She's Too Pretty to Burn

by Wendy Heard

  I leave the bedroom. My steps quicken, and I run through the carpeted hallway out into the common area. Veronica’s mom is in the living room, reading a book. She says something as I rush past, and I know I’m being rude, but I can’t respond. I grab my gym bag and yank open the front door. I run as fast as I can away from that house, away from Veronica, away from the picture. Away, away, away.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  VERONICA

  I jumped up to follow her, but Nico put his hand on my arm. “Don’t do that thing you do. Give her space.”

  I whirled on him and opened my mouth to argue, but he was right. I sat down heavily and shook my head. “I fucked up. She’s right. I shouldn’t have tagged it.”

  He sprawled back, head resting on his lanky arms, and looked philosophically up at the ceiling. “You’re in way over your head with this one.”

  I scowled. “What does that mean?”

  His eyes left the ceiling and fixed on mine. “You don’t even understand what you’re dealing with.”

  “And what would that be?”

  He got to his feet in a languid, catlike movement and dug his keys out of his pocket. He pointed to my bedroom door, where Mick had stormed out. “That girl? That’s a girl on the edge. Give her a push, and she’s going over.”

  With a flash of guilt, I remembered Mick in the locker room, sobbing into her hands about the little boy. She’d tried so hard to save him. It wasn’t her fault.

  I lied to her. I didn’t see the kid breathing. I just wanted her to feel better.

  No. That wasn’t the whole truth. I was afraid to tell her the truth, afraid of her reaction. I felt like it might send her over … Over the edge? Was that how I felt?

  I hated it when Nico was right. And he was always right.

  At last, I answered him. “You’re so condescending. I hate it when you do this know-it-all, big-brother thing. You’re barely two years older than me.”

  He raised an eyebrow at me. “You think I’m wrong?”

  “I think you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Instead of answering, he pulled the door open like he was going to leave. I picked up a shoe from the floor and threw it at his head. I missed, and it hit the door frame. He watched it lazily. “I love it when you throw things at me, but I gotta go. Install starts in an hour.”

  I had totally forgotten. “Shit. I’ll get dressed.”

  He waved me off. “I don’t need you. There will be press galore. They’ll take pictures.”

  “Seriously? This is your big launch. Don’t you want pictures of the setup?” All his Tumblr followers would be expecting tons of photos. One of the things they loved about Nico’s art was the behind-the-scenes look at the planning and setup.

  “I promise you, we got it.” He tossed me a smile and let himself out, closing the door behind him gently.

  I stared at the closed door.

  That’s a girl on the edge.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  MICK

  I walk away from Veronica’s house, down the hill.

  I realize I’m crying. I wipe my face and keep going. The dusk is darker here than where I live; it’s more suburban, the houses farther apart, the streetlights more subdued. My gym bag is slung across my chest and bumps against my butt with each step.

  That photo Veronica took of me feels like a leaked nude—I’d never show that side of myself to total strangers, but now it’s out there for anyone to see. Next up, the Inner You shoot—actual nudes. Why not, right? Soon there will be nothing left of me that hasn’t been consumed by strangers on the internet.

  I’m the ghost again, screaming, raging, but no one hears me. I feel like I’m being swallowed up by the nighttime ocean, being sucked down into its pitch-black depths, that little boy from the pool drifting mutely beside me. We can be ghosts together, he and I.

  My chest feels tight. I push harder, move my legs faster, and I’m almost running now. Maybe my legs think they can outrun the person they’re attached to.

  My phone starts buzzing again in my purse. I slow down and pull it out with dread. It’s a string of texts from Veronica.

  Please don’t be mad.

  I’m sorry.

  It’s just really exciting for me. None of my pictures have ever gotten any attention. I was starting to think I had no talent.

  A few seconds later: Please come back.

  I stare at it. I feel furious. The anger is blazing, hair-on-fire hot. I shove the phone in my purse and return to walking. My flip-flops slap the pavement.

  I make it down to a six-lane street. Cars whoosh past in both directions. Across from me is a mini-mall with a Vons and a Starbucks, cheerily well-lit. I turn left. I don’t really know if this is north or south or where I’m heading. It doesn’t matter. I don’t want to go home. I don’t want to go back. This feeling of being untethered is scary. I focus on walking. Walking is something I can control.

  A car pulls up on the shoulder just ahead of me. I stop. Some creepy guy, probably, about to harass me. Then I see the Uber sticker on the back window and figure it’s just someone getting dropped off.

  The driver’s door opens and a guy gets out. Nico. With extreme nonchalance, he lopes around to the back of his car and leans against the trunk. “What’s up, Jagger?” he calls as I approach.

  My eyes fly to the passenger’s side window. No Veronica. “What are you doing here?”

  “I’m going to work on an art project. Where are you going?” He turns to peer in the direction I’m heading. “The equestrian center? Going to steal a horse and go all Medieval Times on these bougie motherfuckers?”

  I smile weakly. “I’m just walking.”

  “You know what?”

  “What?”

  “I think it’s really cool that you don’t want to be internet famous. I think it’s actually pretty great. I like you, Jagger.”

  It shocks me into silence. At last, I murmur, “Thanks.”

  He pushes off the car and steps closer to me. “I bet you’re good at keeping secrets. You don’t like attention, which is why most people tell secrets in the first place. Well, that and to unburden themselves if they’re feeling guilty. What do you think? Are you a good secret keeper?”

  I’ve never thought about this before. I think back on all my friendships, on any fallouts and fights … “I guess I am,” I reply. “Loyalty is important.”

  “That’s it. I’ve decided.” He grins. “I’m going to tell you my big secret. You ready?”

  “I guess…?”

  “That forest party we went to? That was mine. I’m the artist. That’s my crew.”

  “Oh.” I’m surprised by this, but then I’m really not. “Okay. I won’t tell.”

  “Well, here’s the thing. Veronica is mad at me and is refusing to take pictures for me tonight. I have my own camera; would you be willing to do it? The camera isn’t like Veronica’s; it’s point-and-shoot. Just like using your phone.”

  After a moment of thought, I ask, “What’s the art project?”

  “It’s an install, kind of like a prank. It’s fine art disruption.” He grips my upper arms. “Say you’ll come. You’ll love it. It’ll get your mind off this Instagram thing. It will just take an hour or two, and then I’ll drive you home. Where do you live?”

  “National City.”

  “Nice! I grew up near there, in Chula Vista.”

  “How did you meet Veronica?” What’s he doing out here in the land of Starbucks and immaculate landscaping?

  “I was in foster care near here for a minute. Went to Bonita for, like, one semester. I was a junior, she was a freshman. She got moved into advanced photography after wiping the floor with everyone in the ninth grade class. Then I moved to another foster home, and we stayed in touch.”

  He was in foster care? “I didn’t know. I assumed you were from one of these—” I gesture to the houses on the hills.

  “Nope. I was a free-lunch kid all the way. You?”

  “Ye
p,” I admit.

  He holds up a fist, and I bump my own against it. “Now you have to come with me. We’re doing an incredible prank on this congressman. He’s everything that’s wrong with the one percent.”

  I don’t care where he plans to take me; I just want to go somewhere that isn’t here and isn’t home. So I say, “Okay. Sure, I’ll come.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  MICK

  Nico parks at the base of a cliff atop which a golf course overlooks the moonlit ocean. Elegant, looming mansions are scattered through the hills, poking out behind trees where they can take advantage of the view. This is where the truly rich must live.

  Nico ducks around the back of his car and starts messing with his license plate. I come to see what he’s doing. He’s putting a rectangular decal on it, like a fake, stick-on license plate.

  “In case anyone calls in my plate number,” he explains in a whisper. “This is a private community; they have their own security, so we have to be careful.”

  “Where are we going?”

  He points up the hill. “Congressman Osgood is speaking at a fundraiser dinner tonight. We’re doing our install at the mansion.”

  “If we’re walking up there, I better get my sneakers out of my gym bag.”

  While he gets two bandannas and a black backpack out of the trunk, I put on my socks and Nikes and wonder what I’ve gotten myself into. He hands me a black zip-up hoodie and tells me to put my hair in a bun. I obey, second-guessing this decision more every minute.

  “Here, put this in your pocket,” he tells me, handing me a black bandanna. “You’ll cover your face with it when we get there. It’s to make sure you aren’t photographed.” He laughs. “Maybe you should just wear this every time you hang out with V.”

  I return his smile weakly and follow him. He keeps to the shadows, tucked away on the sidewalk as close to bushes and the overhang of trees as possible. Behind us, a white van chugs up the hill, engine protesting the incline. To my surprise, Nico waves as it passes us, and the passenger’s side window rolls down to reveal Lily in a T-shirt that matches the slogan on the side of the truck: LA JOLLA CATERING SERVICES.

  The bearded man from the forest party leans across Lily and waves from the driver’s seat. His hair is tucked into a beanie. “What up?” he drawls in a surfer-bro-dude voice.

  “Where’s Veronica?” Lily asks, shooting me an unwelcoming look.

  “Mick’s subbing in tonight,” Nico says. “Mick, this is Lily and David.”

  “What’s up?” David says amicably, but Lily snaps, “We’ve met.”

  Nico ignores her tone. “I’ll see you up there.”

  Lily narrows her eyes at me, gives Nico a dark look, and then nods. “Fine.” Her window rolls up, and the van resumes its slog uphill.

  “Where did you get that catering van?” I ask as we continue walking.

  “It’s just a plain white refrigeration van that we use for a lot of our jobs. The logo is a magnetic wrap. We swap them out.” This doesn’t explain where he got the van in the first place, but I’m starting to think it’s best not to ask any more questions like that. I recognize the type of van; I’ve ridden in them with my mom on the way to weddings to do catering jobs. Florists use vans like them, too; the entire storage area is basically a giant fridge.

  I’m starting to wonder why Nico trusts me enough to be here, considering they must be doing illegal things. Lily’s suspicion seems pretty reasonable. It’s not like Veronica and I have been dating for years.

  We walk at least a mile through the silent, darkened streets, winding our way up to a giant mansion at the top of the hill. It’s white and old-fashioned, with columns and a massive front porch. The whole thing is lit up like a movie set, and the driveway and sidewalk swarm with delivery vehicles, security company cars, and news vans.

  Nico avoids the chaos and pulls me around a corner. “You and I are going in through the back.”

  I don’t know what to do but follow him. The sweatshirt feels claustrophobic, trapping my body heat against my skin like a sauna. He leads me around the neighborhood like he knows these streets by heart, stopping a few times to text with Lily and David. At last, he’s leading me through someone’s side yard, using a gate he apparently opened for this purpose earlier in the day, through a backyard ringed with bushes and succulents, past a darkened pool house and shimmering cobalt-blue pool (these homeowners are out of town, Nico explains), and finally to an eight-foot concrete wall where Nico turns to me, eyes shining with excitement. “Here we are.”

  He unzips the black backpack and hands me an old-fashioned disposable camera. “You’ll be using this. No photos of me, Lily, or David, but otherwise, go ahead and take a picture of anything that seems important, especially the congressman.”

  My mouth is bone-dry. “Nico, I’m kind of scared.”

  He puts a strong hand on my shoulder. “I’ve never been caught. Not once. You can just relax and enjoy.”

  I’m not sure enjoyment is within reach, but I take a deep breath and try to relax. He’s clearly not at all stressed.

  I familiarize myself with the disposable camera as he reads a text from Lily. “She’s in position, the van is clear, they’re unloading. Dinner is almost over, which means we need to get up there and wait for Osgood.”

  “But what are we doing? Why are we going up onto the roof?”

  “You’ll see. I want you to be surprised.” He wraps an arm around my shoulders and squeezes. “Let’s do this, Jagger.”

  He gives me a boost, and I climb the wall. I jump down onto a pile of dead leaves and Nico lands beside me as quietly as a cat. Between us and the massive, artfully lit house is an acre of grass, an Olympic-sized swimming pool, a tennis court, and an outdoor dining area large enough to host a wedding.

  Nico shows me how we’re going to get up to the roof: A painter’s ladder has been tucked up against the rear patio at the farthest, least conspicuous corner of the house. Beside it rests a large pile of party lights, like someone got pulled away in the middle of stringing them. No one is back here, but through the windows, we can see a dozen workers bustling around in the kitchen.

  He hands me a pair of latex gloves. “We have to be careful. No fingerprints. My motto is leave no trace.” I pull the gloves on, dread spooling inside me, as he does the same.

  “Bandanna,” he says. We tie them over our faces, and I feel completely ridiculous, like an old-timey cartoon bandit.

  Nico has me climb the ladder first so he can hold it steady. The split-level roof is Spanish style, with rounded terra-cotta tiles that look hard to walk on. Nico pulls himself up next to me and leads me carefully along the perimeter to the front of the house, where, tucked between two tiled overhangs, four large white containers sit waiting for us. They look like ten-gallon buckets of paint. Beside them are four black garbage bags full of something fluffy. From here, we can see down onto the front yard, which is bustling with newspeople and valet car parkers and caterers in uniforms that remind me of my mother’s. Far beyond the house, glimmering to the horizon, is the dark, oily Pacific.

  “Make sure to stay back from the edge,” Nico says. “We don’t want them to see us.”

  Nico’s phone buzzes, and he reads the text, grinning. “Almost time. Get ready to take some photos.”

  He has me practice a few shots with the camera, getting pictures of the front yard and the view of the ocean, and then of the buckets and garbage bags. From his backpack, he pulls a small remote and pushes a power button. Down in the front yard, a few spotlights wink on, casting even more light onto the front of the house. No one notices, not in the flurry of reporters and flash photography.

  Nico’s phone buzzes. “Any minute now,” he says. Below, Lily comes into view, looking like a harassed caterer taking a phone call. She stands near one of the spotlights Nico just turned on and gives us a discreet thumbs-up.

  Nico gets a screwdriver and pries open the buckets. They’re full of a dark, viscous-looking liquid
. “What is it?” I whisper.

  “Blood and corn syrup.”

  “Ew.”

  He moves to the garbage bags and unties the openings. A single white feather flies out of one of the bags, twirling in the breeze around Nico’s head.

  Above his bandanna, Nico’s eyes watch me track the feather. I can tell he’s smiling by the way the skin around them crinkles. “This is gonna be epic,” he says.

  The front door opens below us, and a crowd of people surges out. Lily holds a hand up to Nico. It’s the cue he’s been waiting for. He tilts the buckets fast—thumpthumpthump—and dumps the contents over the roof, down onto the people below. The liquid is sticky and dark, and red like blood. It streaks the front of the mansion and drenches the men below.

  Screams. Panicked shouting. The flash of news cameras. The click of my camera.

  Nico takes the garbage bags and turns them upside down, releasing huge balls of feathers that tumble to the ground and explode on impact, blanketing the men in white feathers.

  He’s tarring and feathering them. I can’t stop taking pictures.

  And then darkness.

  All the interior and exterior lighting shuts down at once, leaving us in pitch-black, the front of the house lit only by the news cameras and the spotlights Lily is standing next to. The lights turn into pictures; they aren’t spotlights, they’re projectors. The front of the white mansion explodes into imagery. As the men stand there, shocked, covered in feathers and blood, scenes of wildlife demolition play out across the front of the house. Trees are silently razed by steamrollers, birds take panicked flight, surrounded by dust and steam and dirt and men in orange vests.

  It’s silent. Everyone has stopped screaming. The news cameras roll. I take a few more pictures and run out of film.

  This is … this is …

  This feels important. This work Nico’s doing … it means something.

  “Time to go,” Nico says.

  We move fast, picking across the tiles to the ladder. He climbs down first, and I follow. As we jump to the ground, two men run toward us from the front of the house. “Stop right there!” They’re security guards, dressed in blue uniforms.