by Wendy Heard
“Stop.” I fill to the brim with anger and sadness. It was my fault that kid was in the water. I knew Angel wasn’t going to pay close attention. He never does. It’s always on me to keep an extra eye on the kids when he’s working.
“I won’t stop.” She pulls me into a tight hug. A flash of realization: No one has ever hugged me like this. Not hard, like they want to squeeze better feelings into me through sheer force. At first I don’t know how to react, but then I feel my arms wind around her neck. “Don’t go,” I hear myself whisper. It’s pathetic. We just started dating. She’s going to think I’m desperate and sad and—
“Don’t worry.”
The door swings open and a middle-aged policewoman in uniform walks through it. “Micaela?” she asks.
I pull away from Veronica. “That’s me.”
“We need you to come down to the police station to give us a statement about what happened. You can call your parents to meet you there.” She holds the door open; clearly, I’m supposed to follow her.
Things are bad enough with my mom. No way am I going to call her for this. Veronica says, “I’ll go with you if you want.”
“Thank you,” I breathe, gathering my belongings from my locker. A shiver runs all the way through my body.
CHAPTER TEN
MICK
The policewoman drops us off in front of Veronica’s one-story Spanish-style house, which is on a street not far from where we met. I’m quiet as I follow Veronica up the path to the front door, already feeling nervous about the idea of parents and siblings and trying to make a good impression. “I’m not sure I can do so good meeting your family right now,” I tell her as she’s unlocking it.
“I know. I won’t make you talk too much. You’re hungry, though, right?”
I nod miserably. I’m so starving, I have cramps.
“Come on. Let me nurture you with food.”
“Are you going to tell your mom about the pool?” Will she think I’m the kind of person who doesn’t take lifeguarding seriously enough, someone she doesn’t want seeing her daughter?”
“I’ll explain everything later, after you leave. She’ll understand.”
She pulls me into the house and closes the door behind us. We’re in a high-ceilinged foyer, the living and dining rooms open in front of us, a hallway that must lead to the bedrooms off to the left. The rooms glow with soft yellow lights, the kind that are embedded in the ceiling. The walls are covered in huge, colorful abstract paintings. Gingerly, I set my gym bag on the tile near the front door, self-conscious about it looking worn out and cheap in the context of this beautiful house.
“Mom, I’m home!” Veronica yells. We wait. Silence. “She’s here somewhere. Come on. Kitchen’s this way.”
I follow her into a kitchen with an island. “This house is really nice,” I can’t help murmuring.
“Thanks.” She tosses her camera bag and beach bag onto the kitchen table, which sits by a window overlooking a rose bed in the backyard. In the landscape lighting, the rosebushes cast skeletal shadows on the gravel path beside them. She starts digging around in the stainless steel fridge. “You want some chicken and rice? Or I could make nachos?”
I hesitate. I look down at my red bathing suit, shorts, and plain black flip-flops. In this kitchen, with put-together Veronica and her red lipstick and these gleaming acres of granite countertops, I understand why my mom is always trying to get me to dress differently. I understand why I should have painted toenails.
Why am I thinking about this? That little boy almost died today. When I was giving my statement to the police, I hadn’t wanted to throw Angel under the bus, but I also hadn’t known how to avoid saying that he was supposed to be watching the pool. I was on my official break. I wonder if he got arrested.
“Mick?” Veronica asks. “Chicken and rice or nachos?”
I look up from my feet. “Whatever you feel like making. I feel bad putting you to the trouble.”
She shuts the fridge and cocks her head, eyes scanning me. “You all right?”
I hesitate. “Maybe I could google it and see if there’s a news story, see if the kid is okay.”
“No,” she says firmly. “I’ll google it for you. Promise me you won’t.”
I nod, relieved.
She pulls her phone out of her purse, and I wait while she searches. “I don’t see anything, but I’ll keep checking. Okay?”
The back door slides open, and a dark-haired woman steps in. She’s very pretty, with Veronica’s cheekbones and a taller, narrower frame. Her jeans, T-shirt, and arms are streaked with something white, like paint. She stops in the doorway, looking between us. “Oh, hello.”
“Hi, Mom. This is Mick. We’re making food.”
The woman gives me a smile and a thorough once-over. “Hi, Mick. I’m Claudia.”
“Hi,” I say, barely audible, and offer her my hand to shake. She bypasses it and gives me a kiss on the cheek. I notice she has both sides of her long hair shaved, which surprises me on a mom.
Veronica’s head is back in the fridge. “What are you doing out there? Working?”
Claudia crosses the kitchen and gives Veronica a kiss on the cheek. “I’m all wrapped up in that new piece.”
“Ooh, I like that one.”
Claudia washes her hands at the sink and returns her attention to me while she dries them on a towel. “You’re beautiful, Mick. So fresh and sporty, and Veronica says you swim. Maybe you can get her into the ocean.”
“It’s a scientific fact that there are sharks,” Veronica retorts, head held high. “When they had drones fly over the surfers in Malibu, they saw so many great whites below them. I will show you the footage.”
“You’re so much drama.”
My curiosity is burning. I blurt out, “Are you a painter? Or…”
She looks down at herself and chuckles. “Oh, Jesus, my clothes are a mess. I’m a sculptor.”
“She teaches at the city college,” Veronica says with obvious pride. “She does this gorgeous relief sculpture, sort of a Chicanx Kandinsky style. Like postmodern three-dimensional Mexican muralism, but more abstract and geometric.”
They’re an artist family. That’s so cool. I watch them as they shred chicken and cheese for the nachos. They chatter effortlessly, like friends, and I wonder if Veronica has a dad, or another mom, or any other family who lives here with her. At last, while we’re seated at the kitchen table, I can’t help but ask, “So do you have any brothers or sisters?”
Veronica chomps on a mouthful of chips and guacamole. “I have an older sister. She’s getting her MFA at NYU. And my dad lives in Florida. He works in Orlando. Turns out he has a whole second family there, actually.”
“Veronica,” Claudia says in a warning tone. She’d gotten all the clay off her hands and forearms, but she has a white streak across one tanned cheek.
“What?” Veronica splays her hands defensively. “Am I supposed to keep it a secret or something?” To me, she says, “He moved to Florida to live with the family he likes better, and he left us this house so we’d still be able to ‘maintain our lifestyle.’ Asshole.”
Claudia presses her fingertips to her temples. “I can’t take you anywhere. Not even our own kitchen.”
Veronica grins at me and wiggles her eyebrows.
After we eat and put the dishes in the dishwasher, Veronica leads me upstairs to her room. It’s twice the size of my room. The queen-sized bed is unmade, the black-and-white comforter a tangle at its foot. The walls are painted red and covered in old movie posters. I read the names of the movies out loud. “Vertigo, The Big Sleep, Dark Passage, Pulp Fiction. I remember you talking about Vertigo. Will you show it to me sometime?”
“Sure, of course.”
My eyes land on a large silver thing resting on the desk chair. I squat down to get a closer look. “Is this a sculpture of a chicken?” It’s shiny and bright, and when I poke at it, it barely moves. It must be super heavy.
“Oh God.”
Veronica hurries over. “That’s Nico’s. Don’t look at it. It’s an art project.”
“He made this? Wow. It’s incredibly realistic.” I can see each tiny feather, every wrinkle on the legs.
“Hey, um … you want to see my darkroom?”
I’m still kind of fascinated by the chicken. “How do people sculpt metal, anyway? It seems like metal would be too hard to use tools on. But then I guess people sculpt marble.”
“Come look at my darkroom.” She clearly doesn’t want to talk about the chicken. Maybe she doesn’t like me complimenting Nico. I wonder if she feels competitive with him. She grabs her camera bag, leads me to a door I’d assumed was a closet, and holds it open for me.
I push through the heavy black curtain and peer inside. It’s a converted bathroom with counters built over the toilet; the bathtub holds trays and a big machine. She closes the door behind us and flicks on a light switch, which bathes the room in gloomy red-orange light. “This is a safelight. You can’t have any phones or anything in here while developing.”
I nod. She sighs and tucks my hair behind my ear. “I’m so sorry about today. What can I do? What would make you feel better?”
“I don’t know. Distract me. Maybe I could watch you develop some pictures?”
“Good idea.” She flips another switch, and a soft yellow light brightens the red into a sunset orange. “This can stay on until I start developing.” She pulls out her camera and examines it. “I have five more shots on this roll. Can I take your picture to use up the film? You can watch me throw those negatives away if you want. You can even cut them into a million pieces with your own two hands.”
I hesitate. “I don’t know.”
Camera in hand, she steps forward so our noses are almost touching and kisses me. It’s not like at the forest party. She’s not as gentle. She pushes me into the door. Her chest is warm and soft against mine, and she runs a hand through my hair, drawing my head back. “Let me take your picture,” she says into my neck.
I can’t make a sound. She lifts her camera to her eye, focuses, clicks, and lowers it. I lift my hands and press them to her cheeks, looking at her features. She’s so pretty, soft where I’m sharp, full where I’m hollow. I pull her toward me and kiss her, and her free hand is on me, running up my chest and over my shoulder and arm. I feel her slip one of my bathing suit straps down off my shoulder.
She steps back and lifts the camera. Click click. It’s uncomfortable, I hate it, but then she kisses me again, harder this time, and slips the other strap off my shoulder. She’s undressing me and photographing it in stages. I almost can’t breathe. It’s too much, the fear and pleasure all wrapped up together like this. She kisses my collarbone, her hair spilling ticklish down my arm, which makes my head feel woozy. She lifts the camera and clicks. “That’s it, I’m out of film.”
My breath is coming fast, and I swallow hard to calm it down. I return my bathing suit straps to my shoulders.
She sets the camera aside and is just about to kiss me again when a hard, loud knock just behind my head makes me jump out of my skin.
“Veronica!” calls a male voice, muffled through the door and curtain. “Can I come in?”
Her face twists into a scowl. “Go away, Nico!”
A pause. “But I love you.” He launches into an opera riff in fake Italian, his deep baritone almost genuinely operatic. I press a hand to my mouth, about to start laughing, and she rolls her eyes.
“I’m so sorry. Do you mind? I’ll get rid of him.” She slides the curtain aside and pushes the door open violently, making him stumble backward a few steps. “I seriously hate you.”
My eyes squint painfully from the onslaught of light. Something buzzes in the background, a constant bzz-bzz-bzz. Nico raises his thick eyebrows when he sees me. “Oh damn. Whoops. Hi, Mick.”
“Yeah, cockblocker, whoops indeed,” Veronica snaps. “Now go away.”
“But wait, I have to show you something.”
The buzzing starts up again, and I realize it’s coming from my purse. I squeeze past Nico and Veronica, out into the bedroom. I pull my phone out of the side pocket of my purse. Missed call from my mom. Great.
I have a bunch of text notifications, too, dozens of them. What the hell?
Nico is saying to Veronica, “Have you checked your Insta lately?”
“No, why?”
“You should check it.”
I have texts from a bunch of people I don’t talk to that much, acquaintances from swim team and from school. I have five new messages from Liz. Maybe they’re having a party or something? Did I forget someone’s birthday?
Veronica and Nico have fallen silent. I look up at them.
Veronica has her phone in her hand. Her other hand is frozen midair, like she was about to gesture with either excitement or shock but froze halfway through it.
“What is it?” I ask.
Her frozen hand comes down, and she starts scrolling. “Oh my God.”
“What?”
Nico is grinning. He has a broad smile and such white teeth. “You should take a look at this.”
I set my phone aside and get up. I cross the room and peer at Veronica’s phone over her shoulder.
She’s looking at the photo of me, the black-and-white one she posted to Instagram.
“I don’t get it,” I say, but then I see what she’s seeing.
The photo has ten thousand likes and hundreds of comments.
“No,” I say. My chest feels like someone punched it. “How?”
Nico says, “So here’s what I think happened. You tagged it with #artistsofinstagram, #photography, #lgbtq, and some other stuff.”
“No, we didn’t,” I protest.
“I did, later,” Veronica says.
“What? Why?”
“Just … I don’t know. Habit, I guess. I always tag my photography stuff. And I…” She winces. “I kind of added to the caption.”
“Added to it? What does it say?”
Nico reads aloud. “Just kissed. And then a line of empty space, and then, Is it weird to say I feel superstitious that we caught this moment on film? How often do you get to hold the most important moments in life in the palm of your hand? That’s photography. #artistsofinstagram #photography #artists #lgbtq #california #summerfun.”
I meet Veronica’s eyes. I feel dirty, like our first kiss has been cheapened by the gaze of thousands.
Nico navigates to the Instagram account for Seventeen magazine. The photo of me is their most recent post. Nico selects it and shows it to us. “See? Their repost has another ten thousand likes. They tagged you and added some more hashtags. And then it got picked up by a few of those meme-sharing accounts, and a bunch more photography accounts and artist accounts and—” He grins at us. “You’re viral, bitches. Internet famous.”
“But why?” I cry. “It’s just a picture of a girl on a train. I’m not naked, I’m not doing anything.”
He scrolls through the comments section. “They think you’re beautiful. They think it’s a photo about first love, about youth and being queer and all kinds of stuff. And look, you’re on the front page of recommendations for people following #artistsoninstagram and #photographersofinstagram and #lgbtq.”
“No shit,” Veronica says through a wide grin.
I snatch the phone from Nico and scroll through the comments on Veronica’s post. People are saying things like Beautiful and Haunting and tagging each other, and leaving follow requests, and talking about who I look like, and asking who I am. I navigate to the meme-sharing account Nico showed me and read comments there. They got a photo of Veronica off her account and posted it along with mine, and the comments are full of guys saying things like, blah blah TL;DR, I want to watch and TAKE YOUR SHIRT OFF AND STFU.
I drop the phone, numb.
Nico collapses onto the bed in a graceful heap. He looks back and forth between us. Veronica’s cheeks are pink, her eyes shining with reflected light from her phone.
�
�You look like you just won the Miss Universe pageant,” he tells her. To me, he says, “And you look like you’re about to puke your guts out on the carpet.”
Veronica looks up from the phone at me. “You okay?”
I’m so upset, it’s hard to form words. “No, I’m not okay. That’s our private moment.”
“But you said it was okay to post it.”
“On your account. How was I supposed to know it would get shared like this?”
“How would I have known?”
“Why would you tag it like that if you didn’t want a bunch of people to see it?”
She looks back down at her phone. She doesn’t have an answer to that. I sink down onto the bed next to Nico. I retrieve my own ancient iPhone, a hand-me-down from my mom, my gut gnawing with the suspicion that all the notifications are connected to this photo. I pull up the messages from Liz.
The first message says Mick? This is you, right? accompanied by a screenshot of the picture.
The next message says Okay, like ten people have sent me this. Why are you all over Instagram? I thought you hated pictures, but now you’re like some kind of Instagram model?
“Oh no,” I whisper. It’s a nightmare.
Nico says, “And look—you got a huge celebrity retweet.” He pulls up Twitter on his phone. Sure enough, it’s a famously bisexual pop singer with four million followers. The Instagram photo has been screenshotted, Veronica’s Instagram handle still in the frame, and the tweet reads #LoveIsLove. I reach out with a tentative finger and scroll down. It has ninety thousand likes. The comments are a disaster, a hodgepodge of support, self-promotion, memes, GIFs, and sexual harassment.
I make a dread-filled whimpering sound. This is uncontainable, uncontrollable. It’s a tsunami.
Nico reaches for my hand. “Are you okay?”
Anger wells up in my gut, returning me to the scene of the crime, the moment the photo was taken. The only reason I was that real and raw was because Veronica lied to me and said there was no film in her camera. She knew what she was doing. She knew.
I shove my phone into my purse and stand up. “Where are you going?” Veronica asks.