She's Too Pretty to Burn

by Wendy Heard

  Eyes still on the roof, I said, “My favorite right now is Pulp Fiction.”

  “What’s your favorite movie of all time?”

  “Vertigo,” I said without hesitation.

  “I’ve never heard of it.”

  “I’ll show it to you if you want.” It was a really premature invitation, and I regretted it instantly. Earn it, I reminded myself.

  The driver dropped us off unmurdered at the northwest end of the Gaslamp Quarter, a historic section of downtown San Diego full of bars and shops. It’s always packed with college students laughing drunkenly and high school kids trying to blend in with them.

  On the corner of Fifth and E Street, jammed into a crowd of people waiting for the light, we looked at each other.

  “So,” I said.

  She pressed her lips into a smile. “So.”

  The light changed, but before we could step into the crosswalk, a herd of middle-aged tourists on Segways whizzed past against traffic.

  “That’s eight points,” I said, already lifting my camera to my eye and capturing the shot. I wasn’t sure if it would come out; the lighting was iffy at best.

  “What’re the points for?” Mick asked.

  “I have a rating system for tourist nonsense; it’s a scale of one through ten. Groups on Segways are an eight.”

  “What’s a ten?”

  “A ten has never yet been achieved.” We reached Market Street.

  The lighting shone down on her face just right, a golden glow that smoothed her tanned skin into velvet. I almost turned the camera on her, but then I remembered her photo phobia. “Mick, can I ask you something? I’m not trying to be nosy. Just tell me to shut up if you don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Sure.”

  “What’s up with you and pictures?”

  She opened and closed her mouth and then said, “My mom’s a model. Like, she’s been modeling since she was a teenager.”

  Interesting.

  She took a deep breath that sounded shaky and said, “I think it’s like a phobia. It’s gotten to the point where when someone points a camera at me, I’m literally afraid.” She put a hand to her chest. “Like, I can feel my heart pounding just thinking about it.” In a quiet voice, she said, “I can’t even go to Disneyland without worrying about those stupid pictures they take on Splash Mountain and Space Mountain.”

  I wasn’t sure what the right response to this was, so I said, “I’m sorry. That really sucks.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Do you think…” I was afraid to say this, but it was an idea that had been nagging at me. “What if no one ever looked at the photo? Like, what if I took your picture with my camera, but there was no film in it? Maybe that could be a first step. Forget how you look in the pictures, just get used to having the camera on you.”

  She blinked, hard and fast. “Maybe. I see what you’re saying.”

  My camera still had a few shots left, but what she didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her. “This roll of film is out. Do you want to try it?”

  “For real?”

  “Sure.” I felt a tiny pinch of guilt. A very, very small pinch.

  Her cheeks were red. “You wouldn’t mind? What if I had a panic attack? Oh God, what if I cried?”

  “I’ll just chill out while you hyperventilate. You know how they put someone with a fear of snakes in a room full of snakes? I learned about it in psychology.” I racked my brain, and then the words came to me. “Exposure therapy. It’s supposed to help.”

  “You really want to? You don’t mind?”

  I was dying to take her picture. Cool as a cucumber, I said, “I have nothing better to do tonight. I’m all yours.”

  She took a deep breath. “Okay. Let’s do it.”

  “Yes!” I turned the camera toward her and twisted the focus dial.

  “No!” she cried. “Not like that.”

  “Not with the camera? That’s usually how I do it.”

  “No, I mean, not in front of all these people.”

  It was Saturday night; the Gaslamp was wall-to-wall flesh. I wasn’t sure about the logistics of achieving total privacy, but I am nothing if not stubborn once I’ve decided to do something. I nodded, decisive. “All right. We’ll find a quiet spot to take your fake picture. It’s our new mission. We will stop at nothing.”

  The grin I was starting to like a lot flashed across her face. “Thank you.”

  I touched the side of her arm lightly, enough to feel the soft, warm skin. Wait. Is she…? This did not feel like a straight-girl hug.

  And then she pulled away, leaving me with a chest full of air.

  I liked her.

  We searched the streets, peeking between storefronts, hoping for alleyways, and then the train station emerged in front of us and I knew I had found the right place. I dragged her toward it.

  “Are we going into the station?” she asked, keeping up with me easily.

  “You’ll see.”

  Inside, the arched, Spanish-tiled walls swooped above us, warm lighting filtering down from the rafters where pigeons snuggled in downy piles. Lost-looking people clustered in front of information windows and ticket machines, and locals sprawled out in the chairs, ignoring the homeless people camped out in neighboring seats.

  “See?” I said, gesturing to the beautiful interior. “It’s a great spot for photos.”

  She looked around and said, “There are people everywhere.”

  We might end up taking these photos in the bathroom. My eyes landed on the flashing time display. The northbound Amtrak Surfliner was due to leave in seven minutes.

  “Come on.” I took her by the hand and pulled her toward the ticket machines.

  “What are you doing?”

  “You’ll see.” I jabbed numbers into the screen and fumbled my credit card out of my wallet.

  “Are you buying a ticket?”

  “Quiet, woman.” I took the tickets from the machine. “Come on!”

  “Two tickets?” she cried. “Where are we going?”

  “Shhh!” I grabbed her hand and guided her out onto the platform.

  She laughed, breathless. “Where are you taking me? Why do I feel like I’m being kidnapped?”

  My eyes darted around, and I found track three. Giggling madly, I pushed her toward the Amtrak train waiting there. Surfliner was printed in italicized blue letters along its side.

  “Veronica?” she asked. “Help me understand.”

  “I guarantee you this train will be almost empty at this time of night. It leaves in two minutes. We can get off at the next stop and catch an Uber.”

  A slow smile crept across her face. “I do like trains.”

  “All aboard,” I said with mock solemnity as the announcer’s voice boomed over the loudspeaker, “Last call for northbound Surfliner, track three.”

  She led the way up the three stairs onto the train, and we jumped inside. I followed her through the rows of seats in the empty carriage.

  The train lurched. We stumbled. I almost knocked right into her, but I grabbed on to the back of a seat and planted my feet. The train started forward, taking us north and beyond.

  She turned to face me. “You know what?”

  “What?”

  “I don’t want to get off at the next stop. I want to keep going.” She almost lost her balance, took a half step back, and steadied herself.

  “Oh yeah? Where do you want to go?”

  “I don’t care. I just don’t want tonight to end.”

  I did a quick check to confirm the train was empty. It was. We were alone. Reckless, dizzy, I reached up and touched her face. I trailed my fingertips across her cheek and along the groove above her upper lip.

  She looked frozen with surprise. I pulled my hand away. “Is that not okay? I’ll stop.”

  “Don’t.” She took my hand and returned it to her cheek. I ran my fingers past her ear, trailing through the golden-tawny strands of hair. My heart pounded hard, out of sync with the rhythm of the
train. Her eyes were full of questions. I stepped forward slowly, afraid of falling, giving her time to pull away and run screaming. Instead, she leaned in and brushed her lips against mine.

  I couldn’t breathe for a moment, and then I kissed her back. I wrapped my arm around her waist, and my camera dug into our chests. Her lips were soft and sweet. I could have kissed her all night, stayed there on that train, past oceans and mountains, never worrying about a destination.

  Instead, I pulled back. Her eyes followed me, her hands reaching like I was stealing something from her.

  And I did.

  I lifted the camera, and I took her picture.

  That was it. That was the beginning.

  CHAPTER SIX

  VERONICA

  Three dots hung in space. Standing in the middle of my room in the late afternoon sunshine, hopping impatiently from foot to foot, I reread the text I’d sent Mick: Want to come with me to my friend’s art show tonight?

  Should I have waited a few days? Suddenly, I was not sure texting her the very next day after a first kiss was a good idea. Was I being overeager? Pathetic? Pushy?

  The dots resolved into a single, glorious word. Sure.

  “Yes!” I shouted. She wanted to see me again.

  I took a deep breath and returned her text. My friend Nico is picking me up in a little while, and then we can come get you.

  Cool. I’ll send you my location.

  I had some time, so I headed for the door in the corner of my room. I had the master because my mom knew I needed an en suite bathroom to turn into a darkroom, and because she was a wonderful lady who maybe spoiled me a little, which I encouraged. I opened the door, pushed aside a heavy black curtain, pulled the door shut behind me, and flicked on the wall switch. The room was bathed in a dark, red-orange glow.

  I queued up my playlist that had songs from my favorite old movies and returned my phone to my pocket. “Girl … dum-dum-dum-dummmmm, you’ll be a woman soon…,” I sang along with my Bluetooth speaker as I got to work developing last night’s roll of film. The red safelight transformed my bathroom-turned-darkroom into a tiny nightclub, and I danced around to the Pulp Fiction soundtrack while I waited for the timer to tell me the film could come out of the chemicals.

  Loud knocking on the door snapped me out of my loner karaoke session. “Who is it?” I yelled.

  “It’s me, pretty girl,” cooed a familiar voice.

  Nico.

  “Come in. But be careful with the curtain! I’m developing film.”

  He slipped in gracefully, first through the door and then through the heavy blackout curtain so no light entered with him. The timer dinged, and I hurried to get my film out of the developer. Nico leaned his tall, fluid frame on the counter at my elbow, arms crossed over the stomach of his Queen T-shirt. “What’s up, wife?”

  I took a second to wrap an arm around his narrow waist in a half hug. “Just burning pictures, husband.”

  He kissed my cheek, his chin scratchy. “I finished the chicken. I brought it to show you. I want to see your reaction.”

  “Oh cool!” I was excited to see this. It was a new 3-D technique he’d been trying to perfect. He’d been very mysterious about it. All I knew was that he was working on a photo-realistic chicken sculpture.

  “Come see it.” He tried to drag me toward the door.

  I pulled my hand away. “Give me a few. I want to finish something. Feel free to grab something to eat if you’re hungry.”

  “Your mom already fed me and gave me a bag of leftovers to take home.”

  “Good.”

  Nico had been living on his own for the last two years, since he was seventeen and a half, but my mom never really adjusted to him being an adult and fed him at every opportunity. I liked it, actually. Nico had never had anyone to care for him, not really, and my mom was one of those people with enough love to spread around.

  He hummed along to the music as I cut the film into strips and slipped them into a sheet of negative sleeves, aware that he was watching me. He had a way of giving you his undivided attention that made you feel intensely scrutinized. Girls loved it.

  I scanned through the rows of negatives, holding them up so I could see them against the red safelight. I really wanted to find that photo of Mick.

  There she was, tiny but real, her irises ghostly white in the negative. The focus looked good as far as I could tell, but I wouldn’t be sure until I enlarged it. I took the negative strip and clipped it into the secondhand enlarger my mom had bought from a photography professor at the city college. I zoomed in, framing the image until I was happy with the composition. I couldn’t believe I’d gotten this much clarity on such a quick, candid shot.

  Nico peered over my shoulder. “Hellooooo,” he said, eyes on Mick’s face, pretty even in negative.

  I shoved him off. “Not for you.” I gently removed a piece of photo paper from its package and positioned it under the enlarger, then timed the exposure and slipped the paper into the tray of developer fluid. I twisted the dial on the kitchen timer and waited, watching the image materialize. Wow. This was even better than I’d expected. Mick was set against rows of seats that blurred into infinity behind her, adding a beautiful depth of field and a feeling of movement to the image.

  The kitchen timer went off with a ding. I used the tongs to pull the paper out of the developer, shake off the drips, and slip it into the fixer. Nico and I leaned in to get a good look as I pulled the photo out of the fixer and slid it into the stop bath.

  The photo was incredible. Mick’s expression was half shocked, half searching, lips parted, eyes huge. My chest swelled with pride as I realized—I’d kissed her. I’d given her that expression. Me.

  “Who is she?” he asked.

  “A girl I met yesterday at that party you flaked on. Thanks for working late. Turns out you did me a solid. Oh, actually, I told her she could come with us to your launch party tonight. Do you mind?”

  He narrowed his eyes at me. “Actually, I do mind. Do you want to get us in trouble?”

  “Why are you so paranoid? There will be hundreds of people there. What’s one more?”

  “I don’t want to go to prison just so you can impress some girl you’re trying to—”

  “Would you knock it off? You’re such a grandma!”

  We glared at each other.

  He said, “Act like this is some other friend’s work. Don’t tell her it’s me. And don’t get any ideas about bringing her to the installs just so you can show off.”

  “I didn’t want to bring her to those anyway—whatever they are.” There were four installs in this series, but he liked to tell me about them one at a time. He said the element of surprise made my photos better.

  He gave in. “Fine. Now come look at my chicken.”

  “In a minute.” I pulled out another piece of photo paper and started printing a different version of this photo. I wanted less contrast on her face, more on the seats behind her.

  Nico became a distant memory as I messed with the photo, first upping the contrast, then dodging and burning. No print was quite right. I heaved a sigh of frustration, clipped this last one to the wire, and started a new one. I was more careful with her eyes this time. I needed one more chance to get it right. I couldn’t tell if—

  “Veronica. Veronica!”

  Nico was standing beside me, a warm palm on my shoulder. “You don’t think you have enough? You’re usually so stingy with your supplies. And we have to go soon.”

  I blinked, feeling like I’d just awakened from a nap. I turned and looked at my workstation.

  Ten prints were clipped to the line. I didn’t remember making ten.

  I looked down at the counters, where the trays full of chemicals were usually lined up neatly. Now they were askew, puddles of developer and fixer splashed carelessly across the granite.

  I stood in front of the row of photos. Mick’s ten sets of lips glimmered, wet and soft-looking in the red safelight.

  Nico came
to stand next to me. “That one.” He pointed to the middle one, the one I’d manipulated with dodging and burning to set her eyes into deeper shadow. It gave her a haunted beauty. She looked otherworldly.

  I pulled the print off the line and followed Nico out into my bedroom. I held the photo at arm’s length in the soft evening light that streamed through my window.

  “Jesus,” Nico said. His eyes were fixed hungrily on Mick’s face.

  “Ew, stop.”

  “No, not like that! I’m saying Jesus about your skills, girl. Fuck nature photography. You should be doing portraits. Look at this!”

  I flushed. Nico was the most talented person I knew, although I’d never have admitted it to his face. “Thanks.”

  A smile spread across his face. He was reading my mind. “You’re welcome.”

  As I set the photo on my desk, my eyes landed on a large silver object on my bed. “Is that the chicken?”

  “Yes!” He leaped to the bed and hefted the object. It was a chicken-sized silver sculpture. He handed it to me and I almost dropped it. It must have weighed twenty pounds at least.

  “What is this made out of? Solid steel?” I tried to get a better look without dropping it. It was impressive, definitely photorealistic. I could see every detail of every feather. As I admired the realism, something dawned on me. “Did you cast this using a real chicken, Nico?”

  He cackled. “Yup! I got one from a family down the street from the warehouse. They have a little farm in their backyard. The mom showed me how to kill it.”

  “Oh, gross!” I cried, dropping the thing onto the bed. Now that I knew he’d used a dead chicken, I noticed its pose: limp-necked with toes sort of dangling and eyes half shut.

  He gave me a condescending look. “It was much more humane than industrial farming. People all over the world slaughter their own animals. Anyway.” He plopped down next to the chicken and picked it up. “I used a new technique to pour in the molten steel, but yeah, I did a plaster cast of the chicken.” He grinned at me, waiting to be praised.

  “Everything you’re saying is the worst thing I have ever heard,” I told him. “Like, I’m on the verge of stealing your DNA and sending it to the FBI. What the fuck is actually wrong with you?”