IN MEMORY OF VETA DENTON,
WHO GAVE ME SAN DIEGO.
“Art, like nature, has her monsters.”
—Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray
CHAPTER ONE
VERONICA
The desert sky is hot and bright. Birds flit back and forth, oblivious to the smell of my blood as it soaks the dirt and rocks.
Woozy thoughts snake through my brain. Why did I never notice how many different birds there are? I bet Mick notices birds. She sees all the quiet, important things.
A new wave of pain rampages through me. I think I’m going to black out, but an image seizes me—high above, on the cliff, a silhouette—a thin, slinky shape. Someone is standing there, looking down at me.
He’s watching me die.
CHAPTER TWO
MICK
TEN DAYS EARLIER
Coach Morris blows her whistle, signaling the end of practice. The team swims to the edge of the pool, Liz beside me. “Are you going home to get ready?” she asks.
“I’ll just shower here. My mom’s picking me up for that dinner thing, remember?” I wriggle up onto the concrete deck, which is hot even though the sun is going down. Liz pops up next to me, and we walk to the bench where we left our towels.
“I can’t wait,” she bubbles. She’s looking forward to tonight’s party, a feeling I cannot relate to.
“Who’s driving us again?” I ask, drying my face.
Liz pulls her swim cap off, and her thick, wavy brown hair tumbles around her shoulders. “Those girls I met from Bonita. We’ll pick you up after your dinner.”
Internally, I shudder.
She reads my expression. “Don’t be weird tonight.”
“I won’t.”
“I’m serious.”
“I’ll keep a smile plastered onto my face.” I demonstrate, baring my teeth like I’m at the dentist.
“I can’t, like…” She looks up at the darkening sky as though she’s searching it for the right words. “I can’t be your only person. You have to get out there. When was the last time you made a new friend?”
I shrug, stung. This is part of a larger conversation I really don’t feel like having right now. She sighs and heads for the locker room, leaving me behind. I follow, my shoulders heavy. We used to have our own two-person parties, sleeping over at each other’s house every weekend. Now I feel like an intruder into this new and exciting social life she’s organized for herself.
My steps slow, and I stop to look at the sunset glowing red-orange behind the palm trees. I wish I were at the beach right now, or hiking through the forest. I’d rather be doing anything other than what I have planned for tonight.
A huge Cooper’s hawk glides down and settles onto a telephone pole, disrupting a cloud of blackbirds. They scatter, twittering, into the blood-and-fire sky.
Their echoed birdsong sends a chill through me, but I don’t know why.
I feel my mom’s exasperated eyes on me as I walk across the parking lot under the fluorescent overhead lights toward her leased Nissan Altima. When I get in, she says, “You couldn’t have worn something nicer?”
I look down at my jeans and white T-shirt. “I’m going out with Liz after this. I didn’t want to be too dressed up.”
“You’re going to a party.”
“Don’t remind me.”
“You have incredible legs. You should wear a skirt, or some shorts. Or a crop top; show off those abs. It’s such a waste.”
“Mom, stop, please.”
She digs around in her purse and extracts a cosmetics bag. “At least put some makeup on.” She dumps the bag in my lap and pulls out of the parking lot onto the street.
I hate it when she says things like this. How is my own private human body a waste?
It’s not worth fighting about, so I click on the dome light, flip down the sun visor, and start applying mascara. “Why do you care what I wear for dinner, anyway? Where are we going?”
“We’re meeting Andrew.”
“Your agent? Why?” I put the makeup away.
“He just wants to talk. Don’t forget your eyebrows. They’re super blond right now from the sun. You should go all the way blond with your hair.”
Like you? I want to say. She’s been trying to get me to bleach my hair since it darkened to light brown in middle school.
It doesn’t matter. I only have one more year here. I’m working hard on swimming; I want to get a scholarship and go somewhere far away, far enough that I can barely make it home for Christmas. I’ve already been scouted for a school in New Hampshire. I don’t even know if it’s a good school, but it’s far, and that’s what matters.
I fill in my too-blond eyebrows. She pulls up to a red light and looks me over. “Your lips look dry. Use some of my lip gloss. It’s in the side pocket of my purse.”
“Ughhhh,” I groan, frustrated and hangry. I pull random crap out of the pocket—a bow tie from her catering job, a server’s folio full of receipts, a wine key, a pair of earrings—and yank the lip gloss out.
“Don’t even start with me, Micaela. And you better put all that stuff back in there.”
I glare at her profile, return everything to her purse, and check my phone. No new texts. I don’t know what I’m hoping for; it’s not like Liz is going to cancel and say she’d rather stay in.
Anxiety sits like a cannonball in my gut. I wish I could find a way out of this party. It sounds like it’s going to be a bunch of rich kids drinking beer and—
“Why are you staring at your phone like that?” my mom asks, half laughing. “It’s a blank screen. Are you trying to make someone text you with telekinesis?” She slides into a parking spot. We’re at the restaurant; I hadn’t noticed.
I feel myself flush. “I was just spacing out.” I shove it back in my purse and get out, slamming the car door behind me. The evening air is close and hot, and I suddenly can’t remember if I put on deodorant.
We approach the restaurant. It’s a California Italian place my mom likes for their low-calorie salads. The swinging brass-and-glass door opens, and Andrew steps out. “Look at you gorgeous girls.”
My mom beams. She’s wearing what I call her Real Housewives outfit: designer jeans, flowy boob shirt, and the fake diamond engagement ring she bought so people will think she’s married to a rich guy. Andrew is a good-looking man a decade younger than my mom, with light brown hair and a fake tan. He seems shinier than most people, like he’s been buffed and polished. I fade into the background as she gives him a pair of cheek kisses and he gushes more about how pretty she is. He turns his attention to me after a minute and says the obligatory look-how-beautiful-and-grown-up-your-daughter-is things, and then a hostess my age is leading us to a table in the middle of the room. The air-conditioning is strong, bringing goose bumps up on my arms. Andrew sits to my left, and my mom sits to my right. When the waitress comes, I order an iced tea and pray they bring the bread soon; I’m starving.
A small votive candle sits in the middle of the table. I find myself transfixed by the dancing flame, and I reach out and dip my fingertip in the melted wax. I bring it to my nose and sniff. Vanilla. As my mom and Andrew chat, I make a little wax finger glove, then melt it in the flame. The fire bites at my skin. I like the little stings of heat.