She's Too Pretty to Burn

by Wendy Heard

  “Mick and I ran into each other on the front steps.” Claudia pulls Veronica in for a hug and kisses her on the cheek. “Have you been locked in your darkroom all day?”

  Veronica kisses her mom back, extricates herself, and comes to drop a casual kiss on my lips, right in front of her mom. “Yes, I’ve been locked in my darkroom.”

  “It’s a beautiful day—”

  “Don’t give me shit, Mom,” Veronica says sassily, but then she runs and hides behind me as Claudia pulls the hand towel off the stove and twirls it in her hands like she’s going to whip Veronica with it. They’re both laughing. This is a game. They’re having fun with each other. It makes me lonelier than I can ever remember being in my life.

  Veronica holds her hands up in a gesture of surrender, but then she steals Claudia’s wineglass and takes a deep sip. Claudia shrieks, “You can’t do that if you’re going to take the car!” and Veronica sets the wine down before the towel can make contact with her butt. I stand back from this, hands gripping the counter, sadness tight in my chest. Eventually, they stop messing around, laughing and a little out of breath, and Veronica steals my iced tea and takes a long swallow.

  “You’re such a brat,” Claudia tells her. “Get your own cup.”

  Veronica grins at me. She is kind of a brat, I think, but in a cute way, like she knows what she is and doesn’t really care. I wonder how you get that kind of confidence, and then I look at Claudia and think, I’d probably be confident too if I had a mom like that backing me up all the time.

  Claudia sips her wine. “So, Mick and her mom had a bit of a fight, and her mom kicked her out.”

  “What?” Veronica whips her head around to face me. I can tell she wants to ask more, but I shake my head minutely. I’ll explain later.

  Claudia says, “So, Veronica, if you’re comfortable with it, let’s have Mick stay with us for a couple days, until her mom cools down and they work things out. Mick, I’ll help you call your mom if you think it will help smooth things over.”

  Instead of making light of it like I expect her to, Veronica brushes my hair behind my ear. “I’m sorry,” she says. She gives me a hug so tight she almost lifts me off the ground. “You don’t have other family who can talk some sense into her? My grandma would beat my mom’s ass if she tried to kick me out.”

  I feel hot with embarrassment. “Not really. My mom isn’t on the best terms with my grandparents. They live far away.”

  “That’s like Dad,” Veronica says, and Claudia nods over her wineglass. “His parents are in Mexico City, and he sort of doesn’t get along with his family. Or anyone.”

  “He gets along with his new wife,” Claudia says, and Veronica makes an “mmhm” noise.

  “I’m going out with Nico tonight,” Veronica says to me. “You want to come with us? We’re going to get into some trouble. It’ll be fun.”

  “Veronica,” her mom snaps.

  “A little bit of trouble.”

  Claudia mutters into her glass, “You’re going to give me a heart attack.”

  I smile along, but I’m worried. I’m acting like I know my mom will let me come home in a few days, but I have a gnawing feeling in my gut that this time is different.

  Veronica sends me a piercing look when her mom’s back is turned. She knows I’m not okay.

  Here and now, confronted with her long-lashed brown eyes and memories of last night, I decide not to tell her the boy is dead. I can’t bear the idea of those eyes looking at me with blame. Let her think it all worked out okay, that he was breathing, that he’s still breathing.

  I feel like I’m clinging to the edge of a cliff, barely hanging on.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  VERONICA

  The golf course was on a bluff high over the Pacific, which sparkled orange as the sun sank down to meet it. Its acres of rolling green grass were bordered by a state park full of towering eucalyptus trees and, to the south, a stretch of undeveloped land full of scrubs and native plants. The air was pure ocean; I could taste the salt if I took a breath with my mouth open.

  I parallel parked a mile from the golf course on the shoulder of a road that wound through the undeveloped land. The shoulder was speckled with cars, parked there by local beachgoers who took the paths down the cliffs to the white sand beach.

  Mick had been quiet all evening, upset about her mom. I felt terrible for her. I couldn’t imagine having a mom who would physically kick me out of the house. What would I do if I were in her situation? I was trying to show her that I was there for her in every possible way without being overly clingy, and I was also trying to figure out when to tell her about PostMod magazine and the gala.

  Maybe this installation would cheer her up. She’d seemed really pumped after hanging out with Nico last night. Maybe she liked this kind of art. It made sense; she was an athlete, and installation art was very hands-on, not like spending hours in a darkroom or behind an easel.

  I led Mick through the scrubs until we had a view of the coast, then pointed north toward the golf course. “That’s where we’re going. See that white tent surrounded by grass? By the big building?”

  She nodded.

  “That’s where a big fundraiser party’s being held. Congressman Osgood will be speaking here tonight. We’re going to surround them with the trees you saw at the forest party and sort of block people in. Like the trees are coming back from the dead to haunt him.” I wrapped an arm around her waist, and the ocean breeze blew her hair into my face. Far below us, the Pacific stretched out to the horizon, where the sun hung low in the sky.

  In a musing, thoughtful voice, Mick said, “Nico is an interesting guy. What he’s doing is—it’s really cool if you think about it.”

  I needed to be honest with her about PostMod. The longer I waited, the higher my chances were that she’d be mad at me. “Mick…” I hesitated.

  “What?”

  “I need to tell you something.”

  She turned, a frown on her face. “What?”

  “You know our photo.”

  She smirked. “I remember it, yeah.”

  “It’s going to be featured in a photography magazine called PostMod. It’s … it’s a big deal. For me. Not for you. I doubt anyone you know would see it. And, well, PostMod wants a bunch of prints. Of you.”

  There was a long moment of silence during which her face went completely blank.

  “Oh,” she said at last.

  “That’s not all.” I swallowed, nervous. “They’re going to put the prints in a silent auction at some gala this Saturday. Carmen—the woman in charge of this—wants us to attend the gala and have our picture taken, give a few interviews and stuff.”

  “Oh,” she said again.

  “Are you mad?”

  “No.” It sounded off, though.

  I rushed to explain. “I couldn’t say no. This might be the difference between getting into Otis and going to city college with my mom. Please say you’ll do this for me.”

  “Of course I will.” She turned away from me, her lips pinched together tight.

  “Look. I saw how hard my mom had to work to be taken seriously as an artist. It took her decades. You don’t understand what a … a unicorn this opportunity is.”

  “I said I would do it,” she replied, her voice tight.

  “Hey.” I grabbed her arm. “If you’re pissed off, say it. I’m not going to freak out. I can take it.”

  She looked down at my hand on her arm. Her eyebrows were drawn together; all her non-smiling expressions landed somewhere between anger and introspection, making her almost impossible to read. At last, she pulled away from me and said, “I don’t have a right to be pissed off. I told you to do whatever you wanted with the photos.”

  “But how do you feel about it?” I was begging, desperate for her to let me in.

  “You know how I feel,” she snapped, unguarded at last. “It feels like shit. I feel like everyone on the internet is seeing me naked. And now I have to go to this gala so
people can look at my pictures and look at me in person and ask me, what—what kind of questions?” Her voice had become high and panicky, and she broke off and looked out at the ocean. “I wish I could disappear,” she said quietly.

  “Mick.” The word came out soft and sad.

  “Give me your camera.”

  “Why?” I clutched it protectively.

  “Give it to me. I won’t hurt it.” She held out her hand impatiently.

  Reluctantly, I handed it over. She put it to her eye and focused on me.

  “You’re taking my picture?” I asked, feeling imbalanced.

  The camera clicked. She advanced the film and focused the way I’d shown her. “Do you like it?” she asked from behind the lens. “Do you like me looking at you like this?”

  “I—” The moment I opened my mouth to answer, the camera clicked. “I wasn’t ready,” I protested. She was getting faster; she snapped another photo while I was talking. “Mick!” I cried.

  She lowered the camera. “Don’t like it?”

  I wasn’t sure what to say.

  “That’s what I thought.” She handed the camera back to me and walked away.

  I followed her helplessly. I felt like I was messing things up, like I was on the losing side of an argument I hadn’t known was happening. The moment the camera was turned on me, there was a huge shift—the power had swung in a different direction. Was that how being photographed made Mick feel—powerless?

  We pushed through the expanse of knee-high brush until we emerged onto the golf course. The white tent was below us, at the base of a half-mile slope of perfectly manicured grass. Beyond it was the golf club, a mansion-looking structure at the end of a long driveway. A stretch of walkway connected the tent to the clubhouse so people could parade back and forth in their fancy shoes. As we watched from above, cars and limousines pulled up in front of the clubhouse, dropping off couples and groups for the event. Even from here, the gowns and cars shone, expensive and sleek. Strains of jazz drifted out of the tent.

  A grove of eucalyptus trees marked the border between the golf course and the state park. Nico had asked me to meet him in that grove, where he was apparently hiding the trees he was going to use for the install.

  We picked our way down the hill. The sky was huge, the orange sun blinding as it sank closer and closer to the horizon. When we arrived at the grove of trees, I looked around, trying to see Nico, not wanting to call out for him.

  Arms wrapped around me and yanked me backward. I cried out and stumbled back, collapsing onto my butt on the grass. Mick screamed and grabbed at me.

  A ski-masked face appeared above me, attached to a body dressed in all black. Behind the eyeholes, the eyes were squinty with laughter.

  “Nico, you asshole,” I cursed. He lifted his ski mask, revealing his usual wide grin.

  “You’re almost late, wife.” He helped me up and aimed his grin at Mick. “Back for more?”

  “Yes.” Her eyes were gleaming, her cheeks glowing, like she’d come alive at the sight of him. I bristled with jealousy. Nico and I had fought over girls before, but I’d kill him if he tried something with Mick. I filed away a reminder to myself to have an even more extensive talk with him after this.

  Nico beckoned us deeper into the trees, out of the breeze, which was picking up and chilling my bare arms. Two black-clad figures were huddled around an open duffel bag, and they were surrounded by dozens of what looked like Christmas trees on wooden X-shaped stands.

  “Guys, our photographers are here,” Nico said.

  I was enveloped in ski mask hugs from David and Lily. They patted Mick, too, obviously remembering her from yesterday’s antics. Lily looked annoyed at her presence, which I understood. It was kind of inconsiderate of Nico to allow her in without their approval. But Nico always had to be the boss.

  I touched the needles of the tree closest to me. It was dry, almost dead. “Where did you get all these Christmas trees in July?” I asked, getting out my camera.

  “We stole them from a Christmas tree farm.”

  I was zooming in on the tent and admiring its placement, surrounded neatly by trees, when Mick said, “Nico? What’s up with those trees around the tent? They look like they’re in pots, not rooted in the ground. Are those yours from the warehouse party?”

  “Yep! We brought them over this morning.”

  Her jaw fell open. I understood: The tent was huge, easily large enough to hold a wedding, and there had to be fifty trees circling it.

  She asked, “How did you get the truck here without anyone saying anything? How do you just sneakily unload fifty trees when they’re in the middle of setting up a party?”

  “If I tell you, I’ll have to kill you.”

  I elbowed him. “You’re not funny.”

  “I am, though.” To Mick, he said, “We got on the approved vendors list, so we just pulled right up and unloaded them like we belonged here. We’re going to fill in the gaps with these,” Nico said, pointing to the Christmas trees. “I want a perfect ring around the tent. I want them close enough to touch. We just have to wait for it to be dark and for everyone to be inside. I bet Congressman Osgood gives a speech. Fucker loves to hear himself talk.”

  I stepped aside, out of the trees, and took some pictures of the setting sun. Nico followed me, asking, “Hey, what’s up with PostMod? I got your texts earlier.”

  I shushed him and pulled him aside, glancing nervously back at Mick, who was talking to David. I whispered, “She says she’ll do it.”

  He snorted. “Way to manipulate people into doing what you want.”

  “Look who’s talking,” I shot back. “And I didn’t manipulate her. I just asked her. Speaking of manipulation, how did you get her to go to your install last night?”

  I could feel his scorn. “Please. She needed a ride, and I helped out.” Before I could retort, he changed the subject. “Why do you even care about that PostMod fine art bullshit? You’re such a sellout.”

  “Just because you didn’t go to art school doesn’t mean I don’t want to.”

  “She’s a sellout,” he sang to a tune I could almost place. “She’s a phony, phony sellout, yeah…”

  It hit me. “Is that the ‘Car Wash’ song from the seventies? You’re so random.”

  “She’s workin’ as a sellout…,” he sang, doing a John Travolta disco dance that he strangely pulled off incredibly well. I had heard his lectures about the gatekeepers of art and culture approximately four thousand times. I was pretty sure he was just bitter after being rejected by the one art school he deigned to apply to.

  He stopped dancing, and I said, “Are you done?”

  He flicked my forehead with his index finger, spun away, and went to the duffel bag. He pulled two ski masks out of it, handing one to me and tossing one to Mick, and then I spent some time taking pictures of the tent, the sweeping acres of grass, and the crew, dressed in black, huddled together behind the Christmas trees.

  The wind picked up speed, dragging strands of hair out of my bun and lashing them across my cheeks. The grass was an apocalyptic shade of orange; the sun was sinking fast now, hurrying to meet the clean line of the horizon. The wind stampeded past. It whooshed inside my eardrums and up inside my shirt. I felt a tug, and then all my hair exploded out of my bun and around my face. Mick made a hissing noise and tried to pull her hair back.

  “Might as well put these on,” I said, indicating the ski masks we were holding. We pulled them over our heads.

  “You ready?” Nico asked me, his ski mask in place.

  “Ready.” I lifted my camera to my eye and focused. I had a good angle. These were going to be beautiful shots.

  He shouldered a Christmas tree and strode toward the tent, his long legs casting stick-figure shadows behind him. Lily and David followed his lead, and I snapped photos of their all-black silhouettes lugging the trees like goth Santa Clauses. They covered the distance to the tent quickly, set their trees down between the larger warehouse trees, an
d hurried back. The little pine trees tossed and whipped in the strengthening wind. My camera went click-click-click, a metronome.

  “I can help them carry trees,” Mick said.

  “Sure, go ahead.”

  She lifted a tree easily over her shoulder and trotted down the hill with it, effortlessly athletic. I loved how strong she was.

  The ring of trees around the tent was slowly closing, and the sun was sinking fast, the sounds of music and festivities swelling inside the tent. My camera’s click was lost in the lupine howling of the wind. Eucalyptus leaves shook loose from the grove, swirling into dusty tornados around us.

  Nico set down the last tree, completing the ring. It was almost dark, and his profile glowed at the edges with the golden light from the massive tent. Nico gathered Lily, David, and Mick to him, and then they ran as a team back into the grove and grabbed large items—some kind of jugs, like huge containers of liquid laundry detergent—and returned to the trees.

  Nico reached the trees first. He waved at me and pantomimed taking pictures. He wanted to make sure I was photographing this, whatever it was.

  Lily and David bent to do something to their jugs. I watched as Nico gave Mick instructions, and she followed suit, pouring clear liquid onto the base of the trees.

  I lifted the camera to take their picture, trying to understand. Were they watering the trees? I watched Lily dribble the liquid to the next tree, leaving a trail of it on the grass in between, and then water the base of the tree next to it.

  I zoomed in on Nico to get a better look. The jug was big; it must have held at least five gallons. It had a long spout coming out of the pouring end.

  Gasoline.

  Nico was going to set the ring of trees on fire.

  Ring of fire. The title of the install.

  His titles were always symbolic; I hadn’t thought he’d actually—

  I clutched my camera to my chest and ran full speed down the grassy hill. By the time I reached Nico, he was tossing his jug aside and pulling a lighter from his pocket. “Nico, what are you doing?”

  Through the holes in the ski mask, his eyes were full of scorn. “Chickening out?”