She's Too Pretty to Burn

by Wendy Heard

  Liz? Liz is texting my mom about Veronica’s Instagram?

  “Liz wanted to know how I finally convinced you to do modeling,” my mom says, and she’s vibrating with anger. I am in serious, serious trouble. “I didn’t know you modeled either, Micaela. I thought it gave you anxiety. Apparently you just can’t model when I need the money to put a roof over our heads!” The last sentence comes out as a roar, so loud it hurts my ears.

  “I’m not modeling. This girl I’m dating is a photographer. She just took this of me randomly.”

  She coughs out a bitter laugh. “She, what, staged the perfect shot on an empty train with perfect lighting and took this totally accidental professional picture of you? Are you kidding me?” She jumps to her feet, and I flinch. “Don’t you think I know the difference between posed and candid? How could you do this to me? All I’m trying to do is put food on the table, and you act like asking you to stand in front of a camera for a few hours is like me sending you off to the coal mines? Poor Micaela, such a rough life, such a tragic martyr.” She seizes a book off the table and hurls it at the wall, where it thuds to the carpet.

  I jump up off the ottoman and back away from her. “It wasn’t like that.” I am famished with the need for her to feel what this is like, for her to know me and care. “Besides, Mom, I said I’d do the photo shoot thing. I said yes. You can stop yelling. I said yes!”

  “We lost the job!” she screams. “They gave it to someone else!”

  There’s a silence. Her chest is heaving, her eyes bright with glittering rage.

  “What happened?” I ask.

  “They had other options. They took one of them.”

  I don’t know what to say. “Mom, I—”

  “Get out.”

  My head spins. “Wait, what?”

  “Get out of my house.”

  She’s done this before, twice. Both times I stayed with Liz for a weekend before she’d let me come home. “Fine,” I say through a lump in my throat. “I’m glad to have a break from you.”

  My mom follows me to my room, her anger like a bodyguard behind me. “Better take anything you don’t want me to get rid of,” she says.

  I turn to face her. “Get rid of?”

  She’s stone cold, arms crossed over her chest. “I can’t afford this apartment anymore, can I? So I guess I’ll have to move into a smaller place.”

  She can’t kick me out for good. I’m not eighteen. This can’t be happening.

  “You have ten minutes.” She turns her back and walks away.

  My throat is hot with the tears I’m holding in. I say, “Mom, where am I supposed to go?”

  She stops, turns to face me. “Go wherever you want. You’re already doing whatever you want, right? Staying out all night, coming and going as you like, doing jobs if it suits you. Princess Micaela is her own woman. Right? So go be your own woman, then.”

  I slam my bedroom door and stand with my back to it, panting, tears hot on my cheeks. This isn’t fair. It can’t be right. It can’t be real. You don’t just kick your kid out, do you? Yes, my brain argues, people do this. My mom has been on her own since she was sixteen.

  I look around at my room. It’s messy, a normal teenager’s room, the twin bed unmade, the dresser overflowing. It reminds me that I’m a kid still, older than that little boy I’d held in my arms, but a child nonetheless. His mother had screamed, desperate for him to be okay. Would my mom scream like that for me? The memory makes me want to cling to my mom, to force her arms around me.

  But no. That’s not a thing.

  My chest aching with sadness, I go to my closet and pull my large gym bag down from the top shelf. It’s the bag I take to swim meets. I shove sneakers, jeans, shorts, swimsuits, bras, underwear, my brush, anything I can think of inside it, no idea where I’m going. I get my checkbook and the stash of cash from my desk drawer, my diary from my nightstand, and my phone charger. I don’t know what else to take. All my childhood stuff is here. Will she really get rid of it? She might be bluffing. Maybe.

  I zip the duffel bag and sling it over my shoulder.

  I think about the little boy again, about his limp, cold arms flung out on either side of him, of his mom crying. I’m crying, too, remembering. I need him to be okay. If he’s okay, maybe everything else will be, too, I think irrationally, like this thing that happened to him was bad enough to bind our fates together for life.

  I shift the bag to my other shoulder so I can get my phone out of my back pocket. I pull up Google and type in child drowning YMCA San Diego.

  I wait for results to load, then click on Tools to filter for recent results.

  But it’s not necessary. There’s a new article at the top of the feed.

  Child Drowns in San Diego YMCA Pool.

  My head swims.

  Drowns doesn’t mean “dead,” I tell myself. I click the link with a shaky index finger.

  A six-year-old boy has been pronounced dead after a brief coma following an accidental drowning at a summer camp event, the first line reads.

  It might be a different pool. It has to be.

  I scan the article and my stomach sinks.

  Same pool.

  It’s the boy. My boy.

  He’s dead.

  I’m on the floor. I don’t remember sitting down. My duffel bag is beside me.

  “Mick,” my mom yells from the kitchen. “Ten minutes are up.”

  I push myself to my hands and knees, and then to my feet.

  I shoulder my duffel bag. I wipe my eyes and nose. I look back to see if I forgot anything.

  My whole life is in here.

  She’s in the kitchen. She doesn’t turn around as I walk through the living room. I pause, a hand on the front doorknob. “Don’t throw all my stuff away,” I say to her back.

  She doesn’t answer.

  “Please.” My voice cracks.

  Nothing.

  I let myself out the front door. The apartment building is rustling with quiet activity. Everyone is getting ready for work—everyone but my mom, because she doesn’t believe in working a normal job, because she’s “always known she was never destined for a desk.”

  So this is it, then. No more job. No more best friend. No more Mom. No more home.

  Out on the palm-tree-lined street, the morning sun screams in my face, a violent heat. I feel a matching violence simmering inside me, like I’m about to snap and burn the whole sad and stinking world to the ground.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  VERONICA

  After Mick left, sneaking out to catch the Uber I ordered for her in the darkness before dawn, I replayed the last few hours in my head over and over, clutching the sheets to my naked chest. Mick. Mick Mick Mick.

  Memories of her slashed through my mind, a slide show.

  In the darkroom—click. Lifeguarding, turquoise water and red bathing suit—click.

  The little boy. I wondered what ever happened to him. He had to be fine. Kids didn’t just die like that.

  I remembered Mick, perched on the edge of this bed. Click.

  I sat up. No way was I going to be able to go back to sleep, not with this roll of Mick film winding its way around my brain. I needed to develop all those pictures.

  I jumped out of bed and threw my pajamas on, hungry to see what the new shots looked like. I spent a few hours in the darkroom, watching her face emerge from the tray of developer again and again.

  Here she was, one strap off her shoulder as I’d undressed her. Both straps off—tan lines, Jesus Christ. Eyes hungry, lips moist, staring straight at me with that same look I’d caught so perfectly on the train.

  I paused when I got to a shot of her diving into the pool.

  Had I really taken this picture? I didn’t remember doing that.

  I watched the image pull itself into focus through the clear developer fluid. It was Mick in profile, diving into the water. I’d caught her just as her hands were starting to cut through the surface. Her feet and hair were blurry. It wa
s—

  The thought was in my brain before I could argue with it.

  I’m so glad I took this.

  That boy could be dead, I scolded myself.

  But I pulled the photo out with my tongs, let the fluid run off it, and clipped it into a place of honor right at the center of my drying line.

  At last, I emerged from my darkroom, starving, and grabbed my phone on the way down to the kitchen. I had a string of emoji texts from Nico: a chicken, a heart, a smiley face, another chicken again, a thumbs-up. He was in a great mood, apparently, after the successful install. See you tonight, he texted after he was done with emojis, referring to the next install we had planned.

  I knew a little more about tonight’s install because I was meeting him there. It was going to be badass, a perfect followup to yesterday. I wanted to ask him why he’d brought Mick, but I’d do it in person. He had some explaining to do.

  My phone buzzed again and again with endless notifications coming from the viral photo of Mick. I was getting tagged all over the place, and that celebrity retweet had a zillion likes and retweets of its own.

  Along with the notifications, I had a bunch of DM requests from super-creepy guys (Are you both girls? Damn, can I watch?), some DMs from queer teenagers wanting to connect and talk about shared struggles, which made me feel guilty for coming from such a supportive home, DMs from girls wanting to hook up with me (these made me smile a little), models wanting me to take their photograph, and on and on and on. Buried in the chaos was a message from a woman named Carmen Contrera.

  Veronica, I’m an editor and scout for PostMod Photography Magazine, based out of Los Angeles. Can you tell me about your process? It looks like you’re working analog. Am I right? The photo of Mick was attached to the DM.

  Of course I knew PostMod. They were a well-respected photography magazine. I checked their account. They had over a million followers.

  My fingers shook as I typed the reply.

  Wow, thank you for—

  No. I deleted it and started again.

  Yes, I always do analog. These were shot on Kodak Tri-X 400. I use a Nikon from the 1980s. I’m glad you like them!

  I sent this, wincing because “I use a Nikon from the 1980s” sounded incredibly pretentious. I set the phone aside, my heart racing.

  My phone vibrated, and I saw with surprise that Carmen from PostMod had already answered my DM. I opened it up.

  That’s exactly what I was hoping to hear. Do you have any interest in participating in an upcoming show? We’re running an issue on young talent, and we’re donating prints to a fundraising gala with attached silent auction for an environmental nonprofit called Save the Bay. What do you say? Would you donate prints if you got coverage in PostMod?

  I read this through five times, and then, with fingers that could barely find the screen, I typed, I would love to participate.

  Great. Here’s my email. Can you send me at least 10 other shots from this series? The gala is this weekend, and I had someone drop out.

  I couldn’t imagine dropping out of a chance like this. What would make someone flake at the last minute? I typed, I’d love to take their place. I can’t believe anyone would pass up this opportunity.

  She answers, Me neither. He fell off the face of the earth and stopped answering my emails.

  Wow. What an idiot. Well, I’d love to do it, I say. How did you find me? Did you see the photo on Instagram?

  Yes, the photo was sent to me and I knew right away I had to see more.

  Mick.

  I didn’t know what I was going to tell her. I had a bad feeling she wouldn’t react well. She couldn’t expect me to pass up something like this. Could she?

  I almost called Mick and asked, but I remembered she’d be in swim practice right now. Carmen started up about wanting to meet in person and asked how fast I could produce prints for her to preview, and how many other shots of Mick did I have ready, and I got swept up in excitement.

  I’d talk to Mick later. She’d have to understand. This was PostMod. This was my future. This was everything.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  MICK

  I stand on Veronica’s porch for a long time, the duffel bag strap digging into my shoulder. I’m hot and sweaty in the late afternoon sun. It took me forever to get here on the bus.

  The inside of me feels … shaky.

  I stare at her front door.

  I don’t know what I’m here to ask her for, not really. I know I can’t stay here. We just met. I know that.

  I keep imagining that kid’s dead weight in my arms. When I went to the pool this morning for swim practice, I couldn’t even go in. I couldn’t bear the idea of smelling chlorine. I just stood in the parking lot with this stupid, heavy duffel bag slung over my shoulder, like I am now, and then left.

  The day was a blur. I went to the park. I ate a burrito. I fell asleep on the bus, went to the end of the line, and had to get off in some neighborhood I didn’t recognize.

  So here I am, staring down my first night of not going home and not any closer to a plan than I was this morning.

  It’s going to be okay, I tell myself. My mom just needs a few days to cool off.

  I stare at the pretty wood-and-glass door for another few minutes, and then I back away. I set my duffel bag on the hot front step and sit down next to it.

  I shouldn’t have come here. I should have other people to turn to. I should have family. I should have another parent. I remember what my mom said to me about my father, and I wonder what other things about him I don’t know. She told me once that he’d moved to Arizona, and I’ve tried to find him, but his name is Michael Young, which is ridiculously common, so I never get anywhere. I do have grandparents, but we barely know each other; my mom doesn’t really get along with them. They live in a small town in Michigan.

  “Mick?”

  I snap my head up. Veronica’s mom is standing on the walkway in front of me, car keys in hand, purse slung over her shoulder, wearing a sundress and sandals.

  I’m instantly flushed with humiliation. “I am so sorry.” I hop up and grab my bag, embarrassed to the core of my being.

  She approaches slowly.

  “Go ahead. I’m sorry to block your way.” I step aside and walk back toward the sidewalk, duffel bag bumping my legs.

  “Hey!” She catches up with me. “Hey, hey, hey. Where are you going?”

  I don’t want to be disrespectful, so I stop, but I can’t look at her.

  “Are you all right? Did you and Veronica have a fight?”

  Suddenly I remember I stormed out right in front of her last night. God, she must think I’m a mess. “No, we didn’t. I was just leaving. Thank you.” I make a move for the sidewalk.

  “Why don’t you stay for dinner?”

  I turn back toward her, slowly, dread heavy in my gut.

  “I was going to make lasagna.” She has that X-ray thing I’ve seen in other moms. It makes me blink hard to keep from crying, and then suddenly, horrifyingly, I am crying. It’s happening. There’s nothing I can do about it. The tears are just there, spilling down my cheeks. I duck my head and brush them away.

  She lets out a low, soft chuckle and puts her arms around my shoulders. “Tell me what’s the matter.” Her voice is so soothing, so kind, that it just makes me cry harder.

  “You don’t have to do that,” I manage, trying to shrug her arms off me. “You’re not my mom. You don’t have to worry.”

  She gives me a light slap on the back of my head and hugs me again. “I’m not your mom, but I’m a mom. Now, do you want to tell me what’s wrong and why you have that heavy bag with you, or do I need to feed you first?”

  She pulls back and peers at me. I’ve gotten the shoulder of her blouse wet. I shake my head. “You don’t have to feed me. It’s fine.”

  She wraps an arm around my waist and pulls me toward the house. “I’m disappointed. Veronica usually likes smart girls. And smart girls don’t refuse lasagna.”

&nb
sp; I can’t help but laugh. I wipe my eyes and sniff in a noseful of snot. “Okay. Thank you.”

  “Good.” She leads me to the front door and opens it with her key. “Veronica!” she yells when she gets inside.

  Silence.

  “She’s probably in her darkroom. Come help me in the kitchen. You can toss your things there by the couch.” I set down my duffel bag and wash my hands in the sink while she gets stuff out of the fridge. “I saw that photo that’s going viral,” she says, pulling out Tupperware containers and tossing them onto the granite countertop. “It’s a beautiful shot of you. All the photography professors at the city college are talking about it. My girl’s got talent.” She shoots me a smile. “And a gorgeous model.” The photo is the last thing I want to talk about. She pours herself a glass of red wine and offers me some. I decline, shocked at the offer, and she laughs. “You’re seventeen, not twelve. You’re old enough to drive and have sex, and next year you’re allowed to murder people in the military. I think you can handle a little bit of sour grape juice.” She pours me a glass of iced tea instead. “So tell me what happened. If not a fight with Veronica, then what?”

  I keep my eyes on my glass. “I had an argument with my mom, and she kicked me out.”

  A frown flickers across her brow. She sets her wine down and says, “She kicked you out? What do you mean?”

  “She does that sometimes, when she gets really mad.”

  A long silence ensues, during which she sips her wine with raised eyebrows.

  I say, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come here. My best friend kind of dumped me and…”

  “Why are you apologizing when you didn’t do anything wrong? That’s something we teach girls to do—always apologize, never be a burden. You have a right to take up space.”

  I feel my face go hot. I don’t know what to say to something like this.

  Veronica plunges into the kitchen like a bolt of lightning, hair falling out of a high bun. “Mom! Finally! I’m out of developer fluid. I’ve been waiting for you forever so I can take the car—” Her eyes land on me. “Mick! You’re here! And you’re hanging out with my mom. What is happening?”