She's Too Pretty to Burn

by Wendy Heard

  She put her hand on mine and squeezed. “Thank you.”

  I smiled, soft feelings warming me up a little. “I lifeguarded the lifeguard.”

  She rested her head on my thigh, almost like she was praying to me. “I’m so sorry,” she said into my leg. “Please forgive me. I almost lost you. Like that little boy. I’m so sorry.” Her back shook with sobs, violent, and my whole body ached with pity. Maybe that little boy’s death had something to do with setting the trees on fire. Like Nico had said, she was a girl on the edge. His words came back to me, click-clicking down my spine: I’m only getting started with her. Just you wait. An urge to rescue her swelled inside me, but from what? From Nico, my best friend? He wouldn’t do anything except encourage her to do more stupid shit like this fire, and it seemed like she’d learned her lesson. Besides, I did stupid shit with Nico all the time. Who was I to judge?

  I placed my hand on the back of her tangled, sea-wet head. She was so many layers. One layer was sweet and shy. The next layer was dark and unpredictable. Under that, a layer of kindness and softness, and under that, a layer of fierce dominance. She was the ocean, with its riptides and its soft, clean breeze and its beauty and its chilling, shark-filled depths.

  “I could fall in love with you,” I realized aloud.

  The firelight flickered in the sky like Halloween.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  MICK

  “What do we tell your mom?” I ask as Veronica pulls into her driveway. My voice is hoarse. It’s only ten thirty, but it feels like two o’clock in the morning.

  “Just let me take the lead.” She puts the car in park and turns toward me. Her hair is stringy from the salt water, and her clothes are rumpled and wet.

  “I don’t know how you’re going to explain this,” I protest, indicating our bedraggled appearance.

  “You’ll see.” She pops the trunk, and we go around to get our purses out of it. Thank God we left them in here. We’d have lost our phones to the ocean if we’d had them on us.

  I follow her up the walkway to the house. The lights are on; Claudia is clearly still awake. Veronica unlocks the front door, and I follow her, my stomach in knots. If Claudia kicks me out too, I have no idea where I’ll go.

  “We’re home,” Veronica calls as I close the door behind me.

  “In the family room,” her mom calls back.

  Veronica leads me to the room adjoining the kitchen, where Claudia is curled into an armchair with her laptop, wearing workout clothes. When we enter, her eyebrows shoot up. “What happened to you?”

  “We went night swimming.” Veronica does a little curtsy with her salt-streaked shirt.

  Claudia looks me over skeptically. “In the ocean?”

  Veronica nods.

  “You?”

  Veronica glowers. “Yes, me. I’m not as big a chicken as you think I am.”

  Claudia looks back and forth between us. “Wow. Well, next time, go during the day. What if something went wrong? Who could help you?”

  “Oh God, Mom, we only went in up to, like, here.” Veronica puts her hand to her waist. “And then we had a water fight, so now I have fish poop in my hair. The worst thing that’s going to happen to me is I’m going to catch a cold, because that shit was freezing.”

  Claudia returns to her computer, shaking her head. “Go take a shower and change. You look like you just rose from the dead.”

  “Yes, ma’am, we will go take a shower.” Veronica grabs my hand and drags me out of the room.

  “Separately!” Claudia calls after us.

  “La la la!” Veronica yells, muffling this last command. She pulls me with her toward the stairs. The moment Claudia is out of earshot, she drops the cheerful demeanor and sags with exhaustion.

  We’re quiet as we take turns showering, her first at my insistence. She returns in a fluffy white bathrobe with her hair wrapped in a towel, looking so delicious and warm that I just stand there staring at her like an idiot. Her words come back to me, the words she threw at me on the beach. I could fall in love with you, she’d said.

  “What?” she asks, adjusting the towel on her head.

  I’m suddenly bashful. When I see her here, in her pretty house, I can’t imagine what she’s even doing with me. I shoulder my duffel bag and turn away before she guesses what I’m thinking and decides she agrees.

  I’m clean and in my own pajamas, old boxers and a ratty Mickey Mouse T-shirt, when I return. The room is empty, but music drifts faintly out of the darkroom.

  I get my phone out of my purse and check my messages. Pitiful as I am, I’ve been texting my mom all day. She’s not answering. My texts are a sad string of begging: You can’t just ignore me. I’m your daughter. And You can’t kick me out. And Will you just let me know for sure what’s going on?

  No replies.

  It’s completely possible that she has no intention of letting me come back home. Ever.

  I call her. It’s late; she’ll be mad. I bite my lip as the call connects.

  A click. Straight to voicemail. “Hi, you’ve reached Alana Davis, please leave a message and I’ll get back to you!”

  “Hi, Mom. Will you just answer me? I know you’re mad, but we have to figure this out.” I hesitate. “I’m sorry I let you down. I don’t mean to be like this.” Before I can start crying, I hang up.

  I return to texts and scroll through them. And then I realize—the last message I sent my mom that says Delivered is from before she kicked me out. Since our fight, none of my texts have Delivered under them.

  I’m confused.

  I google it: texts not delivered why. I scroll through results, and it becomes immediately clear. Texts not delivered plus straight to voicemail equals one thing only.

  She blocked my number.

  I feel weird, kind of like when I was sitting in the locker room after the little boy drowned. I feel like I’m outside my own body.

  I sit on the floor.

  She’s not going to let me come back home.

  In my hand, my phone buzzes with a text from Nico.

  Did you get home OK?

  I stare at it for a minute. The events of the night swirl chaotically around me, dark and strange memories of water and fire and smoke.

  I reply, Yeah. I’m back at Veronica’s.

  She’s going to freeze me out for a while. Let me know if you want to hang out.

  He wants to hang out with me? Without Veronica? I type, Did you get home okay?

  Yup. I’m tucked up in bed all cozy, listening to the crackhead on the other side of the wall scream at his imaginary best friend.

  I wonder where he lives. Obviously not somewhere nice. The thought weirdly cheers me up. I’m not the only one struggling.

  Anyway, have a good night. TTYL. He inserts a fire emoji.

  The fire.

  I hesitate, and then I pull up Google.

  Is it okay to google stuff about the fire? I want to know if they put it out. Maybe I can just browse news stations.

  The moment Google launches, I realize I don’t even need to do that. The top Google card based on my location is a headline that reads “Wildfire Rages After Environmental Terrorists Target Local Congressman—Again.” There’s a photo of bright orange flames and dense gray smoke. It’s time-stamped 10:35 P.M.

  I click on the story and scan through it. Sure enough, the fire blew through the eucalyptus trees into the nearby canyons. They have it 50 percent contained and have listings of all the roads that are closed. I search for any mention of people getting hurt and find a line that says, Three of the attendees are being treated for minor injuries. Nico was right.

  I push the Home button. The reflection of my face in the screen makes me look like a frightened spirit.

  Growing up in Southern California, you hear about wildfires constantly. Whenever people hear that someone started one on purpose, they look at each other in horror and disgust. What kind of person could do such a thing? What kind of monster would intentionally destroy all
those animals’ habitats, all that nature?

  I’m that kind of monster, apparently. Because Veronica warned us and we ignored her.

  The darkroom door opens and Veronica emerges. She’s changed into a Powerpuff Girls nightgown and carries a stack of eight-by-ten photographs. I snap my face up, afraid she knows how far the wildfire spread, afraid she doesn’t.

  “I wanted to show you the pictures that are going in the magazine and to the gala,” she says. “I don’t want you to feel like you don’t have any control over it. You can veto any you really hate.”

  If my mom’s mad now, it’s going to be ten times worse when I appear in a magazine. I can’t even imagine how pissed she’s going to be. It will ruin whatever tiny, leftover chance there is of my going home.

  I look down at the prints in Veronica’s hands. How can I say no after what I put her through tonight?

  I push them away. “I don’t need to see them. Just … do what you need to do.”

  “I’m bringing them to LA tomorrow to show Carmen. Are you sure you don’t want to approve them?”

  I want to set them on fire is what I want to do. I take the photographs out of her hands, set them on the bed, push her backward into the darkroom, and kick the door shut behind me. I’m craving the safe dark cocoon, the feeling of being totally immersed in Veronica’s world. It’s pitch-black in here. I press her up against the door. The only sound is our breathing. I flip the light switch, and the orange safelight illuminates her face in front of me. It feels secluded and anonymous, like the forest party.

  I lean in to kiss her, and then I pause. I whisper, “I’m so sorry about tonight. I’m so, so sorry.”

  Her dark eyes are liquid with compassion. “I’m worried about you. Be careful.”

  I want to say I will, but it would be a lie. Something inside me feels like it’s been unlocked. As much as I regret setting the fire, I also want to go back to the moment I torched the tree and watch the world go up in flames again and again and again and—

  “Mick?” Veronica pats my cheek. “Did you hear me? I—”

  I kiss her to make her be quiet, grabbing her nightgown in tight handfuls. She goes soft, her arms winding around my neck, and for once I feel like I’m taking something from people and not the other way around.

  * * *

  Veronica falls asleep first, and I lie there looking at her profile, deep in thought. She’s so pretty, her black hair spread out on the pillow, her face turned away from me so I just see the line of her cheekbone and jaw. She’s naked, the sheets tangled around her waist, and I feel suddenly sad. I want to be her almost as much as I want her. I want to be self-assured and beautiful and stable, with a solid foundation to stand on and a raging artistic talent to carry me into a bright and interesting future.

  I force my eyes off naked Veronica, flip onto my back, and rest my head in my hands. I look at the ceiling.

  I have to swim in five hours. Maybe I’ll call in sick. But I just no-showed yesterday; Coach will be furious.

  I check my phone again. Nothing from my mom, and I don’t think there will be, at least not anytime soon. The reality of my situation is starting to sink in. She’s not going to let me come home.

  I need to think clearly and consider my options. Obviously, I could call social services and tell them what’s happening. They’ll probably put me in a foster home. I’ve known kids in foster care; you don’t grow up poor without having contact with that world. They get moved around a lot. Nico only went to Veronica’s high school for a semester. I can’t risk that. Swim team is all I’ve got. And it’s scary, thinking about being trapped in some foster home or group home. I’ve heard horror stories about sexual assault and abuse. There has to be another way. I only have one more year of school. It’s only ten months.

  I try to look at it from a different angle. What do I need to get me through senior year? I need a place to shower, a place to wash my clothes, food, and a place to sleep. The first three are easy. I shower every day after practice, I can just go to a laundromat when I need to wash clothes, and I can eat two meals a day at school, leaving only one I have to figure out on my own. So I really just need a place to sleep. I wish I had a car. I could sleep in that.

  Which gives me an idea. I have money in the bank. I wonder how old you have to be to buy a car. I look it up and scowl at my phone. Eighteen. Of course. And apparently you have to be eighteen to get it registered with the DMV. I still have nine months to go. That’s no good.

  Veronica’s a few months younger than me; I know because she chattered on about horoscopes the other day, analyzing me and her and us. The memory makes me smile a little.

  Would I ask her to help me buy a car, even if she were eighteen? If her mom finds out I’m planning to live in a car, she’d call social services for sure. She’s a great mom; there’s no way she’d let that slide. And the two of them are so close.

  I can’t talk to Veronica about this. There’s no other way.

  I hate the idea of keeping something from her. She wouldn’t judge me for being homeless, I don’t think, but she would get all protective and determined to help, which is a road that leads to foster care.

  The solution hits me in a flash—Nico. I wonder if he’d help me out and put my car in his name. He doesn’t care about doing things legally, obviously. I think Veronica even mentioned that he drives an Uber using someone else’s name because he’s not twenty-one.

  I don’t know. He doesn’t seem completely … safe.

  He had Veronica by the throat, pulling at that camera strap.

  I don’t think he did that on purpose, though. He was just trying to get it away from her so he could photograph the fire before it was too late.

  I rack my brain for other options but come up empty.

  I text Nico. Are you still awake?

  He answers back in four seconds. Yes. Crackhead is now screaming about his dead mother. Listening to music in my headphones is not helping.

  Can I call you?

  Sure.

  I slip out of bed, careful, but Veronica doesn’t stir. I sneak into the darkroom and close the door behind me.

  Nico answers on the first ring. “Jagger,” his deep voice purrs.

  “How are you?” I keep my voice low, almost a whisper.

  “All cool over here. Hang on.” He must put the phone to his wall, because I hear faint shouting, clearly the person he’s been complaining about. The shouting goes away when he returns the phone to his ear. “So that’s my night. How are you? Getting all excited about that gala where you get to be the center of attention?”

  “Ughhhh,” I groan, having momentarily forgotten.

  He chuckles. “That’s what I thought. Hey, you were pretty awesome tonight, you know that?”

  “Awesome?” I echo with disbelief. “Did you see the news? They haven’t even contained the whole fire yet.”

  “No, no, of course. But you didn’t do that on purpose. You stepped out, you took a risk. Sometimes it works out, sometimes it doesn’t, but … you did it. You know?”

  “I guess.” I don’t actually agree, but I’m going to drop it. “Look, I called to ask you a favor. But I need you not to tell Veronica. Can you do that? Do you ever keep secrets from her?”

  “Depends what the secret is.”

  “It’s nothing bad. I just can’t have her mom finding out.”

  “Go on.”

  “I need to get a car, and I’m not eighteen. I wondered if you could put your name on the paperwork until I turn eighteen next May and then sign it over to me.”

  A pause. “Your parents won’t do it?”

  My cheeks feel hot. “It’s kind of messed up at home right now.”

  “Ah.” The one syllable is full of understanding. “Where are you staying?”

  “Well…” I stall out, not sure what to say.

  “I got it. Sure, I’ll help you out.”

  “I also need your name on the registration. I can get insurance in my name if you sign off on
me driving the car, I researched how to do it already.”

  I hear a rustling, like he’s moving around in bed. “Look. Jagger. I’ll do whatever you need. Just tell me what papers you want me to sign, and I got you.”

  My chest loosens. I wedge the phone against my ear and press my fists to my eyes. “Thanks,” I manage to squeak out.

  “I’ll do it under one condition. Something you can’t tell Veronica either.”

  “Whatever you want. I owe you one.”

  “I need you to get me into that gala on Saturday.”

  This is a complete surprise. “Why?”

  “Because I’m interested in art.”

  I hesitate. “Will it get Veronica in trouble?”

  “Nope. She won’t even know I’m there.”

  “Okay,” I agree, suspecting I’ll regret this.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  VERONICA

  The gala was being held at Humphrey’s Half Moon Inn on Shelter Island, a man-made peninsula with a marina and a beautiful view of the San Diego coastline on one side, the endless Pacific on the other. The hotel itself was a collection of buildings, all covered in dark wood and faux Hawaiian decor, a total tourist trap.

  Our Uber was stuck in a long line of arriving cars, most of them limousines and town cars. It gave me a minute to peer out the windows at the fancy people going in through the huge, open front entrance. The sun was setting, reflecting orange and pink off the glass that fronted the hotel’s main lobby.

  I looked aside at Mick. Her eyes were glued to her hands in her lap, which were clenched together so tight the knuckles were white. “You okay?”

  She nodded.

  “Upset about something?”

  She shook her head, but she looked like she was about to cry.

  “Your mom?” I guessed. “Is she being weird or mean now that you’re back?” She’d gone home yesterday, but she’d been at swim practice all day today, so I hadn’t had a chance to ask how it was going.

  She shrugged, brushed at her cheeks with the heels of her hands, and turned her face away from me. I put my hand on her tanned knee. She put a hand on top of mine and squeezed.