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“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.
6. JACK
I’m the guy who other people want to be.
I see it in their looks when I sink a three-pointer, hear it in the collective roar from the stands when I score the game-winning touchdown and do a series of backflips—and fuck the ref for throwing an “excessive celebration” penalty flag, anyway. I can do those things and look good before, during, and after, knowing the whole time that I’ll have at least one tit shot texted to me that night. And then on Monday I can go to any one of my classes and deliver a speech, nail an exam, or speak in a foreign language the entire time without blinking because I am the whole package. I get girls, I get trophies, and I most definitely am going to get to be valedictorian.
Except . . . I’m not.
Alex Craft is.
I’m sitting next to her in the guidance counselor’s office with my mouth hanging open just enough that I’ve probably disqualified myself from salutatorian as well.
“I don’t understand,” I say for the third time. “I’ve got a 4.0.”
“So does Alex,” the guidance counselor says. “And she’s taken more weighted classes than you have.”
“But I want . . .” I close my mouth then, aware it’s more than a want, it’s a need.
If I can’t get a scholarship, I won’t be going to college. I’ll be another senior who says they’re taking a year off first, and then ends up trying to pay for my kid’s college from behind a burger grill, wondering what the fuck happened. And then my kid’ll do the same thing and when I retire I can cede my spot in the drive-through to my grandkid. I can keep my body in shape anywhere, but my brain is going to rot in this shitty little town because I’m too poor to get out of here without a free ride.
I’m so focused on me, I’m not sure I’ve heard her right when Alex says, “You should just give it to him.”
Alex, who could write a book about things that aren’t fair. That guy in the woods had it right three years ago—I’m a douchebag.
Miss Reynolds’s eyebrows come together. “Class rank is not given, Alex. It’s earned.”
“It’s nonsensical for me to have it. I’m not going to college.”
Now the guidance counselor’s mouth tightens as she says, “We’ve talked about this and—”
“Why wouldn’t you go to college?” I interrupt Miss Reynolds, turning to look—really look—at Alex. I don’t think I’ve ever been this close to her, and when she turns her head, I see how green her eyes are.
She shrugs. “I can’t conceive of myself outside this place.”
“Oookaaaayyyy,” I say, glancing at the guidance counselor. She smiles at me encouragingly, but her eyebrows are still stuck together in concern.
“It’s very simple,” Alex says patiently, dividing her words between the two of us. “We’ve both earned it. He wants it. Give it to him.”
The way she says this makes it seem so easy that I know I’m wearing a yeah, see? look on my face. But the guidance counselor sighs and shakes her head.
