others like him still. Tonight they used words they know, words that don’t bother people anymore. They said bitch. They told another girl they would put their dicks in her mouth. No one protested because this is our language now. But then I used my words, strung in phrases that cut deep, and people paid attention; people gasped. People didn’t know what to think.

My language is shocking.

They would have hurt my friend. They would have left bruises on her, like the one that will radiate from his coccyx. Theirs would have been thumb-shaped and pressed into her waist where they held her down. Instead of a warm rush down her legs when she first stood in the morning, I drew blood from his face. He’ll be mutilated, I know, and some might think me too harsh.

But some men should be marked. I’m fit for that task.

And I don’t feel bad.

Still, the question remains: What is wrong with you? Because something is, and I know that. I’ve tried to find out, looked up the words and the phrases that seemed as if they should fit. Words like sociopath and psychopath, ones that people like to toss around without knowing what they actually mean. But neither of them fits. They spoke of lack of empathy, disregarding the safety of others—when I am the opposite.

I feel too much.

I wanted to ask Dad, when he showed up for Anna’s funeral. I wore high heels for the first time and they kept sticking in the mud, and I felt like the earth itself was stopping me from going to him. He came to me instead, putting a hand on my head just like when I was small. He met my eyes and all the words built up in my throat, every question I had for him wanting to come out at once.

What is wrong with us? Why did you leave me behind? Can I stop being this way?

But before any of them came out he said, “How’s my little firecracker?”