The papers talked about Nico’s swim record—one even went so far as to dig up the local article about that day at the lake when they were twelve. They lamented, what could have changed in four short years, to take Nico Bell from a hero to a killer? Vivian knew that answer. Nothing had changed. Nico was the same creature he’d always been—chasing headlines, chasing attention, chasing whatever he wanted and believing he deserved it.
The papers didn’t focus on Cass. She was never the hero of their story, tragic or otherwise. She was only the girl he’d killed.
And that was what Vivian had to change.
Cassie’s story deserved to be told, and Vivian and Beck were the only ones who could tell it. The only ones who could ask her to tell them the whole story now.
Beck
IT WAS FORTY-FIVE MINUTES FROM BELL to the city.
Beck hadn’t been there since the shooting, when Vivian was in the hospital—the same one whose university had just accepted Vivian for their premed program. This time Beck was back for an interview. One she hadn’t told a soul—dead or alive—that she was coming for.
She parked Betty on a side street, and grabbed the portfolio she’d brought, full of her art.
The tattoo shop was popular, in a great part of town. They took on one new apprentice every couple of years. And they were hiring.
The interview itself was quick, but they asked to keep some of her pieces. Beck hoped it meant they liked her. She wasn’t sure she could accept the job if they offered. The commute would be a lot, even if it was just a few days a week. And she wasn’t sure she could leave Grandpa alone, or whether they could afford to hire someone to be there with him when she wasn’t.
There was so much she wasn’t sure of.
But the murals had reminded Beck how much she loved to make art. Art that lived in the real world, where people could see it and react to it. Maybe even choose to wear it on their bodies.
She’d always loved tattoos. Her mom had several, on her arms, her ribs, her legs. Beck would trace them as a child, following the lines. She’d even had one for Beck. A constellation of stars on her wrist. Because you’re always looking up at them, her mom had said.
Beck wanted to keep looking up. Looking forward. It was what her friends had always pushed for. Had pushed for, until March, when Cassie was gone, and Vivian stopped moving forward. Beck thought maybe if Vivian saw Beck doing it, she’d do it, too. Keep moving. Keep dreaming.
Maybe they could do it together.
On the drive home, Beck couldn’t help but remember the last time she’d been to the city. She left as soon as she knew where they’d taken Vivian. As soon as she realized that Cassie wasn’t at a hospital.
Not Vivian, too, was the refrain in her head as she drove that day, repeated over and over, nothing but the sound of Betty’s tires on the highway as she drove.
Beck stayed next to Vivian that entire first day. She refused to leave for anything, not even food or to use the bathroom. She stayed right beside her.
Later, she pretended to sleep in the chair in the corner, hoping no one would notice when visiting hours ended and Beck remained.
But when the nurse came in to shepherd visitors out, Vivian’s mom had hushed her.
“She’s family,” she said, gesturing at Beck.
The nurse let it slide.
When Grandpa came the next day with fresh clothes, Beck changed quickly in the bathroom and hurried back.
She laid out the other items Grandpa had brought at her request: a hairbrush and hair ties.
Vivian had always been particular with her hair. Her cardigans. Even her notes in class—straight, neat lines of penmanship. Beck had thought it was a waste of time, to focus on all of those details.
But she knew Vivian cared about those things.
When they were kids, it had taken a while for Vivian to warm up to Beck.
Scratch that—she’d never totally warmed up to Beck. Vivian had thought Beck was stealing Cassie away, when they were in third grade and having a Best Friend Forever meant to the exclusion of others.
But they’d eventually learned to tolerate each other, for Cass. And sometimes, Beck had to admit, she didn’t totally hate everything Vivian did.
And the very first thing she’d liked about Vivian was her hair in braids in fourth grade. There was something about the care, the attention, that her mother had put into it, that hit Beck like a wave. Jealousy, she thought, of a mother’s touch. But it was more than that. It was how Vivian moved and talked. How sure she was, even then, of what and who she wanted to be. Beck felt aimless in comparison. She had been content with a home. A bed. Safety. Vivian, with her tight, perfect braids and huge dreams, was the person who taught Beck to want more.
Beck taught herself how to French braid that same night, watching video tutorials online and twisting her hands around the back of her head at impossible angles. Taking it out and starting over, again and again, until she got it right. And when she wore those braids to school the next day, it was because she wanted Vivian to notice. Back then it was just an ache in her gut that said look at me, hear me, speak to me. She thought she wanted to be like Vivian, back when she didn’t know what that feeling was. Didn’t know how to distinguish one kind of want from another.
She didn’t put it together that Vivian had been her first crush until years later, and she’d never tell Vivian that, not now. Because Vivian was also her first nemesis, and even now the friendship between them was a fragile thing.
But that was why Beck knew how to braid Vivian’s hair just the way she liked it.
So she did, in that hospital that day. When she wasn’t sure if Vivian would survive.
With Vivian looking utterly unlike herself, hooked up to tubes, and a machine breathing for her. Medically induced coma, whispered a doctor in the doorway with Vivian’s mom. Lost so much blood . . . don’t know the extent of the damage.
Beck tuned them out. Kept braiding.
When she was done, Vivian looked more like herself. A terrifying version of herself, one that Beck knew she would see for years when she closed her eyes. But she looked like Vivian in those braids.
Beck woke up that second night to alarms blaring when Vivian’s monitors started going off. Nurses and doctors rushed in, and Vivian was taken for another emergency surgery on her leg.
The hushed whispers at the door were different after that.
Might have to amputate, said the doctor.
The word was enough to keep Beck up the rest of the night. Not because she was scared for Vivian to lose it. But because if they were debating how best to save her leg, maybe that meant her life wasn’t in danger. Beck had one clear wish, one plea on repeat from the moment she stepped into the hospital. Please don’t take her, too. There were two more surgeries that week to save Vivian’s leg, and each one filled Beck with more hope.
There were no surgeries for Cassie.
Mural 4
TITLE: ANDROMEDA
LOCATION: THE FIRE STATION
Vivian
WITH THE LAWSUIT NOW PUBLIC KNOWLEDGE, Vivian couldn’t shake the feeling of vulnerability that followed her around Bell.
It was like the stakes of what they were doing were suddenly almost unbearable. Get caught making murals, risk the lawsuit. Stop making murals, and maybe Cassie would be trapped forever. Not that Vivian would mind keeping Cass with them always. But what kind of existence would that be?
There were no easy answers, so there they were, on their way to buy new paint for the next mural.
“Am I just noticing it more, or has Bell really stepped up their advertising since the lawsuit was filed?” Beck asked from the driver’s seat.
This drive into Bell was different.
Vivian felt like all eyes were on her when she stepped out of the van. It was the middle of the day, bright and warm, but Vivian felt a chill when a man made eye contact with her, and narrowed his eyes. It’s in your head, she told herself. No one knows who you are.
&nbs
p; But the signs were real.
Bell Firearms was advertising, literally, on every corner. They’d distributed signs to businesses in the area—the ones whose owners wanted certain vandals to know that if they messed with their property, they would be met with deadly force. Vivian wondered when they had crossed the line into thinking that any piece of property was more valuable than someone’s life. The signs were in almost every single shop window, stating “This business is defended by the Second Amendment.” With a Bell Firearms company logo printed on the corner.
“Fun fact: Did you know this town has five gun shops but no library?” Beck asked as she parked Betty down the street from the paint supplies store.
“There is nothing fun about that fact,” Vivian said, falling into step beside Beck.
Any space that wasn’t advertising Bell Firearms was taken up with posters for the Sunflower Festival. It used to be Cassie’s favorite thing, but the sight of the posters now just made Vivian angry. They were using it like a Band-Aid on a bullet wound. Trying to pretend that things could carry on as usual, even after what happened to Cass.
Vivian watched her feet as she walked, so she wouldn’t have to make eye contact with anyone else. And so she wouldn’t have to see those black-and-white signs. Those sunflower posters, promising sunshine and happiness.
But the world wasn’t all sunshine.
Vivian knew that better than anyone.
And to see the town responding stronger to the filing of the lawsuit in Cassie’s name than they ever did for her death? Well, that just made Vivian more sure than ever that what they were doing was right.
Vivian had been listening to the podcast about gun violence, now focused squarely on Bell. It was all about the history of their town, about what happened to Cassie, and now the lawsuit, too. Vivian had cried through the entire interview with Cassie’s parents.
But it was one little snippet of conversation, from the very first episode, that Vivian couldn’t get out of her head. It was when the sheriff of Bell had said, “Girls are killed every day,” and he’d said it like it was nothing. Like Cassie’s loss was ordinary. Expected. Acceptable. The price we are willing to pay, so that everyone can keep their guns.
But Vivian never agreed to those terms. And neither had any of the murdered girls.
Vivian’s eyes landed on a sign in a window that was different from the others. It said Don’t Own a Bell Gun? Time to Hand in Your Man Card.
And in the picture was a mustache, a beer can, and a gun.
“That’s disgusting,” Beck said when Vivian pointed it out. “There are kids walking around here reading that shit.”
“Do you think that’s what Nico heard in his house every day? ‘Be a man. A gun will solve your problems.’”
“Something like that.”
They’d arrived at the art supplies store, and Vivian reached for the door.
“No, not the front,” Beck said, grabbing Vivian’s arm and pulling her around the side of the building.
“What are we doing, Beck?” Vivian asked. Beck was opening the back door to the shop and waved for Vivian to follow her.
In the back of the paint shop was a storage room, filled floor to ceiling with art supplies.
“Wow,” Vivian said. “Is this, like, your mothership?”
“Shut up,” Beck said, shoving a box into Vivian’s hands. “Help me.”
“Okay, but do we really want to add theft to our list of crimes right now?”
“We aren’t stealing. I know the owner, Ruth. We have an . . . arrangement.”
“Shit, Beck, she knows?” Vivian said.
“She’s cool,” Beck said. “She gets it. I pay her back for everything.”
Beck began to add cans of spray paint to the box Vivian was holding, threw in a new box of masks.
“Well, then, I should probably tell you that—” Vivian was cut off by Beck’s hand covering her mouth.
“Shh,” Beck whispered. “Someone’s in the shop right now.”
The girls crept over to the doorway leading into the main room of the store. Vivian could see the owner, an older woman, sitting at the register, a paintbrush tucked between her lips.
Vivian smiled at the sight.
It was like peering into Beck’s future.
But it was the men who caught her attention. They were tall, muscular, mustached.
Armed.
One had a long gun strapped against his back.
The other had a handgun visible at his hip.
Vivian felt it like a wave—first nausea, then chills that had her wrapping her arms around herself. She had to step back from the door, and she hit the wall and slid down, making a thudding sound.
“Shit,” Beck whispered, pulling back from the door. “Vivian. Be. Quiet.”
“Is that all you need today, gentlemen?” Ruth asked. “Just the red paint?”
“That’s all,” said one of them. “We’ve got a little art project to do.”
The second man laughed on their way out of the shop.
In the back room, where she could no longer see the men or their guns, Vivian’s heart had slowed to normal. She’d stopped feeling cold chills all over. She stood up slowly, moving to Beck.
They could guess what the paint was for.
“Beck,” she began, but Beck waved her hand, dismissing it.
“It’s fine,” Beck said. “They were never going to leave them up. Let them destroy them. It just makes them look like even bigger assholes.”
Beck left an envelope on one of the shelves, filled with cash to cover the supplies they were taking, and the girls slipped back out to the alley. The box was folded closed, but it still felt strange, to be walking around in broad daylight with all the evidence of what they’d been doing just sitting in their hands.
Back in the van, Beck turned to Vivian.
“You were gonna tell me something. In the back of the shop.”
Vivian hesitated.
“Just say it,” Beck said.
“I was going to tell you that Matteo knows.”
They waited for nightfall to make their way to the fire station. This location was risky. But the large white wall faced the police station across the street, and Vivian couldn’t let go of the notion of making the man who’d said “Girls are killed every day” look at a mural of Cassie right outside his office window.
The moment they’d parked, however, Beck was reaching for her baseball bat.
“Beck,” Vivian said. “Beck, no.”
“I’m just gonna talk to him,” Beck said, opening the van door.
“Be gentle,” Cass called from the back of the van. “He’s a good one.”
Vivian ran after Beck and caught up with her in the rec room of the fire station. Matteo was sitting on the couch, and Beck stood in front of him, bat casually resting on her shoulder.
Matteo had his hands up in surrender.
“How’d you figure it out?” Beck asked.
“I’m a very observant person,” Matteo said.
Beck tightened her grip on the bat.
“Vivian had paint in her hair. And I know your art, Beck. So do a lot of people. You need to be careful.”
“No shit, Sherlock,” Beck said, rolling her eyes. “We are being careful. That’s why you knowing is a big deal.”
Beck lowered the bat.
“Did I pass the test?”
“I haven’t decided yet. You are on probation.”
“Fine,” Matteo said. He got off the couch and circled around Beck, giving her a wide berth.
In Matteo’s defense, most people were pretty scared of Beck at first.
Even Vivian had been, once upon a time.
“Come on, check this out,” Matteo said, excitement in his voice.
“This isn’t a party, Matteo, we’re committing a crime,” Vivian scolded, but followed him.
“Why can’t it be both?” Matteo turned as he said it, raising both eyebrows at them. “Both is good. Besides, rebellion is f
un. And you,” Matteo looked to Vivian. “You are long overdue.”
He led them outside the fire station, around to the wall they planned to paint tonight. Beck’s drawing this time was of Andromeda, whose father and city had left her chained to a rock, waiting for a monster to devour her.
This mural was one of their less subtle messages.
Outside, Matteo stood next to the wall. He put his hands over his head and waved them around.
“Jesus Christ,” Beck said, pinching the bridge of her nose in her fingers.
“Matteo,” Vivian said, lifting her arms to catch his. Was he dancing?
How had she not known that Matteo was such a bad dancer?
“Matteo!” Vivian had to jump to reach his arms. “Enough. This is serious.”
“Course it is,” Matteo said. He caught Vivian’s hands, and began to wave them around, too. “Vivian, what is not turning on right now?”
Then it hit her.
The motion detector light wasn’t turning on.
“How did you . . .”
But Matteo was reaching into his pocket and pulled out a handful of batteries. “I’ll put them back later. Also told Joe that I’d clean the truck for him if it was a quiet night, so he left it out.”
Vivian and Beck turned to see the fire truck, parked ten feet away and totally blocking a large portion of the wall they were about to paint.
“Okay,” Beck said. “You passed the test.”
Vivian went back to the van, reaching for the box of paint supplies they’d picked up earlier.
“Told you he’s a good one,” Cassie said. “Also, turn that song on before you go. I think it’s number seven?”
“You think it’s number seven? You’ve made us listen to that song a hundred times in the last few weeks. It’s number seven.”
Vivian tossed her phone into the middle seat of the van.
“And turn it on yourself, Cass. Your ghost powers are stronger than ever.”
But when Cassie hit play, it wasn’t the music. It was the latest podcast. It had gone up just a few hours ago, and Vivian had been planning to listen while they painted tonight. It comforted Vivian. The podcast. The idea that they weren’t alone in this fight for Cassie.
We Can Be Heroes Page 10