Page 8 of What Rough Beast

“Oh good, you got here before halftime,” I say, turning another shovelful of compost over. A flash of white catches my eye, standing out starkly against the black. I lean closer, hands on my knees, squinting against the dying light.

In their enclosure, the skunks begin to hiss.

Panda comes up beside me, leaning forward, nose searching. His lip raises, exposing the last few teeth he has, most of them broken. A low grumble begins to emanate from his chest, his hackles rising. I grab the shovel, edging at the dirt under the white thing. It pops free, rolling down the pile and bouncing off the tip of my boot. The dog loses his mind, snapping at it and growling.

“Panda! No!” I yell. I have no idea what just fell out of the compost pile; it could be one of Archimedes’s pellets, or a poisonous mushroom that will drop Panda dead in his tracks. I swoop down and grab it at the same time the dog lunges, his teeth clamping down on my wrist.

“Fuck!” I yell, surprised at how badly it hurts. I jerk back, which is exactly the wrong thing to do, as Panda’s teeth dig furrows in my hand. A high, furious screeching erupts from the skunk enclosure, a choir screaming.

“No!” I shriek at Panda as he pulls against me, and we’re suddenly in a game of tug-of-war that I’m not sure I can win. He’s not even forty pounds and probably has seven types of cancer plus dementia, but the dog is not letting go of my wrist. Whatever the white thing is, it’s soft and spongy, still warm from the compost. I can feel it giving against the pressure of my fingers.

And then—I swear—it pulses in my fist.

Panda yelps and lets go, backing away from me with his haunches in the air, head down low to the ground, still growling.

“Buddy,” I say. “It’s okay. It’s—”

He turns and runs. I’ve never seen Panda move faster than a slow lurch, each step seeming to drain whatever reservoir of energy he has left. But right now, he’s a bolt of lightning, an uncontrollable force—heading straight for the road.

“PANDA!” I scream, just as headlights cut through the twilight, twin beams bearing down. My heart stops. My breath stills. Brakes squeal and there’s a meaty crunch as the dog is rolled.

The world is not a kind place. The world eats innocence and joy, leaving behind smears of blood and the ticking of a cooling engine. I didn’t need more evidence of this, didn’t need to see Panda get hit not just by the bumper but also the front wheel, and then the back. I didn’t need to hear his rib cage shatter or see the last, manic kicking of his legs while he still kept trying to run.

To run away from me.

“What the fuck?” The driver is out now, an old man standing next to the truck. But he’s not looking at the dying dog, or Panda’s loose collar, shiny new rabies tag reflecting the red brake lights. He’s pointing at something behind me.

I turn to see all the skunks silently doing handstands, their four tails bushing out, flashing a white sign of warning.

Seven

Hailey

Being a cool girl means that nothing bothers you.

And I don’t mean like other girls think I’m cool; I don’t give a fuck what other girls think. Which is why I’m not down on the track wearing a cheerleading uniform and kicking high—well, kind of high. Jesus, Meredith, try harder.

I’m a cool girl because it doesn’t bother me that Ethan’s Instagram feed is all tits and ass. I’m a cool girl because I don’t ask Murph to show more respect for women when his text about the party tonight says, I know I don’t have to BYOB, but do I have to bring my own bitch? And I’m a cool girl because I don’t tell my boyfriend when Micah Harding drunk dials me, then can’t remember what he said.

I don’t want to fight with my boyfriend about how men have needs and one girl can’t possibly fulfill them all. Instead, I’ll laugh at him the next time he can’t get it up with me because he’s pushed his own button one too many times looking at other girls. I don’t want to explain to Murph that referring to Becca as a bitch when texting another girl isn’t funny. Instead, I’ll screencap that shit and save it for a rainy day when I need Becca on my side. And I don’t want to tell Ethan about Micah drunk dialing me; there’s absolutely no point, anyway, because all he does is cry and say he’s sorry over and over. Instead, I’ll just give Micah a knowing smile the next day and let his ass wonder what he said.

Beside me on the bleachers, Cassie Bradley sighs and scrolls through her phone. The sophomore has attached herself to me, and I know exactly why. It’s not because she likes me; girls don’t like me. It’s because I’m Ethan Brimley’s girlfriend, and if you want to be anybody in Bethington, you go to Ethan’s parties. I’m the gatekeeper for those events, which is why everyone was surprised when Ava showed up with Becca and I allowed it. When Becca and Murph started hooking up, she tried hard to bring Ava into the fold and mend fences. But there was more than a fence between Ava and me; she was on the dark side of my moon, a place nobody comes back from.

The boys do something important on the field, and everyone starts yelling. I stand up and yell, too, whipping out my phone so it looks like I’m documenting the most recent amazing thing males throwing around a leather elongated sphere have done. I’m not. I’m zooming in on the marching band and trying to get a bead on Emily Vaught, the freshman who claimed Ethan pressured her into sending him titty pics. I probably shouldn’t say she claimed my boyfriend did that, because he totally did, and I know it because I saw the pics, as well as the texts.

This is where being a cool girl comes in. As a cool girl, it’s my job to be mad at Emily for sending nudes to Ethan; not to be mad at my boyfriend for being a piece of shit. Which, he absolutely is. He also happens to be a rich piece of shit, and my ticket out of making a living on OnlyFans until my boobs fall and cocoa butter won’t quite cut it on the stretch marks. Ethan might smell like sulfur sometimes, but it’s not because he’s the devil; it’s because his dad is a brewer. And I don’t mean like he has a few hops plants growing in the yard and owns a bottle capper. I mean like there are some places where Brimley’s outsells Budweiser. As the only child, Ethan will be inheriting an expanding empire. And so will I, because I’m a cool girl. The kind of girl a guy like Ethan wants to marry, because I know when to look the other way, what to let slide, and when to put my foot down.

My foot came down on Emily Vaught hard. I let her know that running her mouth about Ethan wasn’t smart. The kind of not smart that gets pictures leaked of her dad, a minister, giving the gospel to his secretary—who is not his wife—on top of his desk. Dad’s been the janitor at their church for years, bringing in just enough money to keep us from starving. The real payout is in those pics, and Emily shut her mouth fast after I shared them with her, but not before she’d blabbed to Ava Germaine, who is a real bitch.

So am I.

Ava’s a bitch that gets shit done; I’m a bitch that makes shit happen. We became the classic physics experiment of an unstoppable force hitting an immovable object, Emily standing right between us at the collision point. The kid didn’t know what hit her. I feel the slightest tug in my belly when I spot her in the band, quietly holding her trumpet. I hope I’m not growing a conscience. There are a lot of things a poor girl can’t afford, but sympathy for others is at the top of the list. It would be really bad timing, at this point in my life.

Because even I have to admit that maybe I took it a little too far this time.

Beside me, Cassie sighs again, and I realize I’m going to have to acknowledge her existence or keep getting hit with the scent of wintergreen, which isn’t quite covering up the tequila shots she did in the parking lot before we came in. Everybody in the crowd lets out a sudden gasp, and I take the social cue, standing up with them and looking concerned when one of our players doesn’t get up.

“It’s not Micah, is it?” Cassie asks, gripping my arm.