She's Too Pretty to Burn

by Wendy Heard

  Images flash through the flames: the wildfire—the little boy drowning—Veronica pulling me out of the ocean.

  Regret fills me. I’m so ashamed of myself for letting that boy drown, for starting the fire, for being here in the first place. As of this morning, the fire has been completely contained. I saw pictures of the destruction: charred hillsides, a burned house, firefighters exhausted and sweaty. I caused that. How can I live with myself?

  I know Nico thinks I belong here, that I’m the right person to work on this series with him because of this photo and for other reasons I can’t completely understand. Maybe he’s grateful to have someone around who understands the kind of family problems he’s been through, or maybe he’s upset about Lily and is clinging to me out of some grief reaction. I don’t know how to extract myself, but I need to. I’m going to put all my energy into figuring out the car situation, and then, as soon as that’s done, I’ll go make things right with Veronica.

  I find Nico back by the kiln thing, crouching on the ground by a small wooden crate. “Hey,” I say, approaching. “What are you doing?”

  He looks up and grins at me. “Come here, I want to show you my new technique.”

  I sit next to him and watch as he uses the back end of a hammer to wrench the boards off what turns out to be a shoebox-sized block of white plaster. He hammers away at it, chipping pieces off, until something in the middle becomes visible. It’s the size of my hand and vaguely spherical. At last, he brushes the thing off with his big, dusty hands and shows it to me.

  It’s a flower. A magnolia blossom, I think, each delicate petal rendered in stainless steel, completely photorealistic and heavy in my hands.

  I look up at him for an explanation. He’s grinning his most excited grin.

  “This is for the fifth installation. The last secret piece in the series,” he says, his tone conspiratorial.

  I’m shocked. “You’re continuing the series? Are you serious?”

  He crooks an eyebrow. “Of course.”

  “But what about what you said to Veronica?”

  He makes a disbelieving face. “I thought you of all people would understand. You know what this is for me. How can you expect me to stop? Have you given up swimming just because of what happened to that kid?”

  “That’s different,” I protest.

  “How?”

  It’s hard to argue with him when he looks at me like that, so piercing and direct. I look down at the flower, running my fingertip over the perfect petals. “Flowers are the fifth installation?”

  “No, not flowers. The technique. I’m practicing on flowers. The more delicate the object, the harder it is to cast. I’ve never seen anyone get this much detail out of a fully bloomed flower.” He beams, full of self-satisfaction. “Do you want to know how I did it?”

  “Sure.”

  He takes the flower from me. “So when I made the plaster cast, I made sure there were two holes. One on top—” He turns the flower so I can see a faint imperfection at the top of the blossom. “And one at the bottom.” He flips the flower over to show me a similar imperfection. “So now I had a flower encased in solid plaster with a hole at the top and a hole at the bottom. I didn’t try to crack the plaster and get the flower out. I poured the molten steel in, displacing everything through the holes in the bottom.”

  “Wait,” I say, trying to put this together. “You poured steel in and, what, like, liquefied or burned the flower and displaced it with the steel?”

  “Yes! And when all the biological material had run out, I plugged up the holes and let the metal cool.”

  I indicate the kiln-oven thing behind him. “Is that what you use to melt the metal?”

  “Yup. See those bricks?”

  I pick one up. It’s heavy and cold, and a dull shade of light gray. “What are you going to use this technique for if not flowers?”

  “I can’t tell you! It’s a surprise. It’s going to be beautiful.” His eyes glow, and he hands me back the flower. “Even prettier than this.”

  I remember the silver chicken in Veronica’s room. Could he have used the same technique on a chicken? Surely not. That would be disgusting, liquefying a chicken.

  And yet …

  Just to confirm, I say, “Veronica and David don’t know about this installation.”

  “I’ll get David on board. Don’t worry.”

  I remember the disbelief in Veronica’s voice when he told her he destroyed the film from the night of the fire. She’s right; look how he refuses to stop doing his art, even with Lily dead and the potential to get in trouble even huger than before. No way did he destroy it. It’s around here somewhere.

  I have to find it.

  He says, “Oh, hey, good news. I made us an appointment to go look at a car for you. That one you found online. The guy can meet us the day after tomorrow.”

  A flood of relief. So I just have to stick around for one more project and then I’m done.

  He turns the flower over and over in his hands. “It’s all coming together.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  VERONICA

  In the Uber on my way home from Nico’s warehouse, I stared out the window at the dark sky and the suburban lights, gnawing on my lower lip.

  Something was wrong.

  I remembered the things Nico had said about Lily, about the pictures. Everything made sense, but it felt off.

  He could have been lying. Even on his best days, he had an open relationship with the truth. But why? About what?

  First things first. I needed to tell Mick what had happened, but she was sending me straight to voicemail. Either her phone was off or she was rejecting my calls.

  She would be so upset if she saw Lily’s death on the news after the horrible week she’d had. I needed to tell her.

  Maybe …

  I started scrolling through my Instagram DMs, searching for that message from Mick’s friend Liz.

  “Ah!” I cried when I found it. There it was, the message I’d gotten back when the photo first blew up: Is this Mick from National City? It is, right?

  I typed a reply, trying to come up with something legitimatesounding. Liz, are you Mick’s friend from swimming? I need to give her a ride in the morning, and her phone is off. Can you give me her address?

  I sent the message and waited impatiently, drumming my fingers on my knees.

  “Come on, come on, come on,” I whispered. It was one o’clock in the morning. She might be asleep; swim practice was at seven.

  My phone buzzed. Sure enough, it was a DM from Liz.

  Uh, I’m not, like, giving you her address.

  I heaved a sigh of frustration. Well, of course, everyone should be safety-conscious and never give out their address, or their friends’ addresses, to people on the internet. But I wished she’d been reckless just for this moment.

  I tried to figure out what to say. At last, I typed, Can you give me her mom’s number? I can call and ask for it. Would that be better?

  After a moment, a number popped up on the screen, and I hissed in satisfaction. But would I get Mick in trouble with her mom for calling this late?

  I mulled it over, considered it from the police’s perspective, and decided it was more legitimate to wake her mom up than to hold this huge news for tomorrow after swim practice.

  I dialed the number. It rang once, twice.

  “Hello?” a woman said in a high-pitched voice that didn’t sound sleepy. In fact, I thought I heard loud room sounds in the background, like she was in a bar or restaurant.

  “Hi, this is Veronica. I’m a friend of Mick’s.”

  “Hang on, can’t hear you.” After a few seconds, the white noise quieted, like she’d stepped outside. “Okay. What did you say?”

  “This is Veronica, a friend of Mick’s,” I repeated.

  After a silence, she said, “The girl she’s dating? The photographer?”

  “Yes!” I was relieved she knew who I was. “I’m sorry to call so late. I’m try
ing to get ahold of Mick, but her phone is off, and it’s really important.”

  Another silence.

  “Hello?” I asked.

  “Mick doesn’t live with me anymore.” Her voice had changed. It was sharp.

  I was confused. “I thought she was back home with you. For, like, three days now.”

  “Well, she’s not.”

  “But then, where is she?”

  “Ask her.” The line went dead.

  The Uber driver pulled up to the curb by my house. I got out, still staring at my phone.

  “What the hell?” I breathed.

  If she wasn’t back home, where had she been staying? Not with Liz, clearly.

  I stared dumbly at my phone, like it held the answers. It was full of red notifications on every possible platform. Just to be safe, I checked all of them to no avail. When I opened up my email, I saw one from Carmen time-stamped 11:00 P.M. Subject line: You’ve been bumped!

  I opened it. The email read, You’ve been bumped … to the cover! Congratulations. We go to print in two weeks. And congratulations on the LA Times article. —Carmen

  What LA Times article?

  I opened the attached image, titled PostModCoverUpdatedSeptemberV3.png.

  Mick stared up at me, hollowed out and haunting, the rows of train seats stretching away behind her. Above her, PostMod was printed in white. On the left was a list of articles from inside the magazine, but on the right were the words Death at the Gala: When Fine Art Turns Dark. Page 32.

  I felt delirious—horrified—elated—racked with guilt. How dare I feel happy? Lily was dead, and Mick was going to be livid about this cover. Where the hell was she? I tried to call her again. Straight to voicemail. I left a message. “Mick, it’s me. Please call me back. I know you’re pissed, but I really need to talk to you. Where are you? Are you okay?”

  The next day was Monday. No matter what, Mick would be at swim practice tomorrow morning. Maybe I could catch her there.

  In front of me, my house was quiet and cheerful, a safe, clean place. It felt like something from my past.

  And then I realized—I hadn’t thought of David.

  * * *

  The driver dropped me off in front of a bar a few doors down from the Whole Foods in Hillcrest, the gay part of town just north of Balboa Park. The bar was a chill, rustic place and hosted open-mic nights for aspiring singer-songwriters and poets. David had been bartending there since he’d turned twenty-one earlier this year, and if we were being honest, for a while before then, too. In a perfect world, Nico would have preferred that none of us knew anything personal about each other. He’d have loved us to maintain a completely anonymous relationship in case any of us ever got caught. But we’d been helping Nico with these installs for two years, and people were going to get to know each other.

  I wished I’d known Lily better. I wished her family knew me enough that I would be invited to the funeral.

  Her face came back to me, staring blankly up at the sky, sunken, stiff, frozen. I knew I’d never get this out of my head, the image of a person-become-thing. It was horrible, horrifying, much worse than I ever expected death to be. It was different from the little boy at the pool. He’d been unconscious, not dead, not this open-eyed shell of a human being.

  I heaved myself out of these morbid thoughts and pulled open the bar’s front door. It was quiet and smelled like sour beer. David was at the far end of the bar, drying glasses with a rag. I did a quick sweep, searching for the manager, who always carded everyone, but David was the only person working. That was good.

  I slid into the seat beside him and leaned my forearms on the shiny, slightly sticky wood. When he saw me, he froze. “What are you doing here?”

  “I called you, and you didn’t answer, so I went to your apartment, and now I’m trying here.” I checked the time on my phone. “It’s almost two. You planning to close the place down?”

  Behind the beard, he looked frightened. “You’re not old enough to be here. And you shouldn’t be anywhere near me.”

  “I need to talk to you.”

  “Go talk to Nico about whatever you need.”

  “I was just at Nico’s. I need you to tell me what happened tonight. I think Nico’s lying to me, and I don’t know why.”

  “You need to go home,” he snapped.

  “No.”

  He glowered at me. A group of nearby guys were watching us. He shot them a look, then leaned in to speak close to my ear. “Please listen to me. Go home. Leave me alone.”

  “Tell me why Lily was on the roof. Nico said she was in charge of taking pictures. Why would she be all the way on the edge of the roof to do that? There was nothing to photograph up there.” I didn’t realize until the words were coming out that this was what was gnawing at me.

  He heaved a furious sigh and set a glass down hard. “Lily wasn’t taking pictures, Veronica.”

  I frowned. “So then who was taking pictures? You?”

  “Your girlfriend.”

  Silence.

  “Mick?” I clarified. “No. She left. We had a fight, and she bailed.”

  He raised his eyebrows and pinched his lips shut. It was an expression of pity, like he was waiting for me to catch up.

  “You’re serious?” I asked.

  “Talk to Nico. Talk to your girlfriend. But leave me out of it.” He turned and hurried through the swinging door into the kitchen.

  Numb, I stared after him. How was this possible?

  She had run out of the gallery. Nico would have been on the roof setting up. Maybe he saw her and asked her to help with the install. But then why hadn’t she called me? Why was her phone off? And where had she been sleeping the last few days?

  One thing was clear—there was a whole lot I didn’t know, and if I was going to lie to the police, I wanted to know the truth.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  MICK

  Nico’s headlights illuminate an empty parking lot behind a warehouse tucked into a commercial neighborhood. It’s five o’clock in the morning, and we barely slept, but he doesn’t look as tired as I feel. Plus, I have to be at the pool in two hours, and I was late or absent every day last week. Coach might actually kill me.

  I leave my gym bag in the car reluctantly. I’m constantly aware of the stolen roll of film hidden in the side pocket. I feel like any minute, Nico could decide to search my bag and realize what I did.

  Nico turns and waits for me to catch up. “You all right?”

  I nod.

  “You look like shit.”

  “So do you. Your dark circles have dark circles.” It’s true. His eyes are feverish behind rings of shadow. You’d think he’d look silly in workout clothes, but he doesn’t. Like everything else, they fit him like a second skin.

  A car pulls up alongside us, and I recognize David by his beard. He parks and gets out, looking exhausted as he approaches. He’s wearing workout clothes too. His eyes are hooded, his face troubled like mine must be. Something is wrong with my being here, like I’m trying to be Lily’s replacement.

  Nico puts a hand on David’s shoulder and one on mine. “This has been a hard few days.” His voice is deep, melodic, and sad.

  David is bigger than Nico, but he seems diminished by the spiderlike hand on his shoulder. He nods, eyes on the ground.

  Nico’s voice vibrates with emotion. “It’s hard to continue on without Lily. She was the heart and soul of so many of our pieces. Her eye led most of our design decisions. She was ballsy—badass—the embodiment of what street art is. That’s what killed her; that’s what made her run along the edge of the roof. She was fearless.”

  His hand is heavy on me. I don’t know anything about art, and even less about Lily, but my heart is stirring with emotion at the words.

  He points to the building. “So let’s go in there. Let’s train. Let’s do this the way Lily would have done it.”

  David looks a little brighter, like the words strengthened his resolve. We follow Nico to the bui
lding. There’s a glass door along the side, and David holds it open for me. We enter into a reception area, where a sporty-looking blond girl smiles brightly at us. “Hey there! Welcome to Climb! Got a session scheduled?”

  It is 5:00 A.M. I picture Veronica’s reaction to the extreme cheerfulness of this greeting and miss her so much, it hurts.

  “Yeah, it’s under Adam Branson,” Nico says. By now, I know this is one of the fake IDs he uses.

  She looks him up on the computer and awards us another sunny smile. “Great. Go on in.”

  Nico leads the way through a glass door. We emerge into a cavernous room. Along the walls, fake rocks have been constructed all the way up—practice mountains. Two hippielooking guys, one with blond dreadlocks, wave at us from the left wall. They’re organizing a pile of ropes and clips. When we approach, dreadlocks guy says, “Early birds! Ready to get started? Y’all been climbing before?”

  Nico says, “We have,” indicating himself and David. “She hasn’t, but she’s an athlete so she should catch on quick.”

  “Great!” He looks me over appraisingly. “Swimming?”

  I nod.

  “You do a lot of dry land workouts during practice?”

  I nod again.

  “Oh, yeah, you’ll be fine. Let’s get you set up!” He starts wrapping us in harnesses. When he does mine, he explains what they are. “Step into these; these are for your legs. Here’s your belt…” He buckles it for me.

  Nico is already getting himself hooked up like he’s done it a thousand times. David is close behind him.

  One more day. We have that appointment with the guy about the car tomorrow. I have to do this one install, pretend I think this is all amazing, and then I’ll get my car and insurance, and I’ll be free.

  * * *

  Nico drops me off at the pool at eight, an entire hour late. Coach is going to kill me. I grab my gym bag and run, banging into the locker room. It’s empty. I rush to change, ripping my clothes off and shimmying into my Speedo. I pull my hair back into a tight bun, stretch on my swim cap, grab my goggles, shove my gym bag into my locker, and go.