She's Too Pretty to Burn

by Wendy Heard

  The woman at the counter pulls her aside, and the man turns his attention on me. “I’m Detective Salcedo. We’ve been looking for you, Micaela.”

  I nod, numb. I wrap my arms around myself.

  “Are you cold?”

  “They’re supposed to be getting me a shirt. I used mine to bandage Veronica’s head.”

  He marches to the counter and shows them his badge. “This teenage girl is standing here in her bra. Get her a goddamn shirt right now.”

  A woman goes scurrying and comes back with a blue scrub shirt. He brings it to me. “I’m sorry. Here you go. You’re very scraped up, though. Have you seen a doctor?”

  “I’m okay.” I pull the shirt over my head, wincing. My hands hurt so much.

  He takes one of my hands and looks at it. “What happened here?”

  “Nico. He tried to kill both of us.” I tell him about the warehouse and describe my trip out to the desert to help Veronica. More cops show up. A female detective takes me into a treatment room and photographs all my scrapes and cuts, and then a nurse stitches up the deeper cuts in my hands.

  When she’s done, she tells me to go back to the waiting room. Instead, I scope out the treatment areas. On my third try, I find Claudia. She’s sitting on a chair against a wall, crying.

  Oh no. “Is Veronica—is she—”

  She beckons me toward her. “She’s in surgery. For the ribs and the ankle and the arm. She’s going to have pins in her ankle. And a plate in her arm.”

  There’s an empty chair next to her. I sink down into it.

  “I loved him like a son,” she whispers.

  I wrap an arm around her shoulders. “You couldn’t have known.”

  She puts her arm around my waist. It feels warm and safe. “Where’s your mama?” she asks.

  “I didn’t call her.”

  “You should.”

  I don’t say anything.

  “Do it now.”

  “After we find out about Veronica.”

  She nods. “So I think I owe you an apology.”

  “For what?”

  “The paramedics told me you climbed down a cliff to give her first aid. That they told you not to climb down there and you ignored them. Cussed at them, actually.” She gives me a smile with one side of her mouth.

  “Well, they were being stupid. What was I going to do, just sit there while she—”

  “If you’d been climbing down the cliff to help anyone else, I’d agree with them. But that was my baby down there.” She wraps both arms around me and gives me a hard squeeze.

  I hug her back, and it feels so good to be held, I stay like that for a long time.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  MICK

  Claudia says, “She’s going to wake up soon.”

  I nod.

  We sit there staring at Veronica. She’s surrounded by machines, an IV and finger monitor attached to her good hand. Her head is wrapped in gauze, her right arm and leg in white plaster casts. It’s not going to be an easy few months, with her entire right side out of commission. She won’t be able to use crutches or push herself in a wheelchair.

  “They said there was no reason she wouldn’t wake up,” Claudia says.

  I nod.

  “She’s just wiped out from the anesthetic and the surgery, and her body is tired,” she goes on. “It needs to recuperate.”

  “Did they shave her head?” I whisper, like she can hear me.

  “Just around the cut. Her hair should cover it.”

  “That’s good.”

  A figure appears at the door. We look up with half interest; nurses and doctors and police have been in and out for hours. But the person standing there is wearing yoga pants and a V-neck exercise shirt that shows off her boobs. Her blond hair is coiffed, her French manicure shining, but her face is pink like she’s been crying.

  “Mom?” I say, confused.

  Claudia snaps to attention. “Oh, hello, I’m Claudia. We spoke on the phone.”

  “You called her?”

  My mom stays in the doorway. “You’re okay?” she asks me.

  “I’m fine.”

  “Claudia made it sound like you were hurt.”

  “Just my hands. But they’re fine. Just cut.”

  She nods. “Good. Fine. Okay.” She hovers in the doorway, pats the door frame awkwardly, and then turns and walks away.

  Claudia makes a shocked noise.

  “It’s fine,” I say. “There’s no point. She’s—”

  “Absolutely not.” She gets up and storms out after my mom.

  “Hey,” comes a faint voice from the bed. Veronica’s eyes are open. She clears her throat and licks her lips.

  I jump up and rush toward her. “You’re awake! Are you thirsty?” I have a glass of water on the bedside table waiting for her to wake up. I bring it to her lips with a straw. She takes a few thirsty gulps. I say, “Your right arm, leg, and ribs are broken, but you’re going to be okay. How are you feeling? Are you in pain?” I search for parts of her body I can touch. I find her good hand and grab it.

  “I’m pissed.” Her voice is rough.

  “Why are you pissed?”

  “You put a shirt on. And such an ugly shirt, too.”

  I laugh and start crying. It’s such a Veronica thing to say. It means she remembers the cliff, that her brain can’t be messed up that bad. I bring her good hand to my face and cry into it, everything that’s happened crashing down on me: Lily, David, Nico telling me I was everyone’s pretty little thing, my mom, being trapped in the van …

  She whispers, “Where’s Nico?”

  I hesitate. I don’t want to upset her, but I’m not going to lie to her. “He was going to kill me, Veronica. I hit him with a board and left him at his warehouse, then came to find you. I think he might be dead. We’re waiting for the police to tell us for sure.”

  She closes her eyes, clearly in pain.

  “I’m so sorry,” I murmur. “For everything.”

  “Me too. I should have seen it in him.”

  I rest my forehead to hers. She’s alive. We’re both alive.

  She pats the sheet beside her. “Come on. Climb up here. Snuggle next to my good side.”

  I kick my shoes off and, as carefully as I can, stretch out next to her with my head resting on the pillow beside hers. She turns a little, hissing in pain.

  “Don’t make yourself uncomfortable,” I protest.

  “Quiet. Come closer.”

  I bury my face into the crook of her neck, and she sighs. “Tell me they didn’t shave my head.”

  “It’s the first thing I asked. No. They didn’t. Just a little bit underneath where no one will see.”

  “Good girl.”

  I run my hand down her good arm and lace my fingers through hers. I pull the hand to my lips and kiss it. I’m so full of gratitude, I can’t stand it.

  “Mick?”

  “Yeah?”

  “The pictures. They’re in an envelope—”

  “Don’t worry about it. I took care of them.”

  “You didn’t give them to the police?”

  “No. I … didn’t think we should. I wanted to talk to you first.”

  “That was the only picture of Nico.”

  We meet each other’s eyes, sharing the same worry. If we show them the picture of Nico and prove he was linked to the fire, we’ll also prove our own guilt as accomplices.

  “No one knows they exist except us,” she whispers. “They already know he’s guilty of killing Lily and David. They don’t need proof of the fire too.”

  I nod slowly. It’s a pact we’re making here.

  “Okay,” I say.

  “Okay.”

  She’s quiet for a long moment. I think she might be falling asleep, but then she says, “He killed Lily before he pushed her.”

  I prop myself up on my elbow and look down at her. “Wait, what?”

  She nods, winces. “He strangled her with a wire or something. Horrible.”
r />   “Oh God,” I say. “And I helped him after that. I’m so stupid.”

  She pulls me down to rest my head on her shoulder again. “We were all stupid. But, Mick. Why were you helping him?”

  I swallow. I don’t want to tell her this. “I never went home like I told you. My mom kicked me out for good. I didn’t have anywhere to sleep. I asked Nico if he’d help me get a car so I could live in it. That’s why I was helping him. And in the meantime, he was letting me stay with him.”

  She processes this for a long moment. “You wanted to live in a car?”

  “I didn’t know what else to do. I still don’t.”

  “You could have stayed with me. Why would you go to him?” Her fragile voice is so hurt, I feel horrible.

  “I was scared your mom would call social services and send me to a foster home.”

  “I would have helped you. I wouldn’t tell my mom. Do you know how much I covered for you? Even when I wasn’t sure what happened to Lily.”

  Carefully, I wrap my arm around her waist and pull myself as close to her as I can. “I’m so sorry.”

  “I’m sorry too.” She pauses, like she’s almost too tired to talk anymore. “The pictures. I just did what I wanted.”

  “I don’t care about the pictures.” The thought is so petty in context. “Lie still. You need to rest.” I pat her cheek.

  My thoughts are all at once overtaken with worry. The problem with not having anywhere to live hasn’t gone away. Once this hospital visit is over, I’m out on the street. No car, no home. Can I get a motel room if I’m underage? Maybe in a really seedy area. And I don’t have that much money saved up, not enough to, like, live in a motel now.

  “What are you thinking about?” Veronica whispers.

  I steel myself and tell her the truth. “Trying to figure out where to go after this.”

  “Why don’t you worry later. Let’s try to sleep now. Okay?” She’s comforting me. She’s got a body full of broken bones, and she’s trying to make me feel better.

  I can’t speak. I kiss her carefully, without putting any weight on her, and lie so she can rest her head on my shoulder. Her breathing deepens. And there, squished in the hospital bed, we fall asleep.

  I wake up to whispering.

  Claudia is leaning over Veronica’s other side, faces pressed together, and they’re whispering in each other’s ears. Claudia pulls back. A tear drips from her nose onto Veronica’s cheek, and she wipes it off.

  Carefully, I push myself up. “I’m so sorry. I passed out. I’ll leave you two alone.”

  She stands. “Mick, come outside with me. Veronica, the nurse told me she needs to change your catheter.”

  “Jesus Christ, Mom. You couldn’t have waited until Mick was out of the room? Are you trying to make sure I never get laid again? Is that my punishment?”

  Claudia kisses Veronica’s forehead. “My little angel.”

  I get off Veronica’s bed with a minimum of jostling and follow Claudia into the hallway, rubbing my eyes. It has to be midnight. I’m dying to know what happened with Nico. Why are the police taking so long?

  “So, I talked to your mom.” She’s peering at me with something like pity. “She seems … unstable.”

  I shrug. I look down at the floor.

  “Does she have a drug problem?”

  I blink at her. I’d never considered this. “I … don’t think so. I don’t know.” I don’t know that much about my mom, I realize. When I look at Claudia and Veronica, I see how not close my mom and I are. We’re separate, living parallel lives, not entangled in any meaningful ways. Single moms are supposed to be close with their kids. That’s how it usually works. Somehow this realization lights up the same pain as when I almost lost Veronica. Is it grief? It feels like losing something huge, something that was never quite mine to begin with.

  She touches my shoulder. “I told her you’d be staying with me for a while. If you like. Through senior year.”

  I snap my head up. “What?”

  “I know Bonita has a very good swim team. I can help you deal with the transfer. If you’re interested.”

  I feel winded, like she punched me. “Don’t say this if you don’t mean it.”

  She steps forward and folds me into a hug. “You deserve a chance,” she says into my ear. “This is me paying you back.”

  I can’t help it. I’m crying again. “Okay,” I squeak.

  She pulls back. “Yeah?”

  I nod, wiping my eyes. I feel like a little girl.

  “You have college plans?”

  “Actually, I … This might sound stupid. I’ve been dreaming of going to college somewhere far away, and I’ve already been scouted for a school in New Hampshire. But I think I want to be a paramedic, or an EMT or whatever. Or maybe work for the Coast Guard. You know those search and rescue people? I realized when I saw them get Veronica. That’s what I want to do.”

  “That doesn’t sound stupid. I can totally see you doing that. The paramedics were very impressed with you.” She keeps an arm around my waist, and we head back into the room. “We’ll have to look into what kind of school you go to for that,” she says.

  It’s so kind, her offering to help me figure that out. My mom never did anything like that.

  As soon as we cross the threshold, Veronica points to the nurse tidying up the counter and says, “She did terrible things to me while you were gone.”

  Claudia says, “I need to tell both of you something. It’s about Nico. I have news from the police.”

  I sit on the edge of Veronica’s bed. We’ve stopped breathing. I don’t know what Veronica is hoping for: Nico dead? Nico in the hospital, recovering so he can go to jail?

  Claudia says, “So, Mick, the police went to the warehouse. And, honey. He wasn’t there.”

  I try to understand this. It makes no sense.

  “There was no van. They found the pig, the box, the plaster, the air-conditioner unit you said you’d torn off the roof, the other things you described. But no van, no Nico.”

  “Oh, shit,” I whisper. I lean back against the wall.

  “They saw blood on the floor, the two-by-four, and even the shoelaces you described tying him up with. There were tire tracks that matched the description of the van you provided. But Nico is gone.”

  “Gone,” Veronica repeats. Her eyes are huge.

  I say, “That’s bad. He could come back. He could get us.”

  There’s a long silence. At last, Claudia says, “We have an alarm system.”

  “He probably knows the code,” Veronica replies.

  “I’ll change it.”

  My brain flies from thing to thing. “He could get us at school. Whenever we’re alone. He’s so smart. You don’t understand—”

  “They’re not going to let him do that.”

  I don’t believe her.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  NICO

  It’s been six weeks since I’ve seen you. I wonder if you miss me. From what I can see, you’re doing well, you and Veronica. You’re playing house. You feel safe. That’s nice.

  I’ve been keeping quiet, but it’s a frenzied quiet. Art is like that: months of planning, all for one glorious moment of creation.

  Homeless people and children can go absolutely anywhere. Did you ever think about that? And they’re always carrying luggage: backpacks, shopping carts, duffel bags, sleeping bags.

  If I were to wander into the Department of Water and Power’s server room with a backpack containing a bomb with a timer on it, I’d be immediately arrested. If a nine-year-old girl did it, she’d get sympathetic cooing. “Oh, sweetie, are you lost on a field trip? Let me help you find your class.” And the nice man who gave her the backpack to leave in the control room would give her twenty dollars.

  If I walked into Universal Studios carrying a backpack full of bombs and fireworks, would I get escorted peacefully out? No. But send a first grader in. She could take the backpack to a service alley, leave it, and a few mi
nutes later, a whole amusement park full of people would be traumatized for life, thinking there was an active shooter about to take them all out. And there you go—a ton of cops deployed, resources scattered, the city brought to its knees—total chaos.

  And homeless people? Forget about it. If you were to send a homeless person into Grand Central Market in downtown LA with a stroller full of fireworks, would people ask to search the stroller? No. They’d avoid eye contact. They’d hide from the smell of stale urine. Want to know how much you’d have to pay a homeless guy to set off fireworks in a crowded place?

  Fifty bucks.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  MICK

  The black-and-white picture stares at me out of my phone. It’s so familiar now, my eyes half-starved, the rows of seats stretching off behind me, my lips parted, having just been kissed.

  “Famous First Love Series Goes on the Road,” the headline reads, followed by the tour schedule for Veronica’s photos. They’re making their way across the country, doing the gallery circuit. She has a manager for the tour, an agent, the whole thing. I don’t bother to read the rest of the article, which I can tell just says the same thing they all say, talking about death in an enthusiastic way, like Nico killing off his friends one by one is a selling point.

  I close the article. I’m sitting on the queen-sized bed in the room that used to be Veronica’s older sister’s but which is now mine for the year. Claudia let me paint the walls any color I wanted so that it would feel like home, something so nice it almost hurt. I picked light blue. It makes me feel like I’m outside.

  A small, guilty part of me misses my apartment. This house is so big and airy, I don’t think it could ever feel like home.

  And I miss my mom. If I’m being honest.

  Why doesn’t she want to be a part of my life? It feels like a death, having to face her lack of interest in me once and for all.

  My new therapist says these feelings are natural, and that I should try reaching out to her when I feel ready. Sometimes I go to the Sunbrella website and look at pictures of her lounging by pools, a model for a lifestyle that will never be hers. As soon as I see her face, anger takes over and I shove all thoughts of her aside. She doesn’t get to come into this new life I’m building and poison it, too.