“. . . just learned that Steven Bell released a statement today in response to the murals, calling out their lawlessness,” said the host, a woman named Merit Logan. “You know, he’s spent more time condemning property damage than gun violence? It’s not hard to guess where the priorities are in Bell. That’s the way this town has always been. Always. That company first, and then everything else. But today Bell puts out this statement, saying it all again and louder, and this time, he attaches a reward to it.”
Vivian’s eyes met Cassie’s across the van as the words hit them.
A reward.
“That’s right. Steven Bell is offering ten thousand dollars for any information that leads to the arrest of Bell’s most ardent artists.”
Cassie
August of last year
before school began,
we stole drinks from
Beck’s grandpa’s cabinet
and climbed the hill
to the Warrens’ farm
for the annual
Bell Sunflower Festival.
They charge admission
but if you can navigate a field
you can slip in for free
and we knew the hills
of those farmlands
better than anyone
after a childhood of summers
spent exploring them.
But when we got to the edge
I spotted his family right away
The Bells.
They looked picture-perfect:
mother, father, golden son.
Mr. Bell was guest of honor
like every other year,
opening the festivities.
I shrank back among the stalks.
Let’s get lost in here,
instead,
I said.
They must have been confused.
The festival was my favorite thing
all year.
But somehow they knew,
by the urgency in my voice,
or the way I’d grown quiet
and withdrawn
all summer.
They knew I needed
only them.
We drank more, and ran
like we were children again,
ferocious and free.
We were feral things once,
untethered, unburdened
by all the strange,
hard things that come
with growing up a girl
in a world built by men.
That night we ran
like wild things again,
until finally we collapsed,
breathless and drunk,
scratched by the coarse leaves,
smelling like dirt and rum.
We lay on the warm earth
with the sunflowers
like towers over us,
hiding us from all
the rest of the world.
It was her constellation
over our heads that night
in the field.
Andromeda.
Andromeda, whose city—
whose very father—
chained her to a rock by the sea.
Left her as a sacrifice to a monster.
When Vivian passed me the bottle
with a slurred
Penny for your thoughts,
I pointed out the stars above us.
Stop being smart
when we’re drunk,
scolded Beck.
It’s annoying.
I tell them her story anyway.
Andromeda was left for Cetus,
the sea monster.
She was given to save the city,
but at the last moment, Perseus
swooped in on Pegasus and saved her
and married her.
Let me guess, said Vivian.
You are Andromeda,
and Nico is your brave demigod,
coming to save you.
Vivian and Beck were reduced
to laughter and hiccups.
I never finished the story.
I never told them
Perseus wouldn’t save Andromeda
until her father agreed
Perseus could marry her.
The same father
who had chained her
and left her to die.
You could argue the king did it
for the good of so many—
to save his kingdom from ruin.
But I’d say he did it to save
his throne. And that bad men
can love things, too.
If he’d sacrificed everyone,
then who would be left to idolize him?
But what was the life of one girl,
reasoned the king.
If the hero dies, they call
it a Greek tragedy,
but when the heroine dies,
it’s a romance.
Now I only want stories
where girls are the heroes,
and our fates are neither
written in the stars nor held
in the palm of a man’s hand,
but are entirely our own.
Another thing I never told Beck and V
was that if I was Andromeda
and it was our town
that left me out on the rocks
in exchange for its own
well-being, then
Nico was not Perseus,
no matter how he looked the part.
He was the monster.
Vivian
VIVIAN LET HERSELF INTO THE GARAGE, where Beck was working late. She drew a deep breath, surprised to realize how much she loved the smell of that old barn. But after a decade running around Bell together—fighting at every turn, but still together—the smell was just another familiar thing. Another Beck thing.
“Beck?” she called out.
The garage looked empty.
“Yeah?” came a muffled voice from under the van.
The van was jacked up and the windows were all rolled down. Vivian didn’t have to peer inside to know Cassie was there—her blue glow was lighting it up.
Cassie’s favorite song was playing from Beck’s phone on the counter. Vivian glanced down at the screen and smiled. Beck had left it on repeat for her.
What a softy.
Vivian walked around Betty and dropped to her knees to look underneath.
Beck was on one of those rolling things they used to get underneath cars. Her teeth on a wrench with her hands buried in the underside of the van above her.
“Give me that before you break a molar,” Vivian said, reaching for the wrench and tugging it from between Beck’s teeth.
“Thanks,” Beck said.
“She okay?” Vivian asked.
“She’s got her song,” Beck said.
“I meant Betty,” Vivian said.
“Betty’s great. Just an oil change.” As she said it, something came loose, and oil started to pour down out of the van. Beck swore and reached for the little red pail she’d set beside herself, holding it up to catch the liquid.
But it had already splashed all over her.
Beck left the pail to catch the draining fluids and rolled out from under the van. Vivian offered her a towel.
“Hey, thanks,” Beck said. She cleaned her hands off, and Vivian grabbed the towel back, wiping the splatter of oil off Beck’s cheek that she’d missed.
“You’re kind of a disaster,” she said.
“What else is new?” Beck asked. Then Beck jerked her head, gesturing toward the far side of the garage. It was dark, and when they stepped into the less used area of the old barn, there was a rustling sound in the rafters overhead.
“Don’t worry, it’s just pigeons,” Beck said. “Probably.”
Vivian frowned. “What’s with the secrecy?”
“Maybe I’m overthinking it, but pay attention to Cass tonight? She seems, I don’t know, kind of blue. Sad blue. Not glowing blue.
”
“Yeah, okay, I’ll pay attention.”
The girls went back to the van, and Vivian popped her head through the passenger’s side window.
“Hey there, Cassie,” she called in. She could see just the back of Cassie’s head; her long dark curls were opaque tonight, each strand twisting down her back. It made Vivian feel like if she reached out, maybe she could touch them.
She didn’t try it.
Beck came to lean on the driver’s side window. “Hey, Cass? Maybe we could listen to a new song for a bit?”
“No thanks,” Cassie said, without turning around.
“You want to tell us what’s bothering you?” Vivian asked.
Cassie finally rolled over and sat up. She looked . . . different.
In one sense, Cassie looked more solidly there. Less translucent than when she first came back to them. Vivian could make out the shape of her jawline, the rosiness of her cheeks. And then she spotted it.
A shadow on Cassie’s temple.
Cassie must have noticed, because her hand flew up to the side of her head.
“I can feel it there, now,” Cassie said. “It doesn’t hurt. It’s just . . . I’m aware of it.”
It was where she’d been shot.
“Can we focus on something else, please?” Cassie asked.
“Actually, I need to ask you guys a favor. Can we lay low for a little?” Beck asked. “With the reward, my grandpa’s worried. He asked us to slow down. Take a step back, just for a little while, and I just . . . I really don’t want to be causing him any kind of stress right now. Can we take some time off? See if things cool down?”
“Of course,” Cassie said.
“Agreed,” Vivian said.
“Thanks,” Beck said. She finished fixing up Betty and lowered the van down off the jacks. She drove it back out to its new usual parking spot, right next to the sunflower field.
Vivian knew she left it there just for Cass.
But when Beck came back to the garage, just a few minutes later, she looked pale.
“Beck?” Vivian said, jumping off the stool she’d been sitting on.
“V, check your phone.”
Vivian opened her phone. She had missed three calls. A dozen text messages, all from her mother.
The messages included a link to the local paper’s website.
There was the headline, in big, bold text.
Vivian Hughes: Central Player in Major Lawsuit, but Did She LIE About Being in the Room Where It Happened?
“What the hell is this,” Vivian said, sitting back down.
“It’s my fault.” Beck croaked out the words, and Vivian looked up.
“What?”
“It says you weren’t in school, the morning of the shooting. Because you were in town, buying stuff with your credit card. Only it wasn’t you,” Beck said. “It was me. I’d left my wallet at home. We got to school, but I was hungry, and Cassie wanted a breakfast sandwich, remember? I offered to go get us breakfast and come to school late. I remember because you rolled your eyes and wished me a happy detention. But when I got to the Loft, I didn’t have my wallet, and your purse was in my car, so I used your card. And then I used it at the art shop, too. I was just walking around, looking at paint, while Cass was—Vivian, I’m so sorry.”
“Beck, why are you apologizing? You didn’t print this shit. They’re just trying to undermine the lawsuit.” Vivian could see the confusion spread across Beck’s face.
“You aren’t mad at me?” Beck asked. “But I stole your card. I left school. I was going to pay you back, but I forgot about it when I got back to school and saw all of the ambulances and police and—”
“And since then you’ve been completely distracted, blaming yourself for not being there that day.”
Beck didn’t answer. Her gaze fell to her feet in shame.
Vivian knew Beck blamed herself for that morning.
She knew it, because Vivian blamed herself, too.
And that was wrong, because neither of them killed Cassie.
“You have to stop,” Vivian said. “You being there wouldn’t have changed a thing.”
“It might have,” Beck said. “And you don’t understand, Nico—”
“No, it wouldn’t. Except maybe he’d have killed you, too. There was no time, Beck. There was no warning. He was just there. And then she was gone.”
“But Nico—”
“No, Beck. I’m glad you went to get us breakfast that day. I’m glad you were browsing the art store instead of in that classroom with us. Because maybe that’s the only reason you are here with me now.”
“But you’re so angry,” Beck said.
“I’m angry at them,” Vivian said, holding up her phone, open to the new article. “This is bullshit.”
“We can disprove it,” Beck said. “With security tapes.”
Vivian sighed and patted the bench next to her. Beck sat beside her.
“We can’t do that,” Vivian said. “We just have to let them tell their lies. It’ll all come out in the lawsuit, eventually. But that shop has a security camera out back, too. One that’s caught us sneaking in for painting supplies the last few weeks. We can’t . . . we can’t risk anyone seeing those tapes.”
“Shit, you’re right,” Beck said.
“So we ignore it,” Vivian said. “Listen, it’s late, and my mom is going to be off shift in a few hours and worried. I should get home.”
“I’ll drive you.”
They walked out together, Beck locking up the garage. But Vivian tugged on Beck’s sleeve, making her turn around, pointing to the van where it was still parked over by the fields.
Cassie wasn’t in the van.
She was standing next to it, staring at the sunflower field like she was about to walk into it.
Cassie turned to them as they approached the van.
“I learned a new trick,” she said with a smile.
“Oh yeah?” Vivian asked. “Is that all?”
“No,” Cassie said. “I’m also very cold.”
Beck
WHEN IT WAS FULL DARK IN the field, sunflowers lit only by the sliver of a moon hanging in the sky, Cassie got back into the van. She was glowing again, and Beck thought maybe she was brighter tonight. That faint blue tint like a halo all around her. What she didn’t know was what it all meant. Cassie getting stronger. Brighter. Leaving the van.
Staring into those fields with that look on her face. That look like longing.
Beck drove Vivian home, and for the first time in a month, the van wasn’t filled with the sounds of Cassie’s music or the girls’ endless chatter. When Cassie had come back, they had picked up right where they’d left off. And it wasn’t until tonight that the strangeness of it all had really hit them. Maybe it was the story in the paper. Maybe it was Steven Bell showing up at Grandpa’s shop. Or the podcast they’d listened to while they painted, talking about their murals, talking about the movement they’d started.
It was . . . a lot of pressure.
And now there was a reward for their capture.
And here they were, still angry.
And here Cassie was, still dead.
It wasn’t fair.
“Look,” Vivian said, pointing to the high school as they drove past it. The wall of the auditorium, where they’d painted Ariadne and her maze, was covered in splotches of red paint.
“It doesn’t matter,” Beck said, refusing to look.
But then they pulled up outside of Vivian’s home, and all the air left Beck’s lungs when she saw what they had done.
“What the hell,” Vivian said.
“Those bastards,” Cassie said.
Vivian’s front door was spray-painted in big, bold red letters.
LIAR
Vivian just stared, her jaw set, unmoving. Beck could see tears in Vivian’s eyes, but not a single one fell down her cheek.
That’s right, V, thought Beck. Don’t let them make you cry. Don’t give them that.
“Well, I guess we aren’t the only artists in town anymore,” Vivian said, her laugh knife-sharp.
“They’re just assholes,” Beck said. “You were right to file the lawsuit.”
“I know I was,” Vivian said.
Vivian cleared her throat.
“I’m glad your parents aren’t still in town for this, Cass. It’s going to get ugly with us going after the company.”
“They can handle it,” Cassie said. “They’re strong. I just wish I could—”
Cassie abruptly stopped speaking, but Beck knew. I just wish I could see them.
Her parents and sisters lived hours away now. Beck had thought about driving the van to them one night, to see if they could see Cassie. She’d even asked Cass about it once, but Cassie’s rejection of the idea had been swift and severe. What if they can’t see me? she’d argued. We’d put them through hell for nothing. And I’ll be gone soon. I don’t want to break them all over again.
“I’m exhausted,” Vivian said. “I’m gonna go crash. I’ll clean the door tomorrow.”
She climbed out of the van without another word. On her front step, she moved slowly past the wet, dripping paint. Careful not to step in it and drag that ugliness into the house.
“She’s not okay,” Cassie said from the back seat, where she was lying down, staring at the roof of the van, staring like she could see through it, right up to the stars.
Then again, Beck didn’t really understand Ghost Cassie. Maybe she could see through it.
“I know that,” Beck said sharply. Tonight had been tense even before the paint on Vivian’s door.
Cassie seemed different tonight, too, since they’d found her out by the sunflowers. She felt . . . she felt like she was far away. Aloof. Disconnected.
And that was scaring the hell out of Beck.
Cassie sat up, met Beck’s gaze in the rearview mirror.
“So go help her,” Cassie said. “Vivian needs you.”
But Vivian didn’t want Beck, and Beck knew that.
“You know, I’ve been thinking that you aren’t such a friendly ghost after all. Cassie the persistent ghost. Cassie the never-stops-playing-the-same-song ghost. Cassie the bossy ghost.”
“You know I’m right.” Cassie shrugged and lay back down on her seat. “But you can do whatever you want. What do I know? I’m super dead.”
Great. Now Cassie was mad at her.
Beck climbed out of the van, annoyed with everything. Especially with herself. It wasn’t her fault the paper printed the story. They should have known better. People had to know it was a lie. But apparently not, based on the evidence painted across Vivian’s front door.
We Can Be Heroes Page 11