The Female of the Species by Mindy McGinnis Page A

quite sure how to touch someone. She’s not smiling, just looking intothe camera with the dead stare that makes feral cats reconsider their choices.
    â€œGod,” I mutter. “Redo.”
    Jack shakes his head. “It’s perfect.” He stands to put his phone in his back pocket and leans toward both of us, his breath heavy with beer in a way that makes me feel relaxed instead of repulsed.
    â€œPark and I tried to chase off a couple of tweakers when we brought in the generator,” he says, head jerking toward a dark corner where there’s a circle of guys I don’t know. “Just be aware of them.”
    â€œI am,” Alex said.
    They’re older than us, their features vaguely familiar, like they’re either somebody’s brothers or graduated when we were still puckering our faces at the taste of alcohol. One of them is good-looking in a grungy way, lanky blond hair back in a ponytail, dark circles under his eyes that could be makeup, could be something else. The gauge in one of his ears is connected to his nose ring with a chain. He catches me looking and tips me a wink. I glance back down at my bottle.
    â€œI’m empty.”
    â€œHere.” Alex switches out our bottles, hers heavy and cold, mine light and warm from my grip.
    â€œI’ll get you another one,” Jack says.
    â€œNo,” she says simply, eyes still on the tweakers.
    â€œI’ll get rid of the empty, then,” he says, but she shakes her head.
    â€œNo.”
    â€œI’ll go get myself another one, come up with a different line of conversation, then come back and sit next to you,” he says, leaning toward her a little too much, taking up more of her personal space than she usually allows.
    But she’s smiling when she says, “I would like that.”
    He brings out the million-watt smile that’s separated more than a few asses in this room from their panties, but it looks genuine and sweet, like a little kid who found out he’s getting exactly what he wanted for Christmas.
    â€œOkay, be right back,” he says. “Don’t move.”
    Alex flaps her arms maniacally in response and he busts out laughing, the sound carrying as he heads to the altar, where there’s a collection of coolers and a keg.
    â€œUm, hey, friend,” I say, nudging her knee with mine. “Part of this whole friendship gig is that you tell me when you like a guy.”
    Her mouth curls a little bit in a half smile. “Oh, really?”
    â€œYeah, it’s totally a thing,” I say, slinging back what turns out is—somehow—the last swallow of the beer Alex gave me. “I need another.”
    â€œSo who do you like, friend?” she asks, ignoring my request.
    â€œAdam,” I say automatically, followed by, “Fuck.”
    â€œWhy?”
    I look at the collection of glass scattered near the bases of the walls, some remnants of long-broken stained-glass windows, most the dull browns and greens of accumulated beer bottles. Even the sharp edges are deceptively beautiful in the flickering firelight and the weak glow of the naked bulbs hooked to the generator. The sea of colors is punctuated by flattened shotgun shells from the hunters who hole up here during deer season, and I spot—for the first time—empty hypodermic needles among them.
    â€œI don’t know,” I finally answer, bringing my bottle back to my lips even though there’s nothing in it. “Force of habit, maybe.”
    Alex takes the empty from me, carefully balancing it on a slanted rock between my knees. “Remind me,” she says. “Which one is he?”
    I sigh and rub my eyes. In the past few weeks I’ve grown accustomed to Alex’s ignorance of the names of the people we’ve grown up with, so now that I’m forcing her out into society she’s getting a crash course. But right now my brain is slowing down, my tongue growing heavy. Jack