She's Too Pretty to Burn

by Wendy Heard

  “Go!” Nico yells. We sprint to the back fence. He gives me a boost, and I pull myself over, followed by him. The security guards aren’t as fit or as fast as we are, and they’re stuck on the other side, trying to drag the twenty-foot ladder over. We sprint along the periphery of the property we’d cut through, heading for the street. We’re about to get to the gate when spotlights make us freeze. They’re on the other side of the gate. We’re trapped in this backyard.

  Whoop. A siren—the police are already here. Doors slam. They’re getting out. Flashlights flicker. They’re coming to search the yard. We’re about to get caught.

  “Shit,” Nico says. “Okay, plan B.” He runs to the wall on our right, the one that leads to another mansion’s backyard. I follow him; it’s only six feet high, and I pull myself over it, toeing off the wall and vaulting over the top. He follows me, and we drop down into a flower bed.

  The house is dark, the pool unlit. The water is almost black, only visible because of the moonlight glinting off its surface.

  A red-and-blue kaleidoscope shines through the palm trees. Voices boom near the gate.

  “The pool!” I whisper. “We can hide under the water.”

  “We’ll ruin the film,” Nico protests.

  “Would you rather go to jail?”

  “Fuck that. I want the pictures.” He throws the camera and his backpack into a bank of bushes.

  We run toward the pool and slip into the water, making as few waves as possible.

  The cool, hollow silence envelops me. I’m safe.

  It’s a false feeling of safety; this is not the womb, not a safe haven from the loud outside world, not for long. The ghost of the little boy haunts me, reminding me that the water is a sanctuary only for a minute, only until you need to breathe.

  My lungs are protesting inside my chest. We’ve been under for almost a minute. Nico squeezes my hand, and we surface quietly, our heads exposed just enough to breathe. It’s quiet; the searchers have moved on. His wet face is beaming with what looks like excitement and joy.

  “Are you having fun?” I whisper angrily.

  “Hell, yeah.”

  “Why do you do all this? You could go to jail.”

  “Please. They wish they could catch me.”

  “They might,” I argue. “They almost did tonight.”

  He blinks water out of his eyes. “You have swimming, right? That’s your thing?”

  “I mean—”

  “It saves you. It gives you a future. It’s your one thing.”

  Treading water, I nod. How can he know this about me?

  “Well, I have this.” He smiles with his eyes and slips back under the water.

  I take a deep breath and submerge myself in the darkness. I swim down, brushing the concrete bottom with my fingertips.

  I wonder what the other three installations are going to be. I’m afraid and excited. I want to be a part of this.

  It’s like when Veronica took my picture on the train and in the darkroom—it’s fear and exhilaration all tangled together. I loved that feeling of being studied through the lens of her camera. The feeling of having her complete attention was … It was like this. It felt wrong, but I’m on fire with longing for her to do it again.

  It never occurred to me that fear could be fun.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  VERONICA

  It was the middle of the night, but I wasn’t asleep. I was lying on top of the tangled covers, holding my camera in both hands, thinking about my life choices.

  Choice one: pressuring Mick into having her picture taken even though I knew she wasn’t totally comfortable.

  Choice two: lying to Mick, sneakily capturing a picture after promising not to, then developing it.

  Choice three: showing it to her, and then putting it on the internet.

  Choice four: tagging it so more people would see it, knowing Mick would be upset.

  Conclusion: I was an asshole. I was not a god of sex, not a badass photographer extraordinaire. I was just a dick with a camera who did the same thing to girls that guys have been doing through the ages: pressure, push, pull what I wanted out. I was just another misogynist photographer trying to get the model naked.

  I dug my phone out of the covers and googled Congressman Osgood, curious to see how Nico’s installation was going. Front and center were shot after shot of the congressman and a few other men in suits covered in blood and feathers, hands up to shield their faces.

  “Ha!” I laughed out loud. Great job, Nico. This congressman had no idea what was about to be unleashed upon him. I texted Nico a single emoji: a smiley face. We were super careful, never texting about anything related to the installs. He’d know what this meant.

  I checked his Tumblr page. It was called I Am the Phantasm and had a ton of followers. I expected to see images from tonight, taken from media coverage, but I sat up and frowned at the screen. Tonight’s post was titled “Shame: The world will know your name and avert its eyes.”

  The images below were behind-the-scenes shots, pictures from the roof itself. I scrolled down. Here was Nico dumping the blood, face covered by a bandanna. There was a picture of the feather balls bursting onto the congressman’s head. The images were captioned, like they always were, with Nico’s narration of the artwork.

  Tonight, we tarred and feathered Osgood, the focus of this series titled Possession. We’ll be exploring what it means to own something living—land, plants, animals, people—and what happens when the possessed rise up against the possessor. Get ready. This series is going to make the news.

  I guessed Lily must have taken photos for him. Given the quality, he’d used disposable cameras and developed them at his warehouse. They were grainy and low-grade, but it looked cool. He’d done a good job. I was proud of him. This was so much work, and it required such discipline and planning. I hadn’t seen him this committed to something since … well, ever.

  I left Tumblr and opened Instagram. I had so many notifications. They were uncountable. I navigated to the photo, which now had fifty thousand likes, and I scrolled through the comments.

  Beautiful.

  Who is this?

  A message from someone named Liz: Is this Mick from National City? It is, right? I wondered if this was Mick’s Liz, who was sending her such mean messages about the photo. I clicked on her profile and realized I knew her. She and I followed each other—I hadn’t put two and two together, but she was a friend of a friend, someone from that group of people from the party. She was always posting bikini selfies, showing off her swimmer’s body. I’d originally followed her out of an interest in these almost-naked selfies, but now I clicked Unfollow out of loyalty to Mick. I ignored her DM.

  This made me feel so good, this attention. I had taken raw material—Mick—and turned it into art. The feeling of power was going to my head like a drug.

  A light tapping on the window. It would be Nico, coming to gloat about the success of his install.

  I debated pretending to be asleep, but he’d just blow my phone up until I let him in. Grumbling, I swung my legs around and marched to the window. I yanked the curtains apart, opening my mouth to yell at him, but there was Mick. She was standing in the darkness, face illuminated only by the dim golden light from my window.

  She waved up at me.

  I was so surprised, I froze into place.

  She waved again.

  I slid the window up and looked down at her through the screen. “It’s you,” I said stupidly.

  “Can I come in?” Crickets chirped in the background, hidden somewhere in the fragrant flowering bushes that surrounded my house. She was wearing the same outfit—red lifeguard suit under shorts—but her hair was wet like she had gone swimming again, and she wore running shoes instead of flip-flops. The window framed her perfectly, and I wished I could freeze time and take her picture, looking up at me with that pretty, searching expression on her face, her hair tangled and wild.

  I shook it off. “I can push the sc
reen out for you to climb in, but would you rather come in through the front? My mom won’t mind you being here, but she’ll wake up if I open the front door.”

  “I’d rather climb in than wake up your mom.”

  I popped the screen out by the corners like I always did for Nico and passed it to her. She set it down on the grass and kicked off her shoes. She stepped back, gripped the window frame, pushed herself up easily, and swung her legs around so she was sitting on the sill facing me. Wait, were her shorts wet?

  I reached out to touch the waistband. They were. “Did you go swimming again or something?”

  She looked down at herself like she’d forgotten she was soaked. “I ended up going with Nico to his install.”

  “He took you to that? How? Why?” I had to fight to keep my voice down so my mom wouldn’t wake up.

  “He saw me walking and offered me a ride, and I ended up tagging along. We hid in someone’s swimming pool and almost got arrested.”

  I blinked at her a few times. What the hell was he up to?

  “That sounds right for a night out with Nico,” I said at last.

  She wrapped her arms around her waist. Her skin was full of goose bumps. I wanted to hug her to warm her up, but I didn’t know if she still liked me, if she was here to tell me off or what. Her face looked serious. This was probably bad. I decided the best defense was a good offense.

  “Mick, I’m really sorry,” I said, in a much more pathetic tone than I was going for. “I’m sorry about the picture. I won’t do it again. I’ll hide my camera every time you walk into a room.” I swallowed. Wow. I was so nervous.

  She ran a hand down the sleeve of my—oh my God, I’m wearing a Christmas pajama top. It had seemed funny earlier, a good way to cheer myself up, wearing Christmas PJs in July, but now I regretted everything.

  She lifted her eyes from the little Santas and said, “I’m here because I want you to take my picture.”

  I was shocked into silence. A rarity.

  She said, “I hate the pictures. I hate my face. I hate people looking at my face. It makes me want to peel my skin off.” Her voice was so intense, it was quivering. “I’m a private person. That moment was supposed to be ours.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  She gripped my upper arms hard, her eyes burning into mine. “But I can’t stop thinking about the way it felt. In the darkroom, on the train. I want more.”

  “I don’t want to—” I flushed, shy about what I wanted to say. “I don’t want to mess things up with us. I like you so much. I’d rather have you than a thousand photographs of you. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

  She wrapped her arms around my neck. There was no space between us anymore. Into my ear, she whispered, “I want to be uncomfortable,” and then she pulled my face toward hers and kissed me.

  Shock waves. I felt like I was floating. This was different. I tried to understand why, and then it hit me. She was kissing me. The other times, I’d kissed her. This was better.

  She pulled back. “Take my picture.”

  “Mick, no.”

  She looked around, saw the camera tangled in the duvet, and grabbed it. She returned to me and pushed it into my hand. “Take my picture.” She kissed me, one hand slipping up into the back of my hair. Her lips were a little salty, the dampness of her skin infused with an angry heat. Her chest rose and fell with her breath, faster than mine. “Take it,” she said, her lips brushing mine. She stepped away from me and sank down onto the edge of the bed. The look on her face was so lost, so completely just for me, that I had to raise the camera to my eye. I had no choice. The picture was already there, framed; all I had to do was reach out and grab it.

  Through the lens, I twisted her into focus. Her hands, clutching the duvet at her sides. Her clavicle, sharply shadowed. Her eyes, huge, half child, half old woman, piercing—scary.

  Click.

  I stepped closer, centered her in the frame, refocused.

  Click.

  I lowered the camera.

  She took it from me. She studied it, turning it over and over in her hands. She was gripping the camera so hard, her fingertips were turning white. I was suddenly worried she might throw it; she was vibrating with suppressed anger. Or fear?

  “Be careful,” I said. I reached out and tried to take the camera. She fought with me, tugging at it. “Mick, don’t break it!” Panic welled up inside me. She wasn’t letting go. I pulled it, but she was stronger. “Mick. Stop!” She yanked it away from me, falling back onto the bed. I jumped on next to her, grabbing for the camera. “Mick, don’t break it! That was my dad’s! Please!”

  She let go of the camera and shoved me onto my back. I reached for the camera, but then she was on top of me. She took my hands in hers and pinned them above my head.

  The only sound was our breathing.

  Her hands loosened on mine like she was going to release me. “I’m sorry,” she murmured. She closed her eyes. “I wouldn’t have hurt your camera. I just…” She shook her head.

  “You just what?” I asked, afraid she was about to get up and leave.

  She leaned down and kissed me hard, our fingers lacing together. “You think you took those pictures of me, but you took them from me.”

  “I’ll stop,” I promised, light-headed. “I won’t take any more pictures.”

  “No.”

  She kissed me again, and it was like I had never been kissed before. This was the real Mick, buried under all the shyness and fear. I wanted to tell her, You’re taking things from me, too; we’re all taking things from each other, but then words were lost and so was I.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  MICK

  I open the front door stealthily, afraid to wake my mom. It’s the dark gray moment before dawn, and the living room is chilly from the window unit next to the front door. This apartment, the eleventh we’ve lived in, is on the second floor of a courtyard building, and it’s old enough not to have central air.

  All is quiet. My mom must be asleep. Maybe she won’t even notice I was out all night.

  Good. I’m starving, and I think there are some Tater Tots in the freezer. I set my purse down and head for the kitchen. I feel woozy with sleep deprivation, excitement, and infatuation. I can’t believe I have to swim in a couple of hours. I’m going to be useless. Oh God. Liz is going to be there. Maybe I can sneak in a little late so we don’t have time to talk.

  “Where have you been?”

  I spin, heart pounding. My mom is in the sagging armchair against the window, a sliver of light from the exterior hallway cutting in through the closed blinds. Her legs are folded underneath her, silky pajama shorts leaving her legs bare.

  “You scared the crap out of me,” I say, a hand to my heart.

  “Come here.” She reaches for the pack of cigarettes on the side table and slides one out. The gesture is elegant, the Virginia Slim long and slender like her fingers. I walk toward her, my chest full of trepidation. She lights the cigarette with a little pink lighter and pushes the ottoman toward me. “Take a seat.” She breathes out a plume of smoke.

  I obey, sinking onto the ottoman cautiously. “You’re smoking inside the house?”

  She shrugs. It makes the left strap of her camisole slip off her tanned shoulder. “You’re not going to die of secondhand smoke poisoning in one day.”

  I wrap my arms around myself, shivering, and keep my eyes on her bright red toenails. My feet are larger than hers, the nails rarely painted. They’re the feet of an athlete, not the feet of a pretty girl.

  “So I stayed out all night,” I say, unable to stand the silence anymore.

  “Where were you?”

  I decide to tell her the truth. “I went out with a girl I met. I was at her house.”

  She glares at me as she takes another drag. The cherry of the cigarette lights up orange, which reflects creepily in her eyes. “What are you so afraid of?” she asks at last.

  I’m confused. “I’m waiting to see how much tro
uble I’m in for staying out all night.”

  She waves that off. “Not now. In general. In life.”

  It brings back a torrent of memories, times she’s tried to get me to climb fences and ride mountain bikes and go zip-lining and I’ve been too cautious.

  “Your dad was like that, you know,” she says.

  I snap my face up and look at her. “What?” She never talks about Dad.

  “He was fearful.” She drags deeply on her cigarette.

  “Fearful how?”

  She rolls her eyes. “Travel. Flying. Heights. He was claustrophobic. He hated parties. People. Crowds. His life was so … It was so…” She waves her cigarette around, the smoke making lace in the air. “So small. So sad. It was suffocating.”

  I am stunned. I feel like she punched me. She’s never told me any of this.

  “Do you want to be like that?” she asks. “Sad, alone, afraid to live your life?”

  I try to gather my thoughts. It’s not easy; I’m weak with hunger, and my head is swimming with Veronica and this thing she’s just thrown at me. When I speak, my voice quivers, and it’s not just because of hunger. I’m afraid of her, of the nasty things she might say.

  “Mom, I’ve been thinking. I think it’s really messed up that you’re threatening to take my savings account. But I’m not stupid. If it’s lose my savings or do this photo shoot, fine. I’ll do the modeling job with you.” My hunger sours and turns into nausea.

  She studies me for a long moment. “How big of you,” she says at last. “It’s going to be really hard for you, then? Being photographed?”

  “Well … yeah. I mean, you know how I feel about—”

  “Really?” Her tone is all sarcasm. She puts her cigarette out and grabs her phone off the table. She jabs at it, her movements quick and jerky. “You are full of shit, Micaela.”

  Oh no. Danger.

  She flips her phone around to face me. On the screen is the black-and-white photo of me from Instagram. “I called Liz looking for you. She sent me this.”